This was prompted by public clamor for Part 2 of Katie Smith's "Newsbabe Tracey Goes Undercover" and by Lakewood's call for Halloween stories. It is not a sequel to Katie's story, but it certainly owes its origins to it. (It's great to hear from you again, Katie.) NEWSBABE TRACY'S HALLOWEEN SCOOP by Joe Doe Part 1 "We're rolling, Tracy." Tracy straightened her blue blazer and peered intently into the camera. "Today, Snatchworth Prison is a museum and a popular tourist attraction. But for most of its history it was a place of torment, a first stop on a shameful ordeal of wrongful incarceration, sexual humiliation, and white slavery." "Do the spirits of the captive women of Snatchworth Prison still haunt these halls? And is it possible for us to contact them? To find the answer to these questions, I arranged an interview with Martha Chambers, prison tour guide and curator of the museum, who was once a guard here." "Got it!" John said. Tracy put down her microphone and smiled. First time, every time. John moved the camera into position for the next setup. "Ready for the questions, Tracy?" She nodded and motioned Martha Chambers forward. The old woman curator smiled sweetly as she dutifully ambled over. Martha, a gentle, grandmotherly figure in her sixties, spoke in a soothing tone. It was hard to believe she had once been a guard in one of the most dreadful prisons in history. Using the cinder-block wall as a backdrop, Tracy quickly did her countdown. Tonight was Halloween, which meant they had only a couple of hours to get this segment back to the station for editing. "Is it true that this cursed place is haunted?" Tracy asked, immediately flipping the microphone so it was directly under Martha's chin. "I don't think I'd call it cursed, dear," Martha said, sweetly. "But we definitely have our ghostly occurrences. Mostly it's the usual: cold spots, lights going on and off, and voices." "Have you ever seen anything more definitive?" Tracy asked. "Have you ever seen a ghost?" "Not precisely," Martha admitted. "I've occasionally seen an unusual blue fog...and blue flickers of light around objects. I have a theory that there may be some sort of portal to another dimension, and, when events occur that are similar to events in the past, that portal opens. In fact, one of the reasons I agreed to your visit was that I was hoping that perhaps...." "Yes, that's very interesting," Tracy said, in a tone that made it clear that it was of no interest at all. "Do the apparitions or strange events follow any sort of pattern?" "A lot of the more unusual events seem to happen when we have attractive young women on our tours. From time to time one of them will get her skirt tugged up, or her pants pulled down. The ones who talk out of turn might suddenly feel a good, hard slap on their cute little fannies, and the ditzy ones might lose a purse or pocketbook. No harm done, really; we'll inevitably find it in one of the guest boxes, tucked away safe and sound." "Um...processing boxes?" Tracy asked. "Guest boxes," Martha corrected. "Our female 'guests' were required to place their things in one of our guest boxes, to keep them from getting dirty." "What things?" "Watches, jewelry, identification, that sort of thing," Martha said, cheerfully. "Clothing?" Martha smiled. "We usually gave our guests an opportunity to freshen up a bit," she said, pleasantly. "Are you referring to the reception shower?" Tracy said, sharply. "Did you also delouse the prisoners?" Martha flashed her gentle, tollhouse cookie smile. "I always thought of the young ladies who visited us as our guests. After a long and difficult day, there are few things as relaxing as a nice warm shower. There's a certain elegance...." Tracy cut her short. "So you took away everything the women had...money, ID, jewelry...even their clothes. You boxed it up, and then you threw them into the showers. Naked." "No, no, no," Martha said, her voice dripping with kindness. "The guest boxes were a convenience, so that watches and...." "You mentioned watches and jewelry," Tracy countered. What about their brassieres? And their panties?" "You can't shower in your underwear, dear," Martha replied in her pleasant yet unbearably patronizing tone. Tracy's voice dropped to a rapid, melodramatic staccato appropriate to Halloween as she faced the camera. "Most of the more mysterious and unexplainable incidents occur when young women are present. Do the spirits of the damned haunt these halls? Or is there a darker, more sinister presence, still seeking new victims after all these years? To answer these questions, I agreed to let Miss