4.11 | Eastern State Penitentiary: When Empathy Dies

What if the walls of a prison could tell you stories of madness, audacious escapes, and a dog accused of murder? Join me, Jeremy Haig, on a chilling journey through the haunting history of Eastern State Penitentiary. Built by the Quakers in 1829 with the aim of reforming prisoners through silence and isolation, the institution quickly became a house of psychological torment. Hear the tragic tale of Charles Williams, the first inmate, and the profound impact of extreme solitude that led to widespread madness and despair.

Explore the architectural vision of John Haviland, whose radial design imposed constant surveillance and solitude, and delve into the grim realities of the Pennsylvania system. We’ll uncover infamous stories of escapes, like Willie Sutton’s legendary tunnel escape in 1945 and Leo Callahan's daring ladder escape in 1923. Hear about the lighter moments, too, such as Pep the prison dog boosting inmate morale, and Al Capone's surprisingly luxurious stay at Eastern State Penitentiary.

As we walk through the corridors of this historic prison, we reflect on the devastating impact of a lack of empathy that stripped inmates of their humanity. The echoes of fear, anger, and indifference may explain the hauntings reported within its walls. This episode offers a poignant look at the human spirit and the consequences of extreme solitude, providing new insights into the spiritual world and the lessons these haunting stories offer us today.

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Transcript

Speaker 1: 0:53

This episode includes graphic depictions of torture and violence and is intended for mature audiences. Listener discretion is advised. Philadelphia 1829. On the edge of the city they built something different A place where stone walls were meant to save souls, not just cage them. A place where stone walls were meant to save souls, not just cage them.

Speaker 1: 1:19

Eastern State Penitentiary was an experiment, a grand one, maybe even noble, depending on who you ask. The Quakers who dreamed it up believed they could redeem even the darkest of souls through silence and isolation. You were alone with nothing but your thoughts, your sins and that tiny sliver of light from above. But what they didn't tell you was that if you stayed in the dark long enough, sometimes the dark started to look back. For prisoners like Joseph Taylor, it wasn't the silence that broke him, it was the voices that came after. They started as whispers. Just outside the edge of hearing, he'd lie on that narrow cot, eyes wide open, in the dark and listen until he couldn't stand it anymore. Joseph wasn't the first to break and he certainly wasn't the last. In cell block five the walls still carry his despair. Visitors say they hear him sometimes a soft weeping that never seems to fade, like an echo that just keeps bouncing back, no matter how long it's been. But if you listen closely, there's more. You might hear the laughter too. Cell block 12, they call it the shadow block. It's where the darkness lives, where the walls are thick, with all things left unsaid, all the cries that went unanswered.

Speaker 1: 2:50

Eastern State was built to save souls, but in the end it might just have trapped them. What happens when you leave a man alone with nothing but his regrets, when the light he's supposed to find never comes, and in that darkness where hope withers and empathy dies? What was left? If no one hears a man's cry in the dark, does it mean he never cried out at all? Can the soul survive where empathy dies? I'm Jeremy Haig, and this is when Walls Can Talk. Throughout the ages, man has repeated the same earnest saying. More of a question, really, or perhaps even a plea if these walls could talk. But what if they do, and always have? Perhaps their stories, memories and messages are all around us. If only we would take the moment to listen. On this podcast, we reinvestigate legends and tales of the past and allow the echoes of their lessons to live on once again, informing us, educating us and sharing new and unique insight into the inner workings of the paranormal and spiritual world. Will you dare to listen? This is when Walls Can Talk. The podcast October 22nd 1829.

Speaker 1: 4:42

The day the gates of Eastern State Penitentiary first opened to receive a soul, a young man, barely more than a boy, charles Williams. He was 18, convicted of burglary, and he was about to enter a world no one could ever have prepared for. Harrisburg was his home, but now it was a distant memory, as cold and unreachable as the light that barely penetrated the prison's high stone walls. They say that when Charles crossed the threshold, he was stripped of everything His clothes, his belongings, even his name. Clothes, his belongings, even his name. In their place, he was given a uniform, a number and a new identity as Prisoner Number One. The clerk logged it all meticulously, recording every detail.

Speaker 1: 5:30

Eighteen years old, a farmer by trade, light, black complexion, black eyes, curly hair. Black complexion, black eyes, curly hair. They measured his stature five feet and seven and a half inches, his feet eleven inches. It was as if they were cataloging him not as a person but as property, an object to be stored away in the cold, dark cells of Eastern State. But the worst was yet to come, hooded and disoriented, as all prisoners were to avoid them.

Speaker 1: 6:04

Gaining perspective of the prison's layout for escape, charles was led through the maze of corridors, never knowing which way he turned, never seeing the faces of the men who guided him, he was brought to an exercise yard enclosed by walls so high they blotted out the sun. Through another set of doors he entered his cell, a twelve-by-seven-foot tomb where he would spend the next part of his life alone, with his thoughts, his regrets and the silence. The walls were bare, the only furniture, a bed that folded against the wall, a small shelf, a seat and a few simple items for hygiene. The window, a mere slit high above, let in just enough light to remind him that the world outside still existed, but not enough to see it. Every day followed the same routine he would rise at daybreak, his meals coarse, barely sufficient, not enough to see it. Every day followed the same routine he would rise at daybreak, his meals, coarse, barely sufficient, delivered through a slot in the wall. He was allowed one hour in the exercise yard, but never with another prisoner. The guards moved like ghosts, their footsteps muffled by socks over their shoes, pushing carts with leather-covered wheels to keep the silence unbroken. And in that silence.

