The story you are about to read is a true story. I write about it time after time. Why? Because it is still haunting my mind. Waking up at night with the constant screaming in my mind is just not fair. But I needed a Job to pay for my family to get food, clothes, and regular things we all buy. No luxuries at all. But the hauntings continue. Over and over and over. Just so damn haunting. That Damn Demon dud it’s damage on me and continues. I take one PTSD Help me Dream pill every night. But the Demon and that screaming still breaks tgey the barriers the pill creates. I pray you never ever experience it. It was so sad seeing that Inmate suffering. His Felony Crime? Too many DWIs.

Del Demeno Del Diablo es Aqui!

Inmates locked up in the same solitary unit on the top row told me they were ready to go back to work, their faces etched with a great fear. I looked at these Hispanic inmates, men who had previously refused to work the Texas prison fields, and I told them , in Spanish, what they already knew: “The Devil’s Demon is here. He was down there on the bottom row. Inside an Offender.” He was on the bottom row, a single inmate who hadn’t stopped screaming for a single minute in six straight weeks. The Offender looked strangely odd. The horror we felt wasn’t from the sun or the razor wire, but from the unholy presence in that cell. I was the only Texas Prison Guard who didn’t send a request to the Warden to be removed from working Solitary.

The screams were a living, breathing thing, an entity of pure sound. They were not just noises; they were a physical assault on the mind, a relentless, high-pitched shriek that clawed at your sanity and scraped against the very walls of your soul. They resonated through the concrete, vibrated in the soles of our boots, and clung to the air like a sickness you couldn’t shake. It was a sound that had no beginning and no end, a constant agony that made the skin crawl and the heart pound in a primal rhythm of dread. It changed, too—from a lacerating shriek to a guttural wail, a sound so inhuman it seemed to drain the life and light from the hallway. It was a mind-destroying cacophony, a nightmarish symphony that turned a quiet cellblock into a hellscape. The screams touched my Soul.

We all knew what was there. We saw the impossible, and the impossible became our reality. I saw his hands morphing into suction cups, and then watched in frozen horror as he slithered straight up the wall, defying gravity and logic like a snake. The twisting, contorting body movements and the grotesque, impossible facial expressions—no human could do these things. But the most terrifying sight of all were the eyes. When I saw his face, the eyes were a solid, bottomless black. They were not just an absence of color; they were twin abysses of pure, unadulterated evil. There was no hint of the man he used to be, no light, no humanity—only a malevolent intelligence that saw into the very core of your soul. It was scary. Beyond scary. It was a super, extremely scary reality that we lived with every day.

The other inmates, men who had faced down the harshest conditions of the Texas sun, were broken by this. They were locked up like small rodents, and they knew the big alley cat was coming for them. The screaming was a torment that drove them to madness. They would scream obscenities and throw their meal plates against the walls, begging for it to stop. “Shut up! SHUT UP!” they’d howl, as if a human voice could silence what was there. Their fear was a raw, palpable thing, a collective dread that bled through the steel doors. They all soon came to quickly fear the demon in that inmate. Every single one of them demanded to be removed from the solitary unit. They would do anything—even return to the grueling labor of the prison fields—just to escape the terror of that screaming cell. It was the ultimate, horrifying motivation.

Please Lord, not another night of hearing the Demon Screams.

I stayed, and I saw it all. The demons in the death fights, the eyes turning a total black, the bodies twisting into impossible shapes—I saw it, and I felt the truth of it to my core. No training prepares a person for unbelievable stuff like this. Management refused to discuss it, telling me I was “overworked” and “seeing things.” But they all knew. They knew why every other guard put in a transfer request and why the inmates were begging to go back to the fields. The fear was real, the possession was real, and the horror was absolute. It wasn’t worth the pay. People must be made aware of the real demonic possession in Texas prisons. We were all broken by that screaming. The pain was etched into our minds, and the fear was a constant, gnawing presence. We had witnessed the impossible, and it was a burden we would carry for the rest of our lives. We knew, with a certainty that chilled us to the bone, that Del Demeno Del Diablo es Aqui. The Devil’s Demon was here.

If you feel just a tiny touch of sympathy for what I actually had to endure and am able to share it with you, then please read b great book written by me-