Chambers process me in precisely the same way those women were processed so long ago...including a strip-search and a reception shower. Stay tuned. You won't want to miss this." "Perfect," John said, smiling broadly. "On to processing!" "I'll say," Martha chuckled. "There isn't a male in England who would touch the telly after that teaser." Tracy knew she was right. She had worked for nearly a year to get this story on during the sweeps, since she knew the resulting publicity would propel her to bigger things. Obviously, the suggestive shots of her undressing and being hustled into the gang shower like a common criminal would be ratings gold. Naturally, she had carefully arranged to have a female photographer. She wanted to show enough skin to make the big bucks -- but not too much. So she was enraged when John Harris, the station's lecherous lady's man, had managed to "rearrange" the schedule at the last minute. Unfortunately, Tracy's complaints had fallen on deaf ears. "Bloody hell, Tracy! You've been pestering me about setting up this story for months," her boss said. "John's a professional. And, if you don't want to find yourself back doing the weather, you'd better start acting like a professional, too." ****************************** As they walked to the central reception area, Tracy and Martha conversed. "You have a very dramatic way of speaking, child," Miss Chambers chuckled. "You make everything sound so ominous." Tracy looked around at the cold stone walls. "This is an ominous place. To be honest, I find it more than a little...creepy. If you don't mind my asking, Miss Chambers, why did they put you in charge of reception? You don't seem like the prison guard type." Martha smiled warmly. "You have to remember that most of the young ladies in my care had been arrested for fairly minor infractions, and therefore they didn't see themselves as criminals. The women were usually processed through my visitor's center in groups of ten or more, and it was my job to make their transition as smooth as possible. "A fully clothed woman might be inclined to escape -- or at least resist -- particularly if she were in a large group. But once I coaxed the little dears out of their clothes, they were much more docile. After their things were boxed and put away, all it took was a little slap on the fanny to shoo them into the showers," she chuckled. Up ahead, John paused in the concrete hallway to film into an open doorway marked "EXAMINATIONS." Tracy stopped and looked over John's shoulder. An old-fashioned medical examination table dominated the center of the large, brightly lit room. "Was there a doctor on staff?" Tracy asked, suspiciously. "Heavens, no, child," the old woman said. "The girls we arrested were all fit as fiddles. What use would there be for a doctor? This table was used for contraband searches." Tracy squirmed as she felt John leering at her. "Is the table still functional? Could we use it tonight?" Martha smiled and walked across the room to the exam table. Tracy winced as the grinning guard lifted up first the right stirrup and then the left, SNAPPING them into place. "Does this answer your question?" she chuckled. "Does that tub of grease have anything in it?" John asked, indicating an ancient vat labeled "LARD" next to the exam table. "No, that's been empty for years. We keep it here for show. But I'm sure we could find some lubricant somewhere," Martha replied. "Well, there's plenty of light to shoot with!" John said, pointing the camera directly between the widely splayed stirrups. Tracy had heard enough. She had agreed to be take off her clothes for the sweeps, but that was it. There was no way in hell she was going to be "searched" for contraband -– particularly on-camera. "Sorry to disappoint you, John, but the searches were conducted AFTER the showers, and we're only going to do the shower tonight." "We could do more, if you'd like," Martha suggested pleasantly, in her best "would-you-like-fries-with-that?" tone. "No, I wouldn't like. Besides, on the tour you said you didn't do the searches." "No, the warden and the male guards handled that," Martha admitted. "The judge, the Sheriff, and the arresting officers usually watched as well. The warden felt it was important to supervise the showers and searches personally." "My job was to do the paperwork and to get the girls stripped down birthday bare without any silly fuss. The girls wouldn't have given up their clothes so easily if they had known how many eager male eyes were waiting for them. Of course, once they were buck naked and their clothes were locked up tight as a tick, they