Speaker 1: 7:25

Charles was expected to work Shoemaking. They assigned him learning to craft as many as ten pairs a day by 1831. He was to reflect on his crimes, seek forgiveness, but from whom? The walls, the darkness, the silence. And this was the ideal scenario. This was what the reformers envisioned A place where men could be broken down and rebuilt, where silence would lead to penitence and solitude to redemption. But the reality, the reality was far more destructive. The silence didn't bring peace, it brought madness. The solitude didn't lead to reflection, it led to despair. And for Charles Williams and all who followed him, eastern State Penitentiary was not a place of redemption, but a place where the light of hope was extinguished, leaving only the shadows behind. To understand Eastern State Penitentiary you have to step back, as always, way back to a time when America was young and wild, a place where the forests were thick and the roads were few and a man's soul was often as rough and untamed as the land itself.

Speaker 1: 8:48

And in this era, one of the most influential groups was the Religious Society of Friends, more commonly known as the Quakers. Their roots were in England, but by the time they'd crossed the Atlantic they'd planted themselves firmly in the soil of Pennsylvania, a colony founded by Quaker William Penn on principles of religious tolerance, pacifism and social justice. Quakers were a strange and quiet people who believed that God spoke to them in the silence between thoughts, in the stillness of a soul searching for light. They called it the inner light and they saw it in every man, woman and child. They believed that if you listened close enough, you could hear God whispering in your ear, telling you right from wrong, good from evil. Whispering in your ear, telling you right from wrong, good from evil. It's a faith rooted in simplicity, peace, integrity and, most importantly, equality.

Speaker 1: 9:48

In the America of the 17th and 18th centuries, these were radical ideas. Quakers were abolitionists, advocates for prison reform and champions of education for all, regardless of class or gender. But their most defining characteristic was their belief in nonviolence, a commitment to solving conflicts without resorting to physical force. This was a community deeply invested in the moral improvement of society, and nowhere was this more evident than in their approach to crime and punishment. But it wasn't an easy life In a world that thrived on violence and dominance. The Quakers were outsiders, strange birds in a flock of hawks. They were ridiculed, persecuted, but they held fast to their beliefs, clinging to their ideals, like a drowning man, clings to driftwood.

Speaker 1: 12:04

By the late 18th century, the american justice system was a horror show of public executions, whippings and prisons that were little more than cesspools of disease and despair. It was a system that punished but never, never reformed. And that's where the Quakers saw an opportunity, a chance to bring their light into the darkest corners of society. They wanted a prison that didn't just lock men away, but one that could save their souls. They dreamed of a place where a man could sit in silence, alone with his thoughts, until he found his way back to God. And so, in 1821, the idea for Eastern State Penitentiary was born.

Speaker 1: 12:53

The Philadelphia Society for Alleviating the Miseries of Public Prisons, a Quaker-led organization, proposed a new kind of prison, one that would embody their ideals of reform and redemption. It took eight years of planning and debate, but in 1829, eastern State opened its doors. It was a fortress, a grand experiment in social engineering, designed to inspire awe and fear in equal measure. The process began with a law, a piece of paper inked with the hopes and fears of men who believed they could reshape the very fabric of human nature. 1821, the Pennsylvania State Legislature passed an act that would set into motion one of the most ambitious and terrifying projects in American history A state penitentiary. They called it, a place where 250 souls could be confined, isolated and, they hoped, redeemed through solitude. They appointed 12 men to oversee the creation of this place and handed them a hundred thousand dollars a king's ransom in those days with the charge to build something that would last, something that would stand as a monument to the power of reform or a warning of the darkness that comes when you meddle with the human soul. They called themselves the Board of Commissioners, but what they really were was a group of dreamers and pragmatists, each with their own idea of what this prison should be. They studied plans, debated designs and finally settled on a plot of land in the Spring Garden District of Philadelphia, a place known as Cherry Hill, where the ground was high and the air was clean. They bought it for $11,500, a bargain even in those days and began the work of turning a cherry orchard into a fortress.

Speaker 1: 14:52

Four architects submitted their designs, each one a vision of how to best contain and control the human spirit, but in the end it was John Haviland's plan that won out, a plan that would come to define Eastern State Penitentiary. Haviland envisioned a place that resembled a medieval fortress, a gothic castle, where the walls themselves seemed to loom over you judging, watching, waiting. He designed a prison with a radial layout, each cell block fanning out from a central hub like the spokes of a wheel. From the observatory at the center. Guards could watch over every quarter, every cell, without ever being seen themselves. It was a place where solitude was enforced by architecture and the very design of the building pressed down upon the soul, as if to remind the inmates that they were always being watched, always being judged. It was a design that would be copied by over 300 prisons worldwide.

