Ghosts of Rosewood Asylum

by Stephen Prosapio

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I need this to stay between you and me.”

  “Sure.” She brushed hair away from her face.

  “Sara, I need you to promise.”

  “Okay, okay.” She raised her right hand as though being sworn into office. “I promise. What’s up?”

  “Not all the evidence in this case is legitimate. I, actually Ray, found something on the videos that proves two people conspired to plant that peach juice in room 217. I learned that room isn’t even the one that the glass-eating guy killed himself in.”

  “Do you know who it is?” she asked. “Who planted the evidence?”

  “I have my suspicions, but I want to keep it to myself until I have concrete proof. I’d appreciate it if you kept your eyes peeled for any suspicious behavior and let me know right away.”

  She put her hand on her hip and appeared ready to argue.

  Zach preempted further debate. “Sara, that’s all I’m willing to tell you right now.” He said it firmly.

  “Okay, alright. Fine,” she said.

  “And Sara?” Zach had long pondered how to word this. Sara’s marijuana smoking was so out of character for her that he knew she’d be defensive when it was brought up. “I’m not judging you or anything, but could you please refrain from any herbal-like ‘supplements’ tonight?”

  Later, when armed with more evidence, Zach would replay her initial reaction in his head over and over. It lasted only a flash of a second before she returned to her cool demeanor and casual confidence. Unmistakably and without exchanging a word, Zach caught it all at once. Shock. Embarrassment. Confusion and guilt. At the forefront of all the emotions was, of course guilt.

  “Agreed,” she said flatly.

  He smiled weakly hoping to express gratitude. He turned and started away from her but intended on turning back all along. In boxing terms, as Ray had taught him, after stunning your opponent, it was sometimes best to back away for a fraction of a moment to let them hope that another flurry wasn’t imminent. Zach knew this tactic would work with Sara. He’d get a natural and unabridged reaction doing it this way.

  On this subject, he needed the truth.

  “Oh yeah.” He threw his hand in the air, index finger pointed. He spun around. “Why did you notify the Demon Hunters about this investigation a week before us?”

  Her face told him all he needed to know about the validity of the claim. Unlike before, she couldn’t quickly fling a veil over her reaction. Her eyes widened and her lips parted slightly. Her expression couldn’t have been more telling had he shot her with truth serum.

  When she finally managed an answer, she didn’t even bother to deny it. “I-they just needed to have more time in terms of arranging their travel stuff.”

  It may not have been a complete canard, but it was hardly the entire truth. Sara’s voice betrayed her.

  “Sara. C’mon…”

  “Zach, there are things that I just can’t tell you right now.”

  It didn’t matter. He’d nodded and walked away. Zach had gotten the information he needed. Bryce, Rico, Patrizia or Pierre would have had plenty of time to plan something with Matthew.

  Zach lay in his tent atop his sleeping bag, his head propped up on a pile of his clothes. He was twiddling his thumbs over his stomach as if the action would cause his weary brain to grow sleepy. It hadn’t worked for an hour, and as it got closer and closer to dusk, Zach realized the time had nearly arrived for him to induce an episode.

  He had spent the previous couple of hours checking the technical set up and reviewing video with Turk. Nothing else had shown up on video that equaled his female ghost image. Turk promised he’d have it digitally enhanced and independently evaluated. When it looked like Turk’s eyes were about to fail him, Zach had sent him home for a shower and a good long break. Fortunately, they would have plenty of time to review video evidence in the coming days.

  Outside, a stiff wind buffeted the tent as color slowly faded from the ceiling. Daylight was surrendering to dusk.

  During the better part of the afternoon, Pierre had manned the control center all by himself, perhaps feeling guilty for the previous night’s disappearing act. He was extremely pleasant, but didn’t volunteer any information or suspicions to Zach about why he’d passed out and missed his shift. Angel must have kept quiet. When Zach asked about Matthew, Pierre had told him he was in the tent asleep.