didn't really have much choice," she snickered. "The warden was a stickler for security. He was a 'hands-on' manager, and he personally double-checked each guest. There were never drugs or contraband in THIS prison. Sometimes he'd check a girl two or three times a week. The warden loved his job." "I'd love that job, too," John said. "It's too bad this place is closed. I would have loved to have worked here." He gave Tracy a frightful leer. "If you'd like to be searched tonight, I'd be happy to lend a hand." "I'm sure we have a uniform in your size," Martha added, helpfully. Tracy turned her attention to John. "You're not funny, Harris," she said, her voice turning acid. "When I tell the station manager about your attitude tonight, the only search you'll be doing is through the want ads. I hope you enjoy your new job, smart ass." "Oh dear!" Martha said. Tracy turned on the old woman. "I don't have all night. Let's get this over with, shall we?" Tracy stormed out of the room. Martha and John followed. The examination room was empty, but it wasn't quiet. A tiny blue spark -- static electricity, perhaps -- glimmered on the end of one of the stirrups, and a slight but scientifically inexplicable rattle emerged from the empty lard can. ****************************** Part 2 Martha waxed nostalgic as she led Tracy and John down the hall. "The good old days are over," she said, sadly. "Tragic, really. The time I spent helping the girls here were the best days of my life." Tracy was not in the mood. "The good old days!" she snapped. "The girls you 'helped' vanished without a trace. It's too bad there wasn't any evidence of what happened to them. If you ask me, you should be living in a prison, not conducting tours." Martha was unperturbed. "See what I mean, John? It's best if the guests don't worry their pretty little heads about these things. It leads to all sorts of foolishness and girlish chatter." She stopped in front of a door marked "RECEPTION." Tracy felt a sudden chill. Martha turned to Tracy and smiled. "Speaking of which, isn't it about time we got you processed, young lady?" "I-I guess so," Tracy stammered. "You do understand that, in order to be realistic, once we get started here you'll no longer be in charge." Tracy swallowed hard but nodded. John looked at her and smiled. Martha led the way into the room. As Tracy walked into the room, the first stop on the nightmare tour given hundreds of other innocent women, she thought she saw a tiny glow around the door. No. It couldn't be. It was only her imagination, but it wasn't her fault. The place was so CREEPY! The room was cinder-block, but the walls were painted yellow and pink. A wooden bench was suspended from the wall by thick black chains. John picked up his camera and began filming. "These are pretty colors," he noted dryly. Martha smiled appreciatively. "Thank you, John. I picked them myself. Most of the prison is gray, but I thought it might relax the girls a bit more if we added a splash of color. Makes it more festive, don't you think?" "What's in that room?" Tracy asked, indicating the other door. "Don't worry, dear, you'll find out soon enough. May I see your purse?" John grinned broadly as Tracy obediently handed over her purse. "Now place your hands behind your back, sweetie." Tracy obeyed. From over her shoulder she could see John filming her heaving chest as Martha snapped the handcuffs into place. "That's a good girl. Now be a dear and sit on the bench until your name is called," Martha said, punctuating her command with a pat on Tracy's fanny. John laughed. Tracy blushed. She sat down. Martha exited through the mysterious door. The wooden bench was hard, and, with her hands cuffed tightly behind her, it was impossible for Tracy to get comfortable. Amused, John filmed Tracy squirming on the bench. Tracy was furious with him, and she was humiliated beyond belief that he was the one filming her. But she hadn't forgotten why she was there, and she knew that her anguish was ratings gold. Tracy turned and faced the camera, determined to milk the moment for all it was worth. "I'm in the 'reception' area of Snatchworth prison, with my hands cuffed behind my back. As I sit here, waiting to be processed, my mind drifts to the countless other innocent women who sat on this very bench. Are their spirits still here? And what about the spirits of the men who abused them, who humiliated them, who trumped up charges to strip them of their freedom, their clothing, and their dignity? Is the terror these women felt strong enough to break the bonds of space and time? Tonight I'll find out." "In a few