"Sir, sexual orientation?" I blinked, taken aback by the blunt question. "What?" The intake officer met my gaze without a hint of embarrassment. "Have you ever had sexual contact with men?"

The question lingered in the stagnant air between us, his pen poised over the form. It was 1984, and though this question wasn't commonplace yet, I knew it was connected to the recent scare—the disease spreading in California and New York, recently labeled AIDS. I clenched my jaw. After a battery of invasive questions, this felt like a violation too far. "No," I replied, my voice rough with irritation.

He continued without looking up, "Any diseases? Hepatitis? TB? Any unusual symptoms recently—fever, sweats, weight loss?" The questions seemed to probe for something unspoken, yet obvious. "No."

"Occupation?" I answered, "Real Estate Agent, and Radio Host."

This time, he paused. His eyes darted up, scrutinizing me with newfound curiosity. I felt his gaze weigh me down, evaluating. The interrogation went on: marital status, financial situation, place of birth—each answer stripped another layer of my privacy. Behind him, a massive IBM computer hummed softly, its green screen flickering as another officer input an endless stream of data into the county's new system.

Finally, they led me to what they called the "natural holding cell," a name steeped in bitter irony. It was the jail cell of Hollywood lore—grimy windows, bars that swallowed what little light filtered through, and air so heavy with human misery that it felt like breathing through wet cloth. The distant murmur of other inmates echoed down the hall, a constant reminder of the lives imprisoned here.

In the center of the cell sat a toilet, a steel throne exposed to every eye, defiled by countless others before me. Though they'd made a halfhearted attempt to clean it before locking me in, the sharp scent of ammonia failed to mask the years of neglect. Outside the cell, a torn Reagan-Bush '84 campaign poster clung to the wall, its edges curling in the humid air. As the door clanged shut behind me with a resounding thud, sealing me in with the others, I realized this was where time came to die.

My name is Alex Midas. Welcome to my journey through Hexll County Jail.

The echoes of this place are etched into my memory, casting a heavy shadow over my soul—a chilling reminder of the thin line between sanity and madness. We huddled in corners, our clothes' colors dulled by the grime that coated everything. The cell's layout was a twisted maze, designed to erode any sense of direction or hope. Sheriff Salazar's influence loomed over the jail like a storm cloud, his presence palpable in the way guards straightened their spines at the mere mention of his name.

"Twenty-four years he's run this place," Marcus, a fellow cellmate, would whisper, his voice dropping despite our isolation. "They say he made a deal with something to keep power this long. Notice how nothing changes here? How time seems to stop?"

Marcus was different from the other inmates—a former history professor arrested for protesting the demolition of San Padua's oldest cemetery. His eyes held a haunted knowledge that made me take his words seriously.

The cries were otherworldly, reverberating within the stone walls of the cell. They shifted from human wails into something unnatural—a sound that made my teeth ache and my bones vibrate. It was as if the very souls of those confined were reaching out, their agony transcending the physical realm. The sounds reminded me of La Llorona, the wailing lady who drowned her children and was cursed to wander in search of them—a ghost story my grandmother would tell when I misbehaved as a child. But here, the ghost stories seemed all too real.

Those voices knew too much—fragments of thoughts and fears that should remain buried, secrets that made my skin crawl and my mind revolt against their implications. Amid the din of despair, I heard it—a whisper, so faint yet unmistakably calling my name.

"Alex... they are watching, they are always watching," it beckoned. At that moment, I knew my ordeal in Hexll County Jail was far from over.

I remember the exact moment everything changed. The silence that fell wasn't just from fear—it was the realization that we were in the presence of something beyond our understanding. As the stale air of the holding cell clung to my senses, a sudden hush draped over the inmates like a heavy cloak. The thundering thud of boots approached, each step a drumbeat of authority echoing through the stone corridors.

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The door creaked open, and there he stood—Sheriff J.D. Salazar, the unchallenged ruler of Hexll County. Salazar's gaze swept over us, cold and calculating, as if we were mere chess pieces rather than men of flesh and blood. As he spoke, the air thickened, the darkness around him almost tangible, like an oil slick warping everything it touched.