  Bryce and Rico spent quite a bit of the afternoon napping as well. It promised to be a late night and everyone wanted to be fresh and energized once it got dark. Zach had also decided to nap, but his churning mind had another plan. Rumination.

  This was by far the most complex case he’d ever worked. With most, the clients would report on the paranormal activity, they’d study the history of the haunted place and pieces of the puzzle would fall into place. Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, with attention to details, it always got solved. Rosewood’s pieces weren’t falling into place at all. Years ago, he had seen a special on the JFK assassination. A conspiracy theory expert had postulated that with most murders, as evidence comes in, it slowly but surely points to one solution. One assassin. One culprit. With the JFK murder, it was reversed. The longer time passed, the more disparate the evidence and theories became. The expert had seriously questioned if we’d ever solve the conspiracy question.

  Rosewood was the Dealy Plaza of haunted places.

  Perhaps because it had been the home of so many with emotional problems and mental issues, there seemed to be so many dramatic events, but they weren’t connecting. No overall story of the haunting was becoming clear and it needed to be thoroughly understood. If they had erred by releasing the spirit of Dr. Johansson, there was now no margin for mistakes.

  The tree line is dark enough.

  The voice of his godfather had been silent for a while. It was no coincidence that Zach had been in his objective investigator mode the past couple days. That was all about to change. Inducing an episode was a highly emotional and intense experience.

  Godson, it is time.

  The smell of Sailor Black was so strong that Zach’s sealed tent may as well have been a pipe smoking lounge.

  Wait, he thought, let me center myself. Let me focus.

  The visions during his episodes weren’t self directed. Zach wasn’t sure how his uncle guided him, but often, perhaps seventy percent of the time, Zach would view on the topic he requested. Tonight, Zach was conflicted between solving the mystery of Rosewood and figuring out both the reason and the details of the evidence tampering. As he normally did when torn between two paths, he chose the more difficult one. He closed his eyes and submitted a silent intention on solving the haunting of Rosewood Asylum.

  He sat up and gathered towels and blankets he’d earlier transferred from the trunk of his car to the tent. Slowly and silently as possible, Zach unzipped the opening of the tent. Glancing out and seeing no one, he slipped between the folds. He reached back inside for a small gym bag and then swiftly moved toward the line of trees.

  Chapter Thirty

  Zach took off his shirt, but left his scapular on. During his episodes, he especially needed the Lord’s protection.

  He rolled up his pant legs and sat down on the tattered navy blue blanket. Better to be old and best to be a dark color Zach had found. He’d procured a number of these types of blankets from garage sales and flea markets and kept them in his trunk—likewise with the towels. He spread one over his lap careful to favor his right side where blood would flow down. Many years ago, Zach had experimented by binding his wrists and feet prior to an episode but was blocked from any visions. The flowing blood was apparently required for him to connect to the higher plane of consciousness.

  He leaned back against an oak tree, its rough bark felt good on his shoulder blades—scratchy but centering. His heart rate was already slowing naturally. Soon, his hands and feet would tingle and then go numb. He inhaled deeply smelling the fresh air, dirt, leaves and wood. S
oon those smells would fade from his senses and be replaced by the smell of his uncle.

  The low murmur of crickets soothed him. Zach placed his hands palms up on the cloth and began to quietly pray:

  “Lord, make me an instrument of your peace,

  Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

  where there is injury, pardon;

  where there is doubt, faith;

  where there is despair, hope;

  where there is darkness, light;

  where there is sadness, joy.”

  The Saint Francis Prayer didn’t induce an episode, but it prepared his mindset for one. In addition to accidentally inducing an episode by becoming overly emotional, the power of the prayer’s words centered Zach to a point of religious and spiritual fervor. He did wish to be of service to others. He badly wished it. The desire was his life’s calling. In this state, the priorities in his life became clear.

  “O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;

  to be understood as to understand;

  to be loved as to love.”