minutes I'll be processed in Snatchworth Prison. I will be booked, fingerprinted, and strip-searched by a former guard of this infamous institution. I will be given a shower. I will be 'processed' in every way imaginable, just like any other prisoner." John zoomed in to show the rivulets of sweat she couldn't wipe away. At last, the door opened. "Tracy Smith?" Martha said, as if calling someone in for an interview. "You're next, dear." Tracy and John, camera in hand, followed the guard into an office. Martha sat at a desk in front of a typewriter. There was no chair for Tracy, so she stood quietly in front of the desk. To her surprise, she saw that the contents of her purse had already been dumped out and sealed into a small plastic bag. An empty cardboard "guest box" sat on a side table. On it were the words: SMITH, TRACY #3838-3738 Tracy swallowed. Her prisoner number had been assigned. Tracy's license lay on the desk; Martha had used it to fill in the miscellaneous information for her paperwork. Tracy watched Martha roll her arrest record out of the old-fashioned typewriter. "You've been convicted of illegal parking. Is that right, dear?" Tracy noticed the parking ticket from her purse lying next to her license. "Oh, that was just a misunderstanding. The meter was broken, but it was easier to just pay the fine." Martha smiled up at Tracy. It was a condescending smile, an "oh-aren't-you-the-silly-one" sort of grin. Tracy's trivial parking misdemeanor was precisely the sort of trifling offense that earned young women lengthy sentences at hard labor in Snatchworth. Tracy watched Martha crisply sign, staple, and STAMP! her form. Processed! Martha undid the cuffs, and Tracy urgently massaged her throbbing wrists. Her relief was short-lived. John chuckled as Martha hung the humiliating black "mugshot sign" around Tracy's slender neck. The black sign bore her name and number, and the words, "CONVICT, SNATCHWORTH PRISON" in cheap white block plastic letters. Tracy clenched her teeth. She realized now that Martha had been chosen because her soothing, sunshine presence made "processing" seem less threatening. Martha was treating Tracy like an animal at the meat processing house, soothing her with happy colors and a melodic voice so she wouldn't think about what was around the corner. The most horrible part was that it was working. Tracy moved like an obedient zombie as Martha gently positioned her against a wall that marked her height as 5'6". "My, you are a pretty little thing," Martha patronized. "As pretty as a picture. Now hold still, dear." FLASH! "That's a good girl. Now turn to the right. Good girl! Now move the sign over your shoulder so the camera can see it. FLASH! "VERY good!" she said brightly. "We're almost done. Now turn left. No, your other left, sweetie. That's a good girl. No, now remember what I said about the sign? That's right. We need to let the camera see. That's a good girl." FLASH! Tracy watched as the old woman yanked the polaroids out of the camera and set them on the desk. "This will take a minute, dear. Why don't you put your earrings and watch in the bag while we wait. I'd feel dreadful if you lost them." John filmed Tracy removing her diamond earrings, watch, and rings and placing them in the plastic bag. Martha added Tracy's parking ticket and driver's license. The camera was old-fashioned, and the pictures were not at all becoming. Tracy wondered where Martha got the film. The bimbo in the photograph looked dazed, confused, helpless. Tracy grimaced as John zoomed in on her mugshot. "I look stupid," Tracy mumbled. "I look like a woolly little lamb ready to be sheared." "You look perfect, dear," Martha said. ("Yeah...perfectly stupid," Tracy thought.) "I need to take your fingerprints, honey. Maybe you should take off your jacket so I don't get it all inky." Tracy took off her jacket and looked for a place to set it down. Martha took it, folded it, and put it in the guest box. Martha rolled each of Tracy's fingers in the purple ink and then on the processing form. There were no smudges, and each fingerprint was perfect. Martha had had a lot of practice. "Just like old times," she chuckled. She gave Tracy a disapproving look. "My, you certainly are perspiring. I hope you didn't ruin that pretty silk blouse." "Oh, my!" Tracy said as she noticed the stains under her arms. "I am a little nervous and...." "I understand, dear. I bet a nice, refreshing shower would feel good right about now." "It certainly would. It's too bad there's no shower, because I'd...." Tracy stopped mid-sentence as she realized what she had just said. The trap