Ghosts of Rosewood Asylum (41 page)

“So you think we’re gonna be okay just
driving right up in broad daylight?” Ray asked as they drove down 115th Street
past the two century-old oak trees that towered on Rosewood’s front lawn. One
still clung to its brown leaves despite the upcoming winter; the other was
barren and blackened with soot. Zach imagined that at some point soon, a tree
care crew would cut it down and haul the trunk away.

“Yep. The more you look like you belong
somewhere, the more people just assume that you do. Why do you think I told you
to wear both gray pants and a gray shirt today?”

They turned onto Pine Avenue, and pulled up
to Rosewood’s main gate. Zach exited and swiftly unlocked it. They’d been
fortunate, or blessed, that the cops hadn’t thought to get Winkler’s keys from
them. Of course the Rosewood custodian’s death had been “sold” as an accident.
They had reported to the police that he’d been helping them search for Joey
when he slipped on a mysterious wet spot on the stairs. Ironically enough, the
only drama had come when a detective called to grill Zach about the “bruise and
swelling” on Winkler’s jaw that appeared to have been a punch. Zach was
grateful that he didn’t need to answer in person, lest his stretching of the
truth be detected. He told the cop that Winkler might have been in a bar fight
since his jaw was already swollen when they entered Rosewood.

Later, he confessed all his white lies and
told the whole truth to Macginty. The monsignor had ordered him to say more
rosaries than he ever had before. 

Ray roared his truck up to the Rosewood
front door and swung it around so the bed of the truck faced the asylum. “You
really think this is gonna work?” he asked.

“I believe it will. Once the asylum begins
to crumble, and more so once it’s torn down, Evelyn will move on to the other
side.”

“No, I meant will this termite thing work?”

“Oh. It should,” Zach said. “Chlordane
treatments used to protect old buildings like these from termites up to twenty
years at a time, but it was really bad for the environment and outlawed in
1998.”

They began unloading a number of the pieces
of infested wood to carry into Rosewood’s vacant lobby.

“Yeah, and?”

“And the new stuff they use only protects up
to five years at a time.”

They made their second trip.

“So it protects up to five years at a time,”
Ray said. “When was the last time this place was tented?”

“Five years ago last month.”

“Well then, won’t they be doing it again
like any day now, brainiac?”

Had Hunter been present, he would have been
impressed with Zach’s paraphrased quote from the movie,
Die Hard
. “You
ask for a miracle? I give you the State of Illinois.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Well, apparently the “Insecticide Unions”
don’t have much power in the Illinois State Capital. During the budget wars a
few years back, the geniuses in Springfield voted to save money and only spray
deserted buildings for termites every seven years. Our little termite friends
may have up to two years of an ‘All you can eat’ buffet.”

“Why do I ever doubt you, pal-o-mine?”

“Because you’re stupid?”

“Brave words while my hand is broken.”

“Aw, does yer poor little pinkie hurt?” Zach
teased.

“I’ve got a finger for you,” Ray said, with
fake contempt.

After spreading planks of wood throughout
the first floor of the asylum, Zach slid the rose trellises down the basement
steps. Symbolic he was. Ready to go back down there, he was not.

“You can leave whenever you’re ready,” he
called down. “Goodbye, Evelyn.”

Zach pressed the basement door closed.

He and Ray quickly unloaded the chunks of
earth and placed them up against Rosewood’s façade. Tiny gray termites could be
seen in and around the dirt. Zach hoped the little buggers were really hungry.

“Hey, we’d better go wash and disinfect your
truck. I’d hate to have you bring termites with you to
Wine, Women &
Thong
.”

Ray laughed. “Alright. Let’s wash it and
then we can swing by the club so you can buy me a beer.”

Zach sighed. “I’ll buy you a beer, but let’s
go somewhere else—somewhere more...sedate. The strip club just wouldn’t seem
right after doing this.” He glanced at Rosewood.

Ray followed his gaze up at the old
structure. “I hear ya.” He surveyed the surrounding property. “Hey, while we’ve
got the shovels, think we should go digging for Dr. Johansson’s diary?”

Standing in a makeshift gray uniform, and
sporting a toothy grin, it wasn’t hard to imagine Ray as a gravedigger. Zach
nearly blurted out a few quotes in a fit of Hamlet.

Instead, he surveyed Rosewood for what might
have been the final time. “Not today. Some things are better left buried.”

Epilogue

Zach’s Post Production Notes:

·        
I helped Ginny and Joey Foster move to Tinley Park, Illinois, a Chicago suburb
farther southwest of Pullman. Joey (or ‘Joe’ as he now prefers) is thriving at
his new school. Depending on which day you talk to him, he intends on becoming
either a scientist or a professional baseball player when he grows up.

·        
Bryce Finman didn’t show up to the scheduled meeting at Sci-D TV
headquarters.
At that meeting, Dr. Benz allowed Sara to reveal that she had known Bryce in
Hollywood. Apparently he had gotten his start in show business on her show “
Yada,
Yada or Yada?”
She admitted to having conceived the plan to combine
XPI
and
Demon Hunter
forces, and had plotted to keep me in the dark as long
as possible before the commencement of filming. She felt if I had been given
too much time to dwell on working with the Demon Hunters, I’d have not agreed
to it.  And she might be right.

·        
Sci-D TV declined to renew
Demon Hunters
and no official explanation was
given for the cancellation. I’ve gotten wind that
Demon Hunters
(including a recovered Sashza) are attempting to get a new version of their
show (
Demon Hunters International
) picked up in Australia or Germany,
but as of yet, they have been unsuccessful. I still keep in rather close
contact with one particular Demon Hunter.