Speaker 1: 15:58

But even as the walls went up, even as the towers and cell blocks took shape, there was tension. Strickland, the architect who had lost the design competition, was tasked with overseeing the construction, but his heart wasn't in it. Haviland, meanwhile, continued to tweak his designs, adding towers, thickening walls, refining his vision of a prison that was as much a symbol as it was a structure. By the time the cornerstone was laid, in May of 1823, it was clear that Eastern State Penitentiary would be more than just a place to lock up criminals. It would be a place where the walls themselves held power criminals. It would be a place where the walls themselves held power, a power that would endure long after the last stone was set, long after the last prisoner was locked away.

Speaker 1: 16:48

But the most striking feature of Eastern State was not its imposing architecture nor its sheer size. It was the cells. Each one was a small, self-contained world measuring just 8 by 12 feet, with a single narrow window high up on the wall, angled to let in light but prevent any view of the outside world. This window was known as the Eye of God, a constant reminder to the inmates that they were always being watched, not just by the guards but by a higher power. The doors were intentionally low, forcing prisoners to bow as they entered, a physical gesture of submission and humility.

Speaker 1: 17:32

The Pennsylvania system, as it was called, was based on the idea that solitude would lead to penitence. Prisoners were kept in complete isolation, no contact with other inmates, no visitors, no letters. They were given a Bible and their own thoughts. Solitude and silence were supposed to lead a man to repent, to find God in the emptiness. But what they didn't consider was that in that emptiness something else might find them first, something darker. The silence wasn't a bomb, it was a blade slicing away at the mind, until all that was left was the raw nerve of fear, of regret, and for some it led to madness, and for some it led to madness, for others something even worse.

Speaker 1: 18:23

But what they didn't understand, what they couldn't have known, was that the mind is a fragile thing. It needs light, it needs connection, and without those things it withers, it turns inward on itself, like a snake devouring its own tail. They call it prison psychosis, a polite term for a descent into madness. The doctors who studied it tried to quantify the symptoms Hallucinations, paranoia, severe anxiety but numbers and words could never capture the true horror of it. Imagine being trapped in a box day after day, with nothing but your own thoughts. At first you might hold on to your sanity, clinging to the hope that one day you'll be free. But as the days stretch into weeks and the weeks into months, that hope fades, the walls start to close in, and the weeks into months, that hope fades, the walls start to close in, and the silence, the silence becomes a living thing, wrapping itself around your mind, squeezing, until something inside of you snaps.

Speaker 1: 19:33

Many famous individuals came to visit the radical facility, but few as famous as Charles Dickens, a man who knew a thing or two about suffering, about the dark places in the human soul. When he visited Eastern State in 1842, he was horrified. He called it a house of horrors, a place where men were buried alive in their own minds. He saw the blank st stairs, the trembling hands, the way the inmates flinched at every sound, as if they were waiting for something terrible to happen. And maybe they were. Dickens wrote that the system was cruel and wrong and it did nothing but break the minds and spirits of the men it was supposed to save. He could see what the Quakers couldn't, that this place wasn't saving souls, it was devouring them.

Speaker 1: 20:28

By 1834, eastern State Penitentiary had only been open for a few years, but already the cracks were beginning to show. The grand experiment meant to reform souls through solitary confinement was rotting from the inside out, and when the rot finally broke through to the surface, it was uglier than anyone could ever have imagined. It started out quietly accusations of immoral and licentious behavior among the prison staff but the whispers grew louder until they couldn't be ignored. A state legislative committee was convened to investigate, and what they uncovered was a cesspool of corruption and vice that would have shocked even the most hardened souls. The warden, samuel Wood, along with his inspectors and a host of other officials, were accused of embezzling funds, misusing public property and subjecting prisoners to cruel and unusual punishments. But that was only the beginning. They spoke of parties carousing, and quote habitual intercourse with lewd and depraved persons right there in the administrative building course, with lewd and depraved persons right there in the administrative building. The very place that was supposed to embody moral reform had become a den of vice. And then there were the prisoners Women, housed in a single room in one of the towers, overseen by men who treated them not as inmates but as servants. When the scandal broke, the women were hurriedly moved to a more secure cell block and a matron, mrs Harriet Hall, was hastily hired to oversee them.

Speaker 1: 22:08

But the damage was done. The vision of Eastern State as a place of moral and benevolent reform had been shattered, replaced by a darker reality of exploitation and abuse. Shattered, replaced by a darker reality of exploitation and abuse. But the scandal was just one symptom of a deeper problem. The very architecture of Eastern State, designed to isolate and reform, was flawed. The cells were cold, the ventilation poor and the heating barely adequate to keep the prisoners from freezing to death in their solitude. The resident physician became a key figure. His monthly reports to the board a litany of the prisoners deteriorating mental and physical health.

Speaker 1: 22:49

It was clear that solitary confinement wasn't producing the redemption the Quakers had hoped for. It was producing broken minds and bodies. Even the work, the shoemaking and weaving that kept the prisoners occupied was part of a system that was beginning to falter. The quote public account and quote peace price systems kept the penitentiary's industries running, but the labor didn't bring the salvation the Quakers had envisioned. Instead, it merely masked a deeper failure of the Pennsylvania system itself, a system that was being abandoned across the country as prisons turned to the Auburn model of silence and labor over the solitary confinement that had proven so destructive. And so the grand experiment continued. But it was clear that the dream of a moral and benevolent penitentiary was just that, a dream. What was left behind was a place where the darkness had seeped into the very walls, where the ideals of reform were swallowed up by the harsh realities of human nature. Eastern State Penitentiary was no longer a prison. It was a monument to the dangers of unchecked power, to the corruption that festers when the light of scrutiny fades.

