Santa Fe Penitentiary Riot: History Gets Heavier With Time

Skinwalker Medium                   

By G.G. Collins (Copyright 2025) Caution: These are actual details of the prison riot.

Old Main looked ominous as Rachel approached it from the parking lot. Paint peeled from its skin like a bad sunburn. One of the deadliest prison riots in United States history took place there February 2, 1980 at the Santa Fe State Penitentiary. After 36 hours of blood-soaked terror, it ended. Thirty-three people lost their lives in the most heinous ways imaginable and more would be traumatized for the rest of their days.

In February 1980, one of the worst prison riots in the US occurred in idyllic Santa Fe, NM. Since then, film companies and even ghost hunters have fled this site. There is no expiration date for hauntings.

Photo courtesy New Mexico Corrections Dept.

Rachel stood outside trying to get her feelings under control. Even many feet away from the entrance she was impacted by the suffering that had taken place years before. Reports of hauntings were frequent and believable. Film crews experienced clanging cell doors at night despite no electrical power to operate the doors. Mysterious human-like shadows had been described. Paranormal investigators who sat vigil swore never to return.

She walked past watch tower No. 1 and into Santa Fe’s ugly past, far from the tourists enjoying themselves while shopping for turquoise jewelry and sipping margaritas in the downtown plaza. The glitz of the City Different was only fifteen miles from this world: one of barbarism.

Inside, she waited notebook and recorder in hand for her guide. Shaking the dread was impossible. She observed the gift shop and couldn’t quite comprehend T-shirts from a penitentiary – even a closed one. A yellow T read “NMCD STATE Prisoner.” As Rachel explored she saw weapons on exhibit. Prisoners fashioned them from glass shards. The metal objects she thought to be shanks. All were on display in cases, the type one usually associated with trinkets. It was confounding to her to see these deadly shivs put on view but the prison was more of a museum now: a place to learn about what happens when the worst of humanity goes on a rampage. Black and white photos showed scenes before and after the riot.

“Hello, I’m Ernesto Pacheco,” a man said.

Engrossed, Rachel started.

“Sorry, to surprise you,” he said. “I understand you are here to tour the facility for an article your magazine is publishing.”

He looked kindly. Rachel guessed him retirement age. His tanned skin had the lines of a lived-in face. His eyes were deep brown and his hair was mostly silver. She liked him. While she couldn’t always judge a person on first impression, her reporter’s intuition had become reasonably dependable.

 “Yes, I’m Rachel Blackstone with High Desert Country Magazine,” she shook his hand. It was a good handshake, not too strong, not wimpy. Sincere. She handed him her card, which he slid into his shirt pocket without reading. It was plaid – the shirt. Cream and burgundy and it topped a pair of worn jeans. His feet were outfitted in hiking shoes, a frequent foot covering in the Santa Fe area.

“I don’t think your magazine has covered the prison before,” he said. “Most visitors are young thrill seekers who don’t fully grasp what happened here. They tour the facility, ask questions and go back to the plaza for drinks and burritos.”

His voice was slow and soft. Rachel warmed to him. He had a gentle, calm way about him. He seemed to sense her unease.

“You’re correct, we haven’t done a story on the riot before,” Rachel said. “I’ve been with them almost from the beginning.”

 “You’ll probably prefer to pass on the mug shot?”

Rachel was astonished and horrified.

“Really?” she asked.

“Most of the tourists like it.” He shrugged his shoulders.

Let’s begin the tour,” Ernesto gestured. “If you’ll follow me.”

“Okay,” she mumbled.

“You’ve seen our shop,” he said. “Some people find it off-putting. I don’t blame them. We’ll bypass the courtyard and get straight to it.”

He showed her the administrative offices first.

“This is where the rioters destroyed all the records,” Ernesto pointed to an office with crime scene tape across the door opening.

Rachel followed him as he made a left turn. They passed two cellblocks and several dormitories. Near the end of the hall, he stopped.

“This is Dormitory E,” he said. “It was 1:40 a.m. when inmates high on prison-made hooch – consisting of water, sugar, fruit and yeast and mixed in a garbage bag – accosted two guards, took their guns and keys. The two guards were inexperienced. In those days prison officials tended to give them a uniform and tell them they were guards. With those keys, the prison became the inmate’s playground.

Example of an Old Main Cellblock. The overcrowding was a riot waiting to happen.

Photo courtesy New Mexico Corrections Dept.

“To make matters worse,” Ernesto continued. “The most dangerous offenders – those who spent most of their time locked up in individual cells had been moved to this dormitory while their Cellblock 5 was under renovation.

“You’ll notice,” he pointed to the clock. “At each place we stop the clocks have been permanently set to the time an incident happened in that area.”

Ernesto reversed and showed Rachel back down the corridor.

“At 2:02 a.m. rioters broke through the reinforced windows of the control center,” he said. “At that point, they were in command of the entire penitentiary. From there, they pillaged the pharmacy and added drugs to their already drunken state. Within a short time, prisoners had found cutting torches and set fires in the gym and administrative offices. Then felons were released from Cellblock Three.”

“How were they able to breach the control center?” Rachel asked. “Was there no bullet-proof glass to protect the staff from this kind of thing?”

“The glass was bullet-resistant, but despite that they were able to break through in less than five minutes using fire extinguishers to smash the glass.  

