BLACKRIDGE PENITENTIARY

BLACKRIDGE PENITENTIARY

Life without parole begins after death

Blackridge Maximum Security closed in 1987 after the Christmas riot.

Forty-seven inmates dead. Eleven guards.

The state sealed the cellblocks with concrete and chain-link and pretended the hill was empty.

In 2025 a private company bought it for pennies: Iron Reign Experiences.

They turned it into the world’s most extreme escape room.

Sixty minutes. Ten “prisoners.” One way out.

They kept the original motto carved above the entrance:

ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE (tourists thought it was marketing).

Opening night sold out in six minutes.

The group is locked in D-Block at 11:07 p.m.

Standard haunted-prison stuff at first: slamming doors, red emergency lights, actors in orange jumpsuits dragging chains.

Then the actors stop responding to the safety word.

Then the actors vanish.

11:19 p.m.

The intercom crackles. A male voice, calm, correctional-officer flat:

“Roll call. When I say your number, step forward and state the crime you are still guilty of.”

He lists ten inmate numbers.

They match the ten wristbands the guests are wearing.

11:27 p.m.

They find the first real body.

It’s wearing the same Iron Reign staff jumpsuit the actors had, but the name tag reads OFFICER REED, 1986.

His throat is opened ear to ear with a shank made of a 2025 VIP lanyard.

11:34 p.m.

Cell 217 won’t stay closed.

Inside is a pale-blue booklet on the bunk: Five Wishes, prison edition.

It’s already completed in ten different handwritings (the guests recognize their own).

Wish 1: The person I want to make decisions for me is Warden H. Crow.

Wish 2: No medical treatment after lights-out.

Wish 3: Keep me in my cell.

Wish 4: Let me keep my blanket.

Wish 5: Tell them I never confessed.

At the bottom, in fresh red ink:

Tonight the sentence is carried out.

11:46 p.m.

The lights die forever.

Real darkness (the kind that has weight).

From somewhere deep in C-Block comes the slow metallic scream of every cell door rolling open at once.

11:52 p.m.

They run.

Corridors rearrange themselves. Catwalks appear overhead that weren’t there an hour ago.

Every gate they pass now has a new steel sign welded on:

SOLITARY – PERMANENT PLACEMENT

AUTHORIZED BY ORDER OF THE COURT THAT NEVER FORGOT

11:58 p.m.

Only three guests left.

They reach the yard.

The fence is gone.

In its place stands a perfect replica of the 1986 riot: forty-seven inmates in period-correct orange, faces burned and broken, waiting in silence.

Behind them, eleven guards in blood-crusted uniforms hold riot shotguns that still smoke.

Midnight

The intercom again, closer now, like it’s inside their skulls:

“Time served: zero days of forever.

Welcome home.”

The last guest (the one carrying the Five Wishes booklet) looks down.

The cover now has a new name embossed in cracked leather.

Yours.

Wish 5 has been updated in your own handwriting, though you never touched the pen:

I wish I’d never bought a ticket.

The yard lights flicker on, harsh white.

Every corpse in the riot turns its head at once to stare at the three remaining guests.

The booking desk at the gate reappears, fully staffed.

A corrections officer with no eyes slides a fresh jumpsuit across the counter.

One size fits all.

Eternity.

Somewhere in the distance, a new group of tourists laughs nervously as the front doors slam shut behind them.

The sign above the entrance flickers once, updating itself:

BLACKRIDGE PENITENTIARY

CAPACITY: INFINITE

NEXT TOUR STARTS IN 60 MINUTES

Your cell is ready.

The blanket is warm.

And the Five Wishes booklet is already waiting on the bunk, open to a fresh page.

All you have to do is sign.