·        
Neither Matthew nor Bryce has faced any criminal charges. Sci-D TV didn’t want
to risk bad publicity for exposing their fraud, and there isn’t any evidence to
link either of them to arson.

·        
Due to the death of Grant Winkler, the
XPI
Special,
“Rosewood Asylum”
was not aired on Halloween. The network is waiting an “appropriate” amount of
time to broadcast the program. Rumor has it that when it does air, because of
the buzz generated in the press, it will be the highest-rated show Sci-D TV has
ever had. I understand, as a gesture to his friends and family, the episode
will be dedicated in the memory of Grant Winkler.

·        
Xavier Paranormal Investigators
is becoming (for better
and
for
worse) one of the most popular shows on Sci-D TV. Only able to investigate a
fraction of the cases that we’re now presented, Sara and I engage in “healthy
debates” over which ones to select.

·        
Rosewood Psychiatric Hospital continues to remain a vacant, federally protected
landmark. As far as I know, it continues to rot from the inside. The only thing
now that would save Rosewood from the insidious destruction of termites would
be a catastrophic fire—which my newly made friends at the Pullman fire
department assure me will
never
happen.

·        
Since Ray and I made our “wood donation” to Rosewood, there have been no
sightings of the infamous female ghost. I trust that Evelyn has made her way to
the other side where, I’m sure her beloved, Thomas Carter, has been patiently
awaiting her arrival.

·        
Please stay tuned for a preview from the next episode of
Xavier Paranormal
Investigators…

Preview for
The Atchison
Haunting

Expected Release Date of October 1, 2012

Prologue

December 26, 1981 – Atchison, Kansas

Glenn Razzovich didn’t consider himself a
career criminal—just a successful one. He glanced around to verify he wasn’t
being observed by a nosy neighbor, but at three o’clock the morning after
Christmas,
that
was highly doubtful. Most good people were fast asleep
dreaming of sugarplums—whatever those were. He crept up the alleyway and
through the light dusting of snow toward the darkened house. He didn’t care if
he left tracks—he planned on burning the old pair of jogging shoes along with
his gloves after he was done with the job.

“Good King Wenceslas looked out,” he sang
under his breath, “on the feast of Stephen.”

Glenn had no idea who King Wenceslas was,
but years ago he’d stumbled upon the fact that December 26th was the Catholic’s
feast day of Saint Stephen. He never understood why a holiday song celebrated
not Christmas itself, but rather, the day after. In fact, Glenn didn’t much
believe in Christmas other than one conviction—that he could profit from people
who celebrated the long-ago birth by taking trips out of town.

“When the snow lay round about.” Glenn
casually unlatched and opened the back gate. “Deep and crisp and even.”

Houses in either direction remained dark. It
was a mature neighborhood outside the center of town and not far from the
Missouri river which snaked along the Kansas/Missouri border just east of
Atchison. He advanced toward the target, an old Victorian two-story which had
been unlit the previous two nights. No tire tracks marred the snow in the long
driveway next to the house. He swiftly mounted the back steps and slid into the
porch shadows.

“Doo-do doo do doo, that night,” he sang,
while his hands worked as though operating of their own accord. The lock
clicked. “On the feast of Stephen.”

Glenn couldn’t suppress a wry smile. He
opened the door a crack, slipped his wry body out of the frigid air, and then
in one smooth motion, twirled and then pressed the door silently shut behind
him.

A warm stench invaded his nostrils. It
reeked of spoiled meat and rotten cabbage. Did Mommy leave hamburger out? Could
Daddy have forgotten to take the garbage to the alley? Many people would have
gagged at the wicked odor, but to Glenn it was the sweet smell of an empty
house. No human being could live in a home with such a stench—especially not
during the holiday season.

Before hunting down the stink’s origin (more
out of curiosity than any practical reason), Glenn noticed the
under-the-counter TV in the kitchen.

“Jackpot,” he murmured. “Mommy gets a small
television in the kitchen, and Daddy gets bigger toys somewhere else.”

Tap.

The noise came from upstairs. He
instinctively froze and listened intently. There was the distant rumble of a
train, a sound so common to Atchison it was rarely noticed unless one’s
attention became alerted to it. For a solid minute more, he heard nothing else.
Better to be safe than sorry—Glenn crept silently through the house to the
front room. A 27” TV sat in the middle of an entertainment center which also
housed a stereo and top-of-the-line VCR. Glen noticed the brand names of the
electronic equipment and smiled. But something wasn’t right.

Dozens of presents were piled under the
Christmas tree. Nicely wrapped too—silver ribbons and bows that refracted the
moonlight from the front window and sent shards of white light throughout the
room. The gifts were stacked in a dramatic fashion around the tree reminiscent
of a shopping mall display. Why hadn’t anyone opened them? Or taken them on
their trip?

Distant mumbling came from upstairs.

And a tap.

Pictures of a man, a woman and two young
girls decorated the ascending wall of the staircase. Had one of the kids left a
toy going? From deep in the pit of his stomach, a feeling told him to just
leave, scrap the couple of nights staking the place out and just cut bait.
Ridiculous. No one was home.

No one alive anyway. For all he cared, the
rotted stench could be a whole dead family poisoned by Christmas cookies the
week before. He’d feel even less guilty about cleaning them out. And the
wrapped presents would be a bonus.

The soft speaking again. This time it
sounded vaguely familiar—like a quiet chant.

Tap.

It had come from upstairs. Looking up, Glenn
climbed the steps. The foul odor became more pungent and more putrid. Glenn
wasn’t a hardened criminal and had never encountered a dead body, but this
reeked how he’d imagined one left for days inside an abandoned house might
smell.