Speaker 1: 24:07

After the Civil War, america was a nation on the move. Freed slaves headed north in search of a better life, while rural families packed up and left the fields behind for the promise of the city. But the promise wasn the city. But the promise wasn't for everyone. For many, the streets weren't paved with gold. They were paved with desperation. And that desperation led them to the gates of Eastern State. By 1866, it was bursting at the seams. The prison, designed to hold 540 souls in solitary confinement, now housed 569.

Speaker 1: 24:45

The inspectors, faced with overcrowding and a rising tide of despair, made a decision that would mark the beginning of the end for the Pennsylvania system. They started doubling up prisoners two to a cell, sometimes even three. It was a necessary evil, they said, for those of such a low grade of mental capacity that they were unfit for anything but restraint. But what happens when you cram too many souls into a space meant for one? Well, the darkness spreads.

Speaker 1: 25:16

By 1872, the inspectors had a new name for their program the Individual Treatment System, a polite way of saying. They were abandoning the very principles on which Eastern State was built. Solitude was no longer sacred, just a word they used to hide the truth. The system was failing and the inmates were paying the price. In a last-ditch effort to save the dream, they embarked on a building spree. Overseer Michael J Cassidy, who would become warden in 1881, added new cell blocks cell blocks 8 through 11, and extended the existing ones. The cells were larger, nearly 50% more spacious than those built by Haviland, as if Cassidy knew he'd need room for more than one. But it wasn't enough. Even Cassidy, who objected to more than one man per cell, had to admit defeat. We have sometimes three prisoners to a cell, he confessed in 1884. The dream of solitary reform was dead, buried beneath layers of stone and steel.

Speaker 1: 26:25

Yet in the midst of all of this, life at Eastern State was evolving. Inmates, once trapped in the bleakest solitude, did find small comforts. They tended gardens, raised rabbits and kept birds. They decorated their cells with murals, as if to make the walls feel less like a cage. The diet improved, the mail came more frequently and family visits were allowed. A teacher was hired and a library was built, a haven of books and magazines where prisoners could escape, if only in their minds. The prison chaplain preached and the men sang hymns, their voices rising through the cell blocks like a prayer for redemption. But no amount of song or solace could change the fact that Eastern State Penitentiary was crumbling.

Speaker 1: 27:16

The cracks in the wall were more than just physical. They were symbolic of a system that had outlived its purpose. The Pennsylvania system, once hailed as revolutionary, was now a relic of the past. Physicians at the prison had long lobbied for better conditions, more light, cleaner air, a place where the inmates could exercise their bodies, if not their minds. By the mid-1880s a small gymnasium was built in cell block three. The convicts, masked and herded like cattle, were brought in groups of six to exercise under the watchful eyes of their captors.

Speaker 1: 27:54

But it wasn't enough. Eastern State had become a breeding ground for disease, both physical and mental. But the real horrors were the dark cells Klondike they called them where men could be locked away in total darkness, left to rot in their own despair. It was said that these cells were a death sentence, that the men who entered them only left in a pine box. Tuberculosis ran rampant and the mortality rates at Eastern State were higher than any other prison in the country.

Speaker 1: 28:29

There are many stories told about the men who passed through the Iron Gates of Eastern State. Some of them are stories of redemption but most of horror. There's even one about Al Capone and his haunted cell. But none of them have quite captured the public's imagination like the story of Willie Sutton and the Great Tunnel Escape of 1945. You've probably heard the name Willie Sutton before. He was the Babe Ruth of bank robbers, after all, the Gentleman Bandit, slick Willie the Actor. But let me tell you, those nicknames only scratch the surface.

Speaker 1: 29:08

Willie Sutton was the kind of criminal you can't help but admire even as you cross the street to avoid him. He had charm, wit and a smile that could disarm even the most suspicious bank teller. But underneath that smooth exterior was a man who lived for the thrill of the escape. In the 11 years he spent at Eastern State, sutton made five attempts to break free, each one bolder than the last, but it was the sixth attempt that would go down in history. They were like the dirty dozen, but less well-adjusted. Twelve men, driven by desperation and a shared hatred for the walls that held them, worked together for over a year chiseling, digging and clawing their way through the earth. And at the center of it all was Sutton, the mastermind, or so he claimed In his 1953 autobiography. Where the Money Was, sutton took full credit for the operation. But here's the thing about Sutton he's as much a storyteller as he was a bank robber.

Speaker 1: 30:16

The tunnel escape was daring, no doubt about it. But the reality was far messier, far more desperate than Sutton's smooth-talking persona would have you believe. This was no Hollywood heist, it was a gamble. A gamble that, for most of them, didn't pay off. The tunnel may have led them out of their cells, but it didn't lead to freedom. And as for Sutton, well, he liked to say he was the mastermind, but in the end the escape was as much a trap as it was a way out. Behind every great escape, there's someone who does the dirty work, someone who stays in the shadows pulling the strings while the others take the glory. For Sutton, that man was Clarence Clinney. Clindinst, a plasterer, stonemason, burglar and forger, with the charm of Frank Sinatra and the resourcefulness of MacGyver. Clinney was a man who could get you anything, anything except freedom, or so it seemed. But give him a year and he could get you out of the most impregnable fortress in America.

