Ghosts of Rosewood Asylum

by Stephen Prosapio

  No. She would not tell Bryce Finman anything about it.

  Sashza traipsed through the living room of her North Shore home in slippers. She would make a spot of tea, turn in for the night and shake this evil from her. She grabbed the teapot from the stove and trinkled it full with water. She closed the lid and placed it on the stove’s back burner, where she placed it most nights. Turned the knob, as she did most nights. The flame for the back burner took a moment longer than it did most nights to light. Click. Click. Click.

  There was a cold draft. Click. Click. Click. It caught and lit—as did three other burners simultaneously. There was a flash of fire.

  The blaze caught her robe. With a wisp of air, the flames attacked her. She could feel them tearing at her chest, like vicious little mouths. They were singeing her eyelashes. They ran up her nostrils.

  She turned her face away, but she couldn’t hide. It had come from nowhere. It had come all at once.

  This can’t be happening, she thought amidst the blaze.

  But it was.

  8:49 PM - Ginny Foster

  Something was wrong. Call it women’s intuition, mother’s intuition or whatever. Ginny knew it. She had trusted these kids in her home, and had told them about the previous night’s activities. Now, Rebecca and Angel were like workers at the DMV making her wait, and wait.

  And wait.

  Enough had gone on the last twenty-four hours that Ginny was ready to pack her shit up, as her father used to say, and drive the keys to her landlord. If he wanted, he could chase her ass down for the rest of her rent. Screw the security deposit.

  Exhausted and cranky, Joey had been put to bed an hour ago. He fussed and even cried as he often did when overtired, but within three minutes of his head hitting the pillow (and after Ginny tickled his back), he was asleep. Now, she sat on the edge of his bed listening to his rhythmic, sleep-drenched breathing as she played with his matted blond hair. Nothing would hurt her Joey. Not on her watch.

  Nothing.

  Ginny knew he’d been put through a lot during her rocky marriage to his dad. Joey’s father, ass that he was, never learned not to scream at her in front of little Joey. When she’d finally convinced him she was serious about throwing his ass out and divorcing him, what was his final legacy to his son? To kill himself.

  How does someone explain suicide to a six-year old? Joey, your dad loved you very much but not enough to stick around to watch you grow up? Honey, your dad was really just sticking it to your mommy by ending his life? Buddy, your father was a sick man and his self-prescribed cure was boarding up the garage and running the car inside until the carbon monoxide put him to sleep forever?

  That fucker.

  She’d let Joey’s dad off the hook for all the things he’d done to her during the marriage, but she’d never forgive him for the suicide—doing it on the property and trapping her in this damn house with nine months left on an ironclad rental agreement. And the emotional trauma it would stick Joey with for life? She’d never forgive that bastard.

  Never.

  In the adjoining room, incense burned coiled rings of odor toward the ceiling. The smell reminded Ginny of India (although she’d never been to India) and she generally didn’t care for the scent. Rebecca had suggested it and despite everything to this point, on an intuitive level, Ginny liked Rebecca. She hadn’t judged or scoffed at Ginny as the previous night’s events had been shared. Neither had Angel. But they seemed frozen and confused as they awaited word from their leader, Zach. Ginny could feel the anxiety beading off of them even from a room away. And she wasn’t typically into all of that “hocus pocus” stuff.

  Joey sighed and shifted from his right to his left side facing away from her. He mumbled something that sounded like “grewer.” Ginny wondered what he was dreaming. She considered the thoughts that ran through his head and the anger mixed with fear flooded back when she considered what he must have been thinking to play with matches. It wasn’t like matches were laying around her house. She didn’t smoke. She’d maybe understand better if he had seen a pack on the coffee table and decided to play with them. But that’s not what had happened. He must have scoured the drawers (or had watched her put them away the last time she’d had to relight the oven’s pilot flame). She remembered doing that just two days prior. Had Joey intentionally blown out the pilot light?

  Ginny looked at her son. At his age, he couldn’t be diabolical. At six-years old, he didn’t even have the ability to plot such a complicated set of intentions. There had to be someone or something else propelling him towards these dangerous acts. Fast asleep, Joey curled into the fetal position and popped his thumb into his mouth. She hadn’t seen him do that in over a year—since well before his father had died.

  She plucked out his thumb hoping he’d give it up for the night. Instead, just before he slipped his thumb back past his lips, she heard Joey say something. He said it clearly. Subconsciously, she’d heard him say the same thing just before she rushed around the corner of the house and caught him.

  “Okay, Boy.”

  Ginny made a mental note to tell Rebecca and Angel that tidbit. She couldn’t wait to get the hell out of this house—out of this neighborhood. Only two months remained now on her lease and Ginny had already begun packing shit up, preparing for the move.

  She played with Joey’s hair fanning out blond clumps that perspiration had matted together. Even on the cool night, while he slept, Joey was sweating.