“The atrocities that occurred next were inhumane by anyone’s standards,” Ernesto continued. “The rioters opened neighboring Cellblock 4 where the snitches, child molesters and those in protective custody were housed.

“Normally we don’t show Cellblock Four. Since you’re working on a legitimate story, I’ve been given permission to take you in there. No photos please.”

Rachel agreed. Julian, the High Desert Magazine publisher and her employer had insisted she carry a cell phone for her safety, but she wasn’t sure she knew how to take a photo even if she wanted to. Yes, she was tech-challenged.

As they approached Cellblock 4, the feeling of dread took on a whole new level. Her legs wanted to run and blood pounded in her head. Ernesto stood aside the door. She was hit with what felt like wind. Only this was the collective rage of inmates driven to kill. It was primitive and palpable. She could hear the screams of those being assaulted and murdered. Some begged for their mothers.

Rachel slipped her recorder into her jacket pocket. Her notebook fell to the floor. Ernesto picked it up and held it out to her.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Uh, yes,” Rachel replied. “It’s overwhelming.”

“Not everyone feels that,” he said. “Most come here as a result of what we call dark tourism. They may not respect the loss of life or the deplorable conditions that led to the massacre. It’s just another sight to see.

“Do you still want to go in?” he asked.

“Yes,” Rachel heard herself say it but she had to force her feet to move inside. It was stifling. The air was acrid and felt thick with death. Her lungs resisted. It wasn’t oxygen that could support life. The stench of smoke and blood remained.

Ernesto showed her the marks cut into the floor where an inmate was killed and the permanent burn marks where another met his fate.

“When it was over, about 36 hours of brutality,” he said. “Thirty-three men had lost their lives in the most awful ways. All were 40 or younger. One was nineteen.”

The agony and weeping continued to emanate from the cellblock as if the horror was occurring in that moment. She did a partial turn to take it all in. The bodies, burned mattresses, and blood-soaked cellblocks had been cleaned of most of the evidence that remained after the massacre. Only the scarred floor contained the visible proof that something horrific had occurred here. Otherwise, everything had been thrown away. It was empty, but it didn’t feel empty. Thirty-three souls remained forever in this place. She could envision all of it. Inundated with ghastly emotions, she turned away. A shadow moved near the end of the cells.

“What was that?” she asked her hand to her mouth.

“What did you see?” Ernesto said.

“Looked like a shadow. Human-shaped, and wearing something bulky, maybe a cape.”

“We, the Hopi and other Indian Nations, call them shadow people,” he said. “They are frequently malevolent. They exist all over the prison. The worst are here where most of the bloodshed took place.”

“I have to leave,” she said. As quickly as she stepped out of the Cellblock 4 the screams lifted and she was able to steady herself.

“Most people aren’t so viscerally affected,” Ernesto said. He reached to touch her shoulder. “But I am one of them. A couple of the guides have similar reactions to this particular block. I understand what you’re feeling.”

“What is that breeze I feel? Is there a draft?” Rachel asked

“No, it is a dark wind,” Ernesto explained. “The Navajo define it as ‘out of control.’ It destroys judgment. We mustn’t stay here long.  

“This way to the entrance,” he added.

When they reached the lobby, Rachel was relieved.

“Let’s go outside,” Ernesto opened the door for her.

One of three guard towers to oversee prisoners allowed outside. The final gripping scene occurs here.

Photo courtesy New Mexico Corrections Dept.

They stepped out into the sunlight. Rachel felt the heaviness lift from her body.

“About what you saw; the one you described as wearing a cape,” Ernesto said. “Now that we are safely away from it, I can explain.”

“What do you mean, safely away?”

“Cellblock 4 is haunted as you witnessed,” Ernesto said. “These entities are dangerous.”

“What is it?” Rachel asked.

“It is called yee naaldlooshii.” Ernesto said.

“Is that Navajo?” Rachel was puzzled.

 “Yes, if you would allow me?” He asked for her notebook. “It is spelled like this and pronounced thusly.” He returned the tablet.

Rachel looked at what he had written: Yee naaldlooshii; yee-nahld-loo-shee. He’d added the phonetic pronunciation.

“What is it?” she asked.

“In English, it is called a skinwalker,” he said. “Skinwalkers are malicious witches. They have much power to do evil. Most American Indians have their version. Some call them a wendigo. In the Southwest we know them a skinwalkers. Most Navajo, Hopi and Ute will not even speak the word. It is inviting trouble. Bad trouble. I tell you this now only because you saw it.

“It would be prudent not to include this in the article,” Ernesto continued. “It could bring down the power of the beast onto you and those you love.”

“I promise you, I will not write about it,” Rachel said. “Thank you for the warning.”

Rachel knew it couldn’t be a part of the story anyway. Julian kept to fact-based stories. She had left out things before when writing stories for the publication. The last thing she wanted was to endanger anyone.

“What is one doing here?” Rachel asked purposely not saying the word.

“I would say one of the family members of the prisoners killed or the guards who were traumatized have become one to exact revenge,” he said.

“Wait please.” He walked back into the lobby and returned a few seconds later. “Since you saw it, I think you should have this.”

He placed an arrowhead in her palm.

“This is black obsidian; it will protect you. It is born of volcanoes deep within the Earth. Keep it on you at all times.”

Rachel thanked him for his time and the protective crystal. Once in her car, she sat still and tried to shake off the trepidation. It wasn’t happening again. It wasn’t.

Take the tour here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-9jA7uKX0MA