Speaker 1: 32:22

Working in teams of two, the escapees took 30-minute shifts, digging through the wall of Cell 38 with nothing more than spoons and flattened cans. Inch by inch, they carved a 31-inch hole through solid stone, then dug 12 feet straight down into the earth. But they didn't stop there. They dug another 100 feet, tunneling their way through the walls of Eastern State like moles burrowing toward daylight. This was a work of desperate genius. The tunnel was shored up with scavenged wood, lit by makeshift lamps and even ventilated to keep the air flowing. At the halfway point they tapped into the prison's brick sewer system, creating a hidden passage to dispose of their waste and keep the fumes from choking them to death. It was an engineering marvel born out of sheer necessity and desperation. But even more impressive was the way they concealed it. It was an engineering marvel born out of sheer necessity and desperation, but even more impressive was the way they concealed it.

Speaker 1: 33:22

Clinney, with his craftsman's hands, fashioned a false panel that blended seamlessly with the plaster walls of Cell 68. Hidden behind a metal wastebasket, the tunnel escaped inspection time and again. A secret just waiting to be discovered. This was the reality of the Great Escape, the painstaking work of men with nothing to lose. Sutton may have been the charming face of the operation, but it was Clinney who made it happen, brick by brick, inch by inch. It was an escape plan that should have been impossible, and for most it would have been. But desperation makes men do incredible things and in the end, what emerged from that tunnel wasn't just a path to freedom, but a testament to the lengths a man will go to when he's got nowhere else to turn. Of course this was the ideal, the perfect scenario. Of course this was the ideal, the perfect scenario. But as with so many things at Eastern State Penitentiary, the reality was far darker and far more complex, because getting out was only the beginning.

Speaker 1: 34:29

It was the morning of April 3rd 1945, when the men, all 12 of them, desperate and determined, finally put their plan into action. They had spent months working in shifts, digging through stone and dirt with spoons, like ants, tunneling toward daylight. It was slow, back-breaking work, but they were driven by a singular need to escape the walls that had become their tomb and so on. That morning the men made their move. As the prison began to stir, as breakfast was being prepared, they slipped away to cell 68, the gateway to their freedom. One by one, they lowered themselves into the tunnel, the cold earth pressing in around them as they crawled on hands and knees, inching toward the light. At the end, they emerged, one by one, into the world beyond the walls, free, if only for a moment.

Speaker 1: 35:26

But like most plans hatched in the dark, the reality didn't live up to the dream. Clinney, the mastermind, made it a whole three hours before the law caught up with him. Sutton well, he barely tasted freedom. Three minutes, that's all he got before he came face to face with the law. In his own words, he leaped from the hole and ran headlong into two policemen and when they told him to put his hands up, he told them to shoot. And maybe in that moment he meant it. Maybe, after all the digging, the planning, the hoping, he was ready for it all to end. The police's bullets missed, but Sutton's luck had run out. He tripped, fell and the dream was over.

Speaker 1: 36:15

For those who thought they could outwit the walls of Eastern State Penitentiary, the price of failure was steep. The firsts to be captured after the 1945 tunnel escape, including the infamous Willie Sutton, were dragged down into the bowels of the prison, a place few knew existed and fewer escaped. These were the Klondikes Hidden away in the mechanical spaces below one of the cell blocks. These cells were illegal, built in secret by guards who understood that some men needed to be broken body and soul. Sutton, the man who had stolen headlines and charmed the public with his daring, found himself in a cell that wasn't big enough to stand up in and wasn't wide enough to lay down in here. There was no light, no sound, just the suffocating weight of darkness pressing in on all sides. It was as if the very earth was trying to swallow him whole, to erase the memory of his escape, to punish him for daring to dream of freedom. But even the Klondikes couldn't keep Sutton contained for long. After his time in the hole, he was transferred to the supposedly escape-proof Holmesburg prison. Within months, sutton did what he did best. He escaped, vanishing into the shadows for six more years, before the law finally caught up with him in Brooklyn, brought down by a witness who recognized him from a wanted poster.

Speaker 1: 37:42

The tunnel that Sutton and his comrades had painstakingly carved out of the earth wasn't forgotten, though. The guards did their best to erase it After the escape. They filled it with ash, buried it under cement, trying to cover up the evidence of their failure. It wasn't until 2005 that the lost tunnel was found again. Using ground-penetrating radar, a team of archaeologists traced the path of the escape, uncovering sections of the tunnel that had survived the guards' attempts to bury it. They sent a robotic rover through the remains, documenting the scaffolding, the lighting systems, the evidence of desperation etched into every inch of the tunnel. The discovery didn't reveal much, just the bones of a legend long buried. But for a moment, the public's imagination was reignited as they dreamed of the daring men who had risked everything for a taste of freedom, only to find that the outside world was as unforgiving as the walls they'd left behind.