  8:57 PM - Mrs. Elizabeth Radkey

  Very few people called her “Elizabeth” anymore. Her doctor did during check ups, as well as her dentist. The elderly florist (she’d forgotten his name, but he always wore a name tag) smiled and called her by first name when she stopped in on Sundays to get flowers for George’s grave.

  To most, she was “Mrs. Radkey.” To a few, who she never saw except for weddings and funerals, she was referred to as “Aunt Liz,” even though she technically was no one’s aunt. Her special friend called her “Elizabeth,” and he was the only one since her dear departed husband, George, had passed away who pronounced it perfectly.

  Elizabeth.

  He, her special friend, had never tried to hide what he was. Not that he would have been able to deceive her; yes, she was an elderly lady, but she was not a stupid woman. For the first few years, she’d merely enjoyed the presence of his company. He commanded a strong presence, yet he never aged. It took a long time before she was comfortable enough to engage him in conversation, but once she mustered the courage, they’d had some delightful chats.

  It was nearly time for what they’d discussed the previous night. She shuffled to the basement door, opened the door and called down. “Boy?”

  She listened a moment for him to whisper her name the way she loved to hear it said. When she didn’t hear his voice, she called down again. “Are you here, Boy?”

  Zachary’s Past—Age Fifteen

  Monsignor Macginty cradled the back of the boy’s head against his chest and rocked him to and fro. Zachary was more a young man than a boy, but Macginty sang to him a song that long ago and a continent away, Mrs. Macginty had used to comfort her weeping children. If someone should walk in and see them now, let them be damned for thinking somethin’ other’n holy thoughts. Besides, the blood would give ‘em a scare now, wouldn’t it?

  After several minutes, Zach came slowly back to his senses. As always, his head was cloudy at first. As always, he felt guilty and ashamed. And as usual, Macginty would talk him back to sanity. He’d help’ta right him on his path, he would.

  Macginty wasn’t above getting to his knees when he needed to. Wiping the boy’s blood from the marble floor made him thankful. Even more, he was amused at the irony. When he’d been a young priest, he’d wanted to, had prayed for and been obsessed with, witnessing a miracle. Now, for almost a full decade, he’d been cleaning up after dozens of Zachary’s little miracles.

  “Let me help you with that.” Zach started to rise and then lost his balance.
>
  “You just rest yourself there for another couple’a minutes. Besides, I’m not doin’ ya no favours.”

  “Yes, you’re—”

  “Don’t interrupt me, son. I wasn’t finished.”

  “Sorry, Monsignor.”

  “What I was going’ta say, ‘I’m not doin’ya no favours because I plan on savin’ up all this blood and sellin’ it at a profit when you’re good’n famous.’”

  Zach laughed. It was good to see the color returning to his face. This hadn’t been a bad one, but it was his third in less than a month. The poor boy’s heart must be doing more work than Mother Theresa.

  By the time he’d done cleaning up both the floor and the boy with holy water (it only seemed appropriate), he could tell Zachary was good’ta go.

  “C’mon, son, help me set up for the five o’clock mass.”

  The boy looked at his watch but didn’t even complain that the mass wasn’t for several hours. He was a good one, that Zach. They passed through the sacristy and out onto the church’s apse. Macginty stood behind the altar and fiddled with the chalices there.

  “Are ya’ ever going’ta tell me where this stigmata of yours comes from?” He tried to make the question sound casual. As if merely rephrasing it would be enough to get the boy to spit out the answer to a question he’d been asking all these years. As if the stigmata’s origins meant nothing at all.

  The boy was quiet for a good couple of minutes before speaking a word. For years he’d been claimin’ not to know how he’d gotten his gift. Sometimes, he even called it “his curse.”

  Zach finally spoke. “How do ya’ know I know?”

  Macginty chuckled. “Zachary, you’re a good kid. You’re a smart kid. And fortunately for me, you’re a terrible liar.”

  “Are all lies bad, Monsignor?”

  The boy also had a gift for changing the subject when he didn’t want to talk about somethin’.

  “Not all of ‘em…”

  “Really? But you being a priest, I’d think—”

  “What is this?” Macginty questioned. “Interrupt Monsignor Macginty Day?”

  Zach shook his head.

  “What I was going’ta say was that ‘white lies,’ ones that keep people safe from harm or save ‘em from hurt feelings, can sometimes be excused. They still need’ta be confessed, don’tcha be misquotin’ me.” He checked if Zach’s eyes displayed the clarity of understanding. They did. “Now, ya don’t really think I’m going’ta get any money by sellin’ yer blood, do ya, son?”

  The boy pursed his lips together tightly to try and hide a grin, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

  “Ya just hav’ta come clean and take care of it in yer head, before the lie becomes the truth.”

  Zach was trying to stifle a giggle but apparently could not.

  “What’s so funny, son?”

  “You’re quoting Michael Jackson songs now, Monsignor?”