had been sprung. Martha smiled like the cat that ate the canary. "Well, luckily there IS a shower here, sweetie. Why don't you just slip out of your things and put them in the box, and we'll give you a chance to rinse off?" Tracy looked over at John, who was grinning devilishly as he filmed every moment of Tracy's slide towards doom. Tracy swallowed. How many girls had fallen for Martha's trick? Tracy was just one more helpless, stupid little lamb. "What I meant to say was..., I mean, I could use a shower, obviously, but not now...well, now, but not here." Martha gave Tracy her best "aren't-you-a-silly-little-fool?" smile. Tracy decided to argue in character. "Look, I don't even belong here," she said, dropping her voice. "I mean...it's a parking ticket for god's sake. I know all the other girls probably said the same thing, but I'm different because I really am innocent. I mean, not innocent, really. I mean I pleaded guilty, but I was innocent. Really." Tracy fell silent. The more she tried to sound like she was different, the more she sounded like just another prisoner. Martha gave her a most heartfelt look as she too, answered in character. "Tracy, I can tell you're a nice girl. I mean, it's obvious that this must be a big mistake. I can talk to the judge, but he's not going to listen to me unless you cooperate. Now just go behind the screen and slip out of your things, and I'll talk to the judge while you freshen up." Tracy looked over. The screen was short, and small, but it did provide some protection from John's prying eyes, and, more importantly, from his camera. "I think things would be easier for everyone if you started doing as you were told, dear," Martha patronized. John adjusted his lens and his pants as Tracy resigned herself to her fate and walked behind the screen. Tracy began to undress. Shoes...blouse...skirt...stockings. As she disrobed, she handed each garment over the screen to Martha, who placed it in the box. "That's a good girl," Martha simpered. "We'll put these pretty things away where they won't get dirty. We'll give you a nice refreshing shower, and you can get all spic and span." Tracy reached for the towel that was hanging nearby on a wall-hook, but Martha jerked it out of her hand. "Underwear, too, dear," she said, brightly. "Rules are rules." Tracy looked over the screen at John who was filming, filming, filming...and smiling. "Hurry up, dear. The sooner we put your things away, the sooner I can talk to the warden and get this all straightened out." Yeah, right. Treating Tracy like an idiot in front of millions of viewers was really funny. Tracy wanted drama, but Martha and John were having a grand old time making her look like a feckless little bimbo who was being tricked out of her clothes. She silently vowed to edit these scenes out. Tracy unhooked her bra and turned her back as she shucked it off her shoulders. John zoomed in to see as much as the screen would allow. "Underpants, too," Martha added, in a voice that dripped cheerfulness. Tracy surrendered her panties. From over her shoulder she watched the John film Martha's sealing of her so-called "guest" box with thick black tape. Martha held the towel up, just out of reach, so Tracy had to stand on tip toe to reach it. Too late she realized that her stretch for the towel had bared her breasts to John and his damn camera. Martha wore a maternal smile as Tracy wrapped the tiny towel around her body and came out from behind the screen. The towel was short and barely covered Tracy's assets. She stared directly at the camera. As she spoke, her voice dripping with melodrama, John focused first on her naked feet, fidgeting on the cold stone floor, and slowly moved the camera up her shapely bare legs.... "I am now a convicted criminal, prisoner number 3838-3738. I have been fingerprinted and photographed. I have been stripped of my identification, my legal rights, and even my clothes. I am as naked as the day I was born, save for this flimsy, well-worn, state-issued towel. "I am now a convict, with no rights whatsoever. All I have is this towel. However, the towel is not mine, and it can be taken away from me at any time. "Stay tuned. In a moment, my towel will be confiscated, and I will be sent to the showers. Naked." "Perfect," John said, as he once again adjusted the front of his pants. Tracy's voice returned to normal as she struggled to adjust the towel. "You don't allow a girl much modesty around here." "You don't know the half of it," Martha said, pointing at the ceiling. Tracy looked up. To her horror, she saw that a corner mirror perfectly reflected the area