  As a teenager and as he became more in control of “The Curse” as he’d then called it, Zach had, with the suggestion from Monsignor Macginty, discovered the power of this prayer and had became determined to use his gift in the service to others. That day, unbeknownst to Macginty, Zach had gone to the tattoo parlor and gotten the Chi Rhos on each location of Christ’s wounds. There had been five tattoo artists on duty that day. Zach commissioned one tattoo each. Kyrie, the woman with photographs of her daughters dressed up as angels had worked on his left wrist. Barbara, she of the purple hair and nose ring had worked on his right. Hollister, a raspy voiced guy with at least three days of growth on his face worked on his left foot. Mark, an emaciated guy with long blond hair who didn’t talk much, had worked on his right.

  The four of them had done the hands and the feet at the same time. At first they fiercely resisted, but Zach paid extra to have it done the way he wanted. They were instructed not to look at the others’ work as they drew. The Chi Rho on his side had been completed later that day, by Martin, a tall black man with a shaved head. Martin had but one tattoo himself, a teardrop beneath his left eye. Zach knew the significance of that mark: Martin’s grief over having taken a life. Zach had chosen him specifically to tattoo the location on his body where the spear had pierced Jesus’s side after his death.

  “For it is in giving that we receive;

  it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;

  and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life…”

  He closed his eyes and repeated the prayer. Most people knew that stigmatics bled from the wounds of Jesus. What most didn’t know, or didn’t care to know, was that when bleeding from those wounds, on some level, stigmatics experience the pain and anguish of Christ during the crucifixion. The pain came not as a cutting sensation, more of an explosion on his wrists and feet. His side felt an intense cold as though a frozen hole had been created there.

  There was only so much pain Zach could take, but having worked for years with Monsignor Macginty to control and channel it, Zach could remain semiconscious during his episodes and experience the gift of vision that they brought.

  Before he finished the Saint Francis Prayer a third time, blood began to ooze, first from his wrists, and then from his feet and his side. The scent of pipe tobacco surrounded him. The Sailor Black during an episode wasn’t jarring or uncomfortable like it was in waking life. It felt wispy and pleasant. Welcome. The voice of his uncle came to him.

  Welcome back, Godson.

  Zach never saw Uncle Henry during his visions, but felt his godfather’s presence and was guided by his soothing voice. As jarring as the voice could be in waking life, it gave him great comfort during an episode.

  You need to see things.

  The picture in Zach’s mind focused. At first, Rosewood was sepia-toned, more so than it had been during sunset the night before the investigation. Colors seeped in. As they did, as the picture appeared real enough to walk into, people in the vision began moving. As though on fast forward, they zipped past. Zach couldn’t make out faces, but could tell by their attire, the derby hats and flowing dresses, that the time period was near the turn of the twentieth century.

  On his left, led by two horses, a closed black buggy pulled up. The images slowed to normal speed. A man dressed as a policeman, possibly a police chief, exited the driver’s side and walked, no shuffled, around to the passenger’s door. He looked from side to side as though nervous of being observed. From Zach’s vantage point in the vision, he could have reached out and touched the man’s square jaw. The policeman stood six-feet tall, large for that time period, Zach noted. He had broad shoulders and a barrel-shaped chest. The brim of his police cap hid his eyes in a shadow; his pug nose crooked to one side as though once broken and never healed. He opened the door, exposing a large bundle wrapped in a navy-colored rug. He slung the rolled carpet over his shoulder and headed into the stables. Seconds later, several horses whinnied.

  “This is John Paramour? I don’t understand,” Zach said.

  Keep watching.

  It was as if his godfather knew what Zach needed to see and provided him images that Uncle Henry himself could not see—or perhaps could no longer understand. Maybe Uncle Henry could perceive Zach’s reaction to them, but not the visions themselves?

  The image morphed, and Zach was inside the stables at an elevated position. The policeman had taken off his hat and covered up his uniform with an off-white piece of clothing. It’s a patient’s garment, Zach realized—a dress?