Speaker 1: 38:46

Over the course of its 142 years, eastern State Penitentiary saw more than 100 escape attempts. The walls, towering 30 feet high and buried 10 feet deep, were meant to be an impenetrable barrier, a final line of defense between society and those who had fallen beyond redemption. And yet, despite the odds, 59 people managed to breach those walls, but true success. People managed to breach those walls, but true success. Escape and evasion was something rarer, something almost mythic. For years, it was believed that only one man, leo Callahan, had managed to escape the grasp of Eastern State and vanish into the ether, never to be seen again. But the past has a way of revealing itself, and now we know that Callahan wasn't alone.

Speaker 1: 39:39

Leo Callahan's story is the stuff of legend. In 1923, he and five others constructed a ladder, a simple device that would be their ticket to freedom. They scaled the east wall, subduing two guards along the way. While his accomplices were eventually recaptured, one of them, in Honolulu no less Callahan disappeared without a trace, the only one that got away. But as researchers delved deeper into the prison's archives, they discovered other names, other stories lost to time.

Speaker 1: 40:13

Bernard Tease was the first, in 1838. He was just two years into a three-year sentence for horse-stealing when he slipped out of his cell, scaled the perimeter wall and disappeared. The warden spent months searching for him, spending over a hundred dollars, a small fortune at the time. Yet Tease was never found. His family would never see him again and his records were marked simply escaped. Then there was Patrick Lafferty who, in 1866, walked right through the front gate Dressed in another prisoner's clothes. He passed by the guards unnoticed, slipping into the city and out of history. And Timothy Boyle who, in 1877, used his job in the bakery to hide in an empty cask, which was then loaded onto a wagon and carried beyond the walls. He was nearly two years into a 12-year sentence for second-degree murder, but after that day he was gone, his story making headlines even years later as rumors swirled of his escape to Europe. These four men Callahan, tease, lafferty, boyle each found a way to break free from Eastern State Penitentiary and disappeared into the world beyond, never to be recaptured. But for every escape that succeeded, there were dozens more that failed, with men thrown back into the darkness, their dreams of freedom crushed under the weight of those 30-foot walls. The past has a way of surprising us, of reminding us that history is never fully written and that there are always more stories waiting to be told. Fully written, and that there are always more stories waiting to be told.

Speaker 1: 42:03

In the summer of 1924, governor Guilford Pinchot of Pennsylvania found himself in a peculiar situation. He was, in his own words, over-dogged. It wasn't that he disliked dogs, in fact he was quite fond of them. But when you're the governor and people start gifting you puppies like they're the latest fashion accessory, it's easy to feel overwhelmed. One of these dogs was Pep, the black Labrador retriever, who had a particular fondness for chewing on the cushions of the Pinchot's front porch sofa. Pinchot was everybody's dog, friendly, good-natured and unusually intelligent. But like so many good dogs, pep had a problem he was a bit too much to handle.

Speaker 1: 42:44

Pinchot had recently heard about a therapy dog named Governor, who had been sent to Thomson State Prison in Maine, and the idea stuck with him. The Eastern State Penitentiary in Philadelphia was overcrowded, the inmates' morale was low and Pinchot thought maybe, just maybe, pep could help. So, with the blessings of his wife, cornelia, pinchot made a call to the prison warden and just like that Pep was on his way to the big house. Not for any crime, despite what the newspapers would later claim, but to lighten the spirits of the men behind those towering walls. Pep was received at Eastern State in quote due in ancient form, as the warden liked to say. This means they gave him an inmate number C-2559, took his mugshot and even recorded his crime in the prison ledger Murder.

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But it wasn't long before the story took on a life of its own. Some enterprising newspapermen, in a fit of creative inspiration, decided that Pep had been sent to the prison for killing the governor's cat. The tale spread like wildfire. Letters poured in from all over the world accusing Pinchot of cruelty, condemning him for locking up a dog for following its instincts. No amount of clarification from the governor could stem the tide of outrage. But the truth was far less sensational.

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For the inmates of Eastern State, pep was a blessing he wandered the prison freely, lifting spirits wherever he went. He accompanied the guards on their nightly rounds, became a master rat catcher in the dark quarters and even gained a bit of weight thanks to the extra treats from the prisoners. Pep was featured in a radio broadcast from the prison in 1925. His image, captured forever in a photograph that showed him sitting proudly in front of a microphone, surrounded by guards, in a place where despair was the daily bread, pep was a reminder that not all the world was lost to darkness. Pep spent several years at Eastern State, becoming something of a legend in its own right. But, as with all good things, his time at the penitentiary came to an end. In 1929, he was quote, pardoned and sent to the Graterford prison farm where he lived out the rest of his days in peace.

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The story of Pep the prison dog is one of those curious tales that refuses to fade a small warm light in the stone cold darkness of eastern states history. But remember, while the newspapers had a field day with the tale of the cat murdering dog, the truth was something far simpler and perhaps, in its own way, far more human. Alphonse Gabriel Capone, better known to the world as Al Capone or Scarface was one of the most notorious gangsters in American history. Born in Brooklyn, new York, 1899, capone would rise through the ranks of organized crime to become the undisputed king of the Chicago underworld during the Prohibition era. Known for his ruthless business tactics, capone built a criminal empire on bootlegging, gambling and extortion, amassing a fortune and a reputation that made him both feared and admired. But for all his power, capone's story is not just one of violence and vice. It's also a tale of unexpected twists, including a brief but infamous stint at Eastern State Penitentiary.