behind the screen for John's viewing pleasure. "How dare you!" she shouted. "I'll have you fired for this." "I don't think you're in much of a position to fire anyone, sweetie," Martha said, gently. "This way, dear. I think we've given John and the viewers at home enough of a show." Tracy certainly agreed with THAT, and she didn't resist as Martha led her through the door into the next room. Tracy cleared her throat. "Martha, maybe you could hold the camera and get a couple of shots of my bare back as I soap up. After that build up, I'm going to show the viewers something." "Whatever you say, dear," Martha replied. The shower room was steamy. Had Martha started the water already? Tracy edged closer. "In you go!" Tracy gasped as Martha ripped off her towel and propelled her into the large gang shower area with a sharp SLAP! across her fanny. She groped her way forward through the steam. It was a weird sort of steam, blue almost, with little snaps of electricity. The steam thickened. Where was she? Where was Martha? It seemed as if she were traveling a long time...through a tunnel. She heard running water and...voices? Female voices? Tracy looked around. There were a dozen other women in the shower. And each of them was as beautiful, humiliated, and naked as Tracy. Tracy looked straight ahead. The Chief Constable stood next to the judge, who stood next to the warden. All three men grinned broadly as they watched the naked, blushing women shower. "First day here?" a male voice said. Tracy turned, but the guard was not addressing her. He was talking to a new guard, in his early twenties, who seemed to be as amazed by his surroundings as Tracy. She gulped. It was John! Dressed as a prison guard! The older guard smiled as he surveyed the room of blushing, naked women. "Quite the smorgasbord, isn't it? Well, take a good look. Since it's your first day, the warden's going let you pick one of the girls out for a little pussy poke." The guard surveyed the naked women. "So much pussy, so little time," he guffawed. John looked at his shirt and badge. Where was he? What was happening? "Which one will it be, mate?" Tracy watched as John stared, mouth agape, at each naked woman, his eyes lovingly ogling each and every curve. He hadn't spotted her yet. He was staring at a redhead's chest. After that, he still didn't see her because he was ogling a natural blonde. Tracy flinched as John moved on to the tall brunette standing next to her. She debated turning her back. But, with the mirrors on all the walls, what was the point? Her heart raced. This couldn't be happening. She was stark naked in a prison shower room, with no way of covering herself. She was a helpless, naked prisoner. And John was a guard. John was moving from girl to girl...and Tracy was next. His eyes began at Tracy's toes and slowly slid up her luscious, blushing form. When he saw her face -- and realized who he was looking at -- his jaw dropped. Tracy blushed crimson as he broke into a wide, knowing grin. Then she was distracted as she noticed a young woman carrying in a box with her name on it. Tracy watched as the young woman handed a file to the warden and set the box atop a stack of boxes already positioned for transport on a dolly. Tracy read the box labels from bottom to top: MARSH, ASHLEY #3838-3736 WOODS, HOLLY #3838-3737 SMITH, TRACY #3838-3738 And she stared harder at the young woman who had stacked the boxes. It was Martha. She was younger now, and fit, and beautiful. But it was definitely Martha. Martha stopped and gave John a playful pat on the arm. "Enjoy yourself, dear. Remember -– these are the good old days." ****************************** "Looks like someone thinks the parking laws don't apply to her," the warden snarled as he perused the file. "All right, honey buns. Up on the table. Officer John is going to have to take a look." Tracy dutifully climbed up on the table and placed her feet into the shamefully splayed stirrups. She swallowed hard as John opened the enormous can of LARD and scooped out a huge wad of white goo. John was slow, gentle, and thorough. Tracy bit her lip and stared at the ceiling as he slowly massaged her clit and teasingly slid his fingers around and around, searching every nook and cranny. She had been right about one thing. John did enjoy his new career. It had taken months for Tracy to figure out a way into prison. Would she be as lucky finding a way out? What happened to the girls of Snatchworth? Were they really sold as white slaves? Tracy knew she had the scoop of the century! The only problem was that it was the previous century. Edited by C. Lakewood