  Based on Hunter’s psychic reading of a dead body being repeatedly stabbed, the policeman’s intent was clear before the corpse and kitchen knife were revealed from inside the rug. The cross-dressed cop hunched over the body, then he raised and lowered the knife repeatedly. Zach’s visions were silent, but he couldn’t help imagining the repeated sounds of pfft. pfft. pfft…

  The policeman took backward steps revealing the ravaged corpse. There were a few slashing wounds to the torso, but they appeared to have been incidental. The brunt of the attack had been inflicted on the face. It had been flayed beyond any recognition. The eyes were mere bloody sockets, the nose was completely gone and the cheekbones revealed protruding bones. The neck had been ripped apart and blood had stained the dirt and hay beneath and around the head and shoulders of the victim. The sight of blood…

  Blood! Zach remembered that in real life he was slowly bleeding from five wounds.

  Yes, godson, be mindful.

  “Show me more, please,” Zach said.

  The scene sped up. Again as though on a preview setting of a DVD, it quickly displayed the discovery of the body, a flurry of people coming and going and then the vision slowed again to regular speed.

  Directing two other uniformed officers, the policeman from the previous scene was now clean-shaven. A man in a white coat, presumably a doctor, looked on. He halted the police chief as he reached for the knife. It must be Dr. Johansson, Zach thought. Presuming it was, Dr. Johansson had a thin face, high cheekbones and a pointed chin. He wore spectacles, and age was turning his blond hair to white. He appeared to be giving the police officer a lecture of sorts, and then a conversation ensued. At first, the policeman appeared puzzled. Then, a more heated discussion took place with hand gestures and pointing. After a moment, uncomfortable resignation formed on the officer’s face. He shrugged and waved at the knife on the ground. When the doctor turned away, the policeman’s face betrayed a look of hostile disgust. A look that would kill? Zach wondered. Presuming this was Paramour, and there was every indication he was, had he killed Dr. Johansson to cover up this murder? No, Zach remembered, Dr. Johansson had died of heart failure.

  The doctor moved to the bloody knife, withdrew a hanky from his pocket and used it to lift the knife by the blade. He lifted the handle near his face and examined it. After a moment, and without looking back at Paramour, the doctor ex
ited the stables carrying the knife in a hankie near the blade’s broken tip. Paramour walked, no—shuffled away. Zach wondered if the childhood abuse, the burning of his feet that Evelyn had informed him of had left permanent damage. Or, Zach wondered in horror, as he’d gotten older, had Paramour continued to punish himself for his sins in the same manner his mother had?

  Without an answer, the scene morphed.

  A doctor’s office. The administration building? Zach was at eye level with the doctor who was taking measurements of the knife’s handle and portions of the blade. He applied a powdery substance to the blade and with tape lifted what appeared to be a partial print from an index finger.

  Fingerprints, right? Why didn’t the cops…

  Keep watching.

  The doctor compared the print with a set of smaller ink fingerprints on a pad. His face scrunched into a puzzled scowl. His lips pursed, and he searched his desk for something. Finding a small black book, he opened it and made several notations. His private journal, Zach thought, can I see where it is now?

  The doctor’s office wiped away like chalk on a board. Another vision took its place.

  An emaciated and aged Dr. Johansson stood among thick tree trunks. With a shovel, he painstakingly lifted clumps of earth from a small hole and piled them next to a tin can. It was obvious to Zach that the black diary must be inside.

  That tells me nothing. Zach’s thoughts were cloudy and he was lightheaded. Even the visions were becoming blurry.

  “Is there more?”

  Yes, but you’ve not got time.

  “One more!”

  Quickly, and then you must go back.

  The scene returned to the doctor’s office, but time had shifted. Surprisingly, it had shifted backwards. Dr. Johansson was younger—the same age as in earlier visions. An attractive but haggard young woman stood in front of his desk. Her blonde hair was chopped very short. The diary was nowhere in sight, perhaps put away? Hidden?

  Dr. Johansson said something to the woman. In response, she pounded her fist on his desk. Obviously upset, she unleashed a torrent of silent accusations or insults. She pointed at him. Her right hand was smeared with black ink. He had fingerprinted her.