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In May 1929, as mob violence escalated in Chicago, capone found himself far from his home turf. While traveling from Atlantic City back to Chicago, capone made a fateful stop in Philadelphia. There, outside a movie theater, he was arrested for carrying a concealed, unlicensed .38 caliber revolver a rookie mistake for a man of his experience. The Philadelphia courts, known for their toughness, handed Capone the maximum sentence one year in prison. It was the first taste of prison life for the man who had managed to elude the law for so long. Capone served seven months of his sentence, but his experience there was anything but

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typical. Despite the Philadelphia court's attempts to make an example of him, the officials at Eastern State were remarkably accommodating to their famous guest. Capone's cell was no ordinary cell. It was furnished with fine furniture, beautiful rugs, tasteful paintings and a fancy radio that played the waltzes that Capone loved to listen to. The Philadelphia newspapers were quick to note the lavish conditions, describing the Salon such a way that it could have easily been mistaken for an upscale motel room. But why was Capone in Philadelphia to begin with? Rumors swirled that Capone had intentionally gotten himself arrested to avoid the escalating violence in Chicago, using the prison as a hideout. Capone, of course, denied these claims for the rest of his life, insisting that his arrest was a matter of bad luck rather than a calculated move. Regardless of the truth, capone spent thousands of dollars trying to secure his release, but the Philadelphia courts were not

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swayed. His time at Eastern State, however, was far from wasted. If anything, it added another layer to the myth of Al Capone, the gangster who lived like a king even behind bars. His time here was a story of contradictions a ruthless gangster living in unexpected comfort behind bars. But not everyone at Eastern State experienced such luxury. For most of its inmates, life was a far cry from Capone's cushioned reality, and as the years wore on the walls that held Capone's radio and fine furniture would witness something much more darker and more violent the

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riots. Eastern State was no stranger to unrest. The rigid routines, the isolation and the harsh conditions created a powder keg waiting to explode and explode. It did, multiple times in fact, over the decades. One of the earliest and most violent riots occurred in 1933, during the Great Depression, when overcrowding and poor conditions pushed the inmates to their breaking point. It started with a small group of prisoners, angry about the lack of food and the brutality of the guards, who began smashing windows and lighting fires in their cells. In the brutality of the guards who began smashing windows and lighting fires in their cells. Before long the unrest had spread throughout the prison, with inmates attacking guards and destroying anything within reach. The riot was only quelled after reinforcements were called in, but not before significant damage was done both to the prison itself and to the already fragile morale of those inside. But 1933 was only the

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beginning. In 1945, the same year as Willie Sutton's tunnel escape, the prison saw another significant riot. This time, the catalyst was the overcrowded conditions and the frustration of inmates who felt they had nothing left to lose. What began as a protest over the quality of food quickly escalated into a violent clash, with prisoners seizing tools and attacking the guards. The riot was eventually subdued, but the scars that left on the prison were deep, both literally and figuratively. The last major riot to rock Eastern State occurred in 1961, as the prison was nearing the end of its operational life. Once again, overcrowding and poor conditions were at the heart of the unrest. The prisoners pushed to their limits, launched a coordinated attack on the guards, taking control of several cell blocks and setting fires. The National Guard was eventually called in to restore order, but the damage was done. The riot underscored the crumbling state of the building, signaling that its days as a functioning prison were

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numbered. But while it was operational, eastern State Penitentiary was not just a place of solitary confinement. It was a place of punishment, a place where the sins of the body were paid for in pain, in silence, in blood. For those who dared to speak out, who couldn't bear the crushing weight of solitude, there were consequences, dark, brutal consequences that left scars far deeper than the stone walls that surrounded them. Take, for instance, the iron gag, a device designed not just to silence but to torture. Imagine you're a few months into your sentence, the isolation gnawing at your sanity and you can't keep quiet any longer. That's what happened to Matthias McComsey in 1833, a man convicted of manslaughter who made the mistake of trying to speak to his neighbor. For his crime of conversation, the guards bound his hands behind his back and forced an iron gag over his tongue. Chains connected the gag to his shackled wrists, pulling tighter with every movement, ripping into his flesh. They left him there alone in the dark, his screams swallowed by the cold iron. When they found him an hour later, he was dead, his tongue torn to shreds. His blood pooled on the cold stone

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floor. But the iron gag wasn't the only nightmare that awaited the inmates of Eastern State. There was also the mad chair, a chair that still exists there today, an invention born of a twisted belief that insanity could be cured by stopping the flow of blood. The idea was simple Cruel Strap the inmate into the chair so tightly that he couldn't move a muscle, not even to breathe freely. Days could pass without food, without the slightest relief, until the body began to betray itself. Limbs swelled, circulation stopped and when they were finally released if they were released amputation was often the only option. It wasn't just the mind that was broken in that chair. It was the body too, piece by piece. And then there was the water bath, an especially cruel punishment reserved for the coldest nights of winter. The process was as simple as it was deadly Dunk the inmate's head or full body in ice-cold water and then hang them on the wall dripping and exposed to the freezing air. By morning, their skin would be iced over their body, stiff, the life slowly drained from them by the relentless cold. Not all survived to see the