The other inmates felt it too—I could see it in the way they instinctively shrank back, their bodies recognizing a predator their minds couldn't comprehend. This wasn't the same man who first campaigned for sheriff in 1960—something had changed, deepened, darkened.

"Gentlemen," he began, his voice smooth and confident, a stark contrast to the rough murmurs of the cell. "I understand there has been some... discomfort with our new computer system." A smirk played on his lips, the irony not lost on him.

"Rest assured, these glitches will be resolved. But remember, in my county, order is paramount. Disrupt it, and you will find that there are fates far worse than a delayed release."

As Salazar turned on his heel and left, the door slammed shut behind him with the finality of a judge's gavel. A collective shiver rippled through the cell. Whatever plans we harbored for justice or escape now had to contend with the will of a man who saw himself not just as the law but as its very architect.

As the echoes of Sheriff Salazar's departure faded, whispers filled the cell about the town gossips—the keepers of San Padua's stories. Their names and tales were passed down through the bars and walls of the county jail. They were the ones who watched from their porches, who knew every family tree, every story that unfolded under the vast Texas sky. They remembered every election and scandal and whispered about the things that happened when the sun dipped below the horizon, leaving the town to its shadows.

Gary, another inmate, leaned in close, his voice barely audible. "Mrs. Finch, she'd know the truth about Salazar's rise to power." His hands trembled as he spoke. I noticed burn marks on his fingers—marks that formed a pattern resembling a livestock brand. Those marks still haunt me. I can only imagine what they were doing to the people there.

Nodding in agreement, I whispered back, "Who is Mrs. Finch?"

Eudora Finch's family roots ran as deep as the town itself. If there were hidden truths about Salazar's rise to power or the strange occurrences in San Padua and Hexll County, they were likely embedded in Mrs. Finch's memory. With eyes sharp as a hawk's talons and a tongue to match, she was the living chronicle of San Padua's history—a history now clawing its way into the present, more relevant than ever.

Thinking of Mrs. Finch gave me hope, but that hope quickly eroded as isolation continued its relentless assault on my mind. The voices began as whispers, barely distinguishable from my own thoughts, but grew stronger, pulling me into memories I had no right to access, revealing the twisted roots of Salazar's past.

Even as a child, J.D. Salazar was marked by something different. At exactly 3:02 a.m., he would rise and make his bed with ritual precision, his small hands smoothing sheets and tucking corners with a meticulousness beyond his years. While other children were drawn from sleep by roosters' crows or mothers' calls, J.D. was already awake, his bed pristine, his shoes polished to a shine, his gaze unnervingly steady.

As the memories flooded in, I found myself seeing through the eyes of those who had known Salazar as a child. The visions were so vivid, so specific, that I couldn't dismiss them as mere hallucinations. The jail itself seemed to be feeding me these fragments of the past, piece by haunting piece... or was I losing my grip on reality?

On the playground, he was an island unto himself, marshaling his thoughts, arranging them as carefully as he arranged his toys. While other kids reveled in play, J.D. observed, his mind whirring like clockwork. His stare had a way of piercing through you, as if he were sifting through your soul, cataloging your insecurities.

He had a reputation for being weird and detached, yet highly intelligent. J.D. Salazar possessed an unnatural ability to uncover San Padua’s dark secrets. He wielded those secrets like weapons.

Salazar's rise to sheriff in 1960 was like a tale ripped straight from a fantasy novel. Despite his mastery of horsemanship and relentless pursuit of order, his lack of a law enforcement background made him an unconventional candidate. Many dismissed his campaign as doomed from the start, but took a sudden turn when his opponent vanished the day before early voting. This twist of fate propelled Salazar into the sheriff's office, cementing his control over Hexll County for generations to come.

Once he took office, J.D. Salazar was no longer the strange boy from San Padua who everyone stared at. He had transformed into the arbiter and silent sentinel of order. When Salazar spoke, people didn’t just listen—they were captivated. His words didn’t merely persuade; they compelled followers.

Sheriff Salazar's name became synonymous with power and authority. After six elections, it was carved into every corner of Hexll County, a constant reminder of his unchallenged rule. His presence permeated every shadow, his influence as pervasive as the air itself. He was the most powerful man in San Padua, overseeing its largest enterprise.

In Hexll County, J.D. Salazar wasn't just the sheriff—he was an institution.