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dawn. Eastern State was built on the promise of reform, of penitence, of this elusive idea of redemption. But as the years turned to decades, the walls that once stood as a symbol of progression began to crumble, both literally and figuratively. The very ideals that had inspired its creation—solitude, reflection, isolation—had turned itself into something much darker. The once-radical Pennsylvania system, built by the Quakers, with its strict emphasis on solitary confinement, was proving to be a failure. On solitary confinement was proving to be a failure not just in theory, but in practice. By the mid-20th century, eastern State had become a relic, a place where the past lingered like a ghost in the cold, damp air. Overcrowding was now the norm, with cells originally designed for holding one now holding two, three and even four inmates. The riots, violent eruptions of frustration and desperation were just the most visible signs of a system that was slowly, inexorably, breaking down. The once innovative design of the prison had become its greatest flaw. Unable to adapt to the changing needs of the penal system or the growing number of prisoners crammed within its walls, the Pennsylvania system, with its strict focus on isolation, was abandoned long before the prison's closure, but the scars it left on the inmates and the institution itself were deep and

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enduring. By the 1960s, eastern State was a shadow of its former self, a crumbling, outdated fortress struggling to hold on to relevance in a world that had moved on. The facilities were deteriorating, the walls cracking under the weight of time, and the concept of solitary confinement was being increasingly criticized as inhumane and counterproductive. In 1970, the state of Pennsylvania made the inevitable decision Eastern State Penitentiary would close its doors for good. The last remaining inmates were transferred to other facilities and the once feared prison, with its towering walls and iron gates, was left empty, abandoned. With its towering walls and iron gates, was left empty, abandoned, a crumbling monument to a failed experiment in human rehabilitation. But the story of Eastern State didn't end with its closure the echoes of its past, the whispers of its ghosts continue to linger in the corridors. Eastern State was supposed to be different, a place not designed to punish but to reform. But over time the reality led to something else. Isolation begot despair, and that despair left its mark Long after the last prisoner

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left. People who visit Eastern State today report strange things. They hear voices, see shadows where there shouldn't be any. It makes you wonder what's really happening here. Are these just stories or is there something more going on? And if there is, what does that say about what went on here while the prison was still

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operational? Let's start with Cell Block 12. It's one of those places people talk about the most when they mention Eastern State's haunted reputation. Visitors say they hear laughter, but it's not the kind that makes you smile. It's unsettling, almost mocking. Then there are the shadows, dark figures that seem to move just out of the corner of your eye. Could this be the residual energy of men who lost themselves in the silence? It's hard not to think about the years some of them spent in total isolation, cut off from literally any kind of human connection. It begs the question what happens to a person's mind or their soul when they're deprived of basic empathy for that long. Cell Block 4 is another hotspot for

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activity. People talk about feeling an intense cold, even on warm days. Some say they felt like they're being watched, though there's no one else around. It's easy to see how the prison's history ties into these experiences. Imagine living your days with no one to talk to, no one to break the monotony, except maybe a guard walking by if you're lucky and then consider that this was a place where empathy was in short supply by design. You start to wonder if what people are experiencing now is tied to that lack of human connection. But the most intense reports come from death row. Visitors describe it as being almost unbearable, like there's a weight pressing down on them, making it hard to breathe. Some have even seen apparitions, figures of men who look like they've been through hell and back. And when you consider what Death Row was An end point, a place where hope was snuffed out it's hard not to draw a connection between what happened here and what people feel when they

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visit. Empathy, or the lack thereof, is central to all of this, to this entire story. In a place where empathy was intentionally stripped away, what does that do to the people inside? And, more importantly, does that impact linger after the person is gone. This place was built on an idea, one that seemed noble on the surface Solitude as a path to redemption, silence as a tool for reflection. But strip away the words, the ideals, and what you're left with is a place where people were broken down bit by bit, until there was nothing left but the shell of who they used to

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be. It's easy to talk about the system, the walls, the punishments. It's harder to talk about the system, the walls, the punishments. It's harder to talk about what happens when those things erode the very core of a person. What happens when empathy the thread that connects us, that makes us human, dies? What fills that void that's left behind? For the inmates of Eastern State, it was a darkness that clung to them long after they'd left their cells, a darkness that some say still lingers in the cold spots, the shadows, the voices that seem to call out from the past. Maybe that's what we're hearing when people talk about the hauntings. Maybe it's not just ghosts in the traditional sense, but the echoes of lives that were reduced to something less than

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human. When empathy dies, what's

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left? Fear, anger, regret. Those are powerful emotions. They don't just disappear because a prison closes or because time moves on, they linger, they infect the space around them and they become something else, something darker. And here's the thing it's not just about a place like Eastern State, it's about what we're capable of, what any one of us might become if empathy is stripped away. If you push someone far enough, isolate them long enough, they stop seeing themselves as human and they start acting like something

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else. That's the real horror story, isn't it? Not the ghosts, not the cold spots, but the reminder that we're all just a few steps away from losing what makes us who we are. So what's left when empathy dies? Fear, certainly, anger, undoubtedly, but maybe the most dangerous thing that's left behind is indifference, indifference to suffering, to others, to ourselves. And that indifference, once it takes root, is hard to shake, becomes part of the walls, the air, the very foundation of a place. That's what Eastern State reminds us that when empathy dies, what's left is a shadow of what we could be, and maybe those shadows are what we're really afraid of. Thank you, you.