  “I don’t know what’cha mean, son. C’mere now and fetch me that incense dispenser.”

  For an instant, Zachary looked as green under the gills as he had when he’d first come out of the trance. For some reason he wouldn’t admit to, the boy hated the smell of incense and certain types of tobacco. But it wasn’t like the thing’d been lit. He shuffled slowly to the dispenser, picked it up and started singing the lyrics to Billie Jean just under his breath. He brought the incense to where Macginty was standing.

  “And don’tcha get started by singin’ songs about lies, now son,” Macginty warned.

  “What? I thought you just said you didn’t know that song.”

  Macginty looked at him as if the boy’s intelligence had shrunken to that of a termite. “C’mon now, son. I was dancin’ta that song at weddings before you’wuz born.”

  Zach’s face was marred with incredulity. “You dance, Monsignor?”

  “Of course I do. ‘Tis the only benefit’a havin’ been a boxer.”

  Zach laughed and laughed.

  They continued to pretend to prepare Saint Francis of Assisi for a mass that was hours away from starting. Not many people knew that Saint Francis was the world’s first recorded stigmatic. Macginty thought it was no coincidence that the boy had been called here— brought to him. No coincidence at all.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Zach opened his eyes with his cheek pressed to the grass. Was this the backyard grass, he wondered. He must have slipped and fallen off the pile of milk crates again. He’d better get up before mom saw him laying there or she’d pitch a fit. No, wait. It was dark…and he wasn’t a child. He must have drunk too much at a fraternity bash? For being a Catholic fraternity, Phi Kappa Theta really knew how to throw a party. His ears were ringing and he felt weak. From throwing up?

  He lifted his throbbing head and pushed his torso off the ground. It smelled of dried grass smothered with oak leaves and sprinkled with honeysuckle. Guilt at having passed out clung to him even though logical faculties had begun to usher it away. It wasn’t his fault. Was it?

  The gauze bandages on his wrists prompted his memory. Zach knelt up and looked around.

  Rosewood.

  His head hurt and he was still weak, but not as bad as immediately after his episode. He looked at the bushes he’d fallen from. He’d not crossed all the way through them and had made it back to the safe side. If Bryce and Matthew had returned, they’d likely passed by without noticing him under the umbra of the hedges. Had he successfully gone through the boxwoods and they’d returned, no doubt they would have seen him. He’d have been a sitting duck.

  Zach moved to a sitting position and slumped against the boxwood hedges. He pulled out his cell phone to check the time. Instead, there were a slew of missed calls: three from Sara, three from Rebecca, two from Wendy, one from Hunter, one from Angel and interestingly enough, one from Matthew. The most recent one was from Ray at 9:01. There were eight text messages waiting, but Zach clicked “view later,” so that he could see the current time. The screen cleared.

  It was 9:08.

  A bitter chill ran through him. He was letting his team down. He’d broken his own rule about being alone on a case in the dark. He could lose his show. The hint of Sailor Black warned him to calm down. This was no time to panic.

  The protein bar. He pulled it from his pocket, unwrapped it and munched on the flattened fake-chocolate meal replacement. The more gulps he swallowed, the more his head cleared. He needed to slip out Matthew’s secret entrance. Zach hoped that he hadn’t missed Evelyn tonight; his intuition told him that either she’d wait for him, or she’d somehow know when he arrived. First, he needed to know for sure that Bryce and Matthew had returned.

  He opened his text messages. The last one he’d received was from Sara—the one he needed to contact. Semi-ignoring her message which stated that if this was his way of getting revenge, he’d better get his ass back, he clicked reply and typed out: Not playin games - got somthn big. Back in 35 mins. Need to know if mtthw & bryce r back there. Txt dont call!

  He kept his phone on silent mode and waited for the display to light up. Her reply flashed almost immediately: Thyre here. Where r u????

  “Im close,” he typed. He chuckled at the irony and then continued. “35 mins. Will expln evrythng.”

  He hit send.

  Zach scrolled to a group folder that would mass text all of XPI: Sorry 4 disappearing. Im ok. Wrking on something big…back in 35 mins. Please don’t txt or call! Will expln l8r.

  He’d risen to a crouching position when he remembered that, because Hunter was a consultant, Zach hadn’t entered him into that XPI text group. In any case, Zach wanted to send him an amended message: Im ok. Pick me up @ muses in 30 mins? Please txt if yes. Will expln l8r.

  Zach stood as carefully as he would have aboard a train on rickety tracks. His legs were weary but not wobbly; his head throbbed with warning of dehydration. It was dark; it was quiet. It was time to get through the boxwood hedges. He glanced around to make sure nobody was around. No one was bu
t, looking east toward Lincoln Avenue, Zach realized that the hedges only ran along the back fence. In his woozy state earlier, he hadn’t even noticed that by walking, or likely crawling, another thirty feet, he could have merely snuck around them.

  Be careful what you wish for, godson.

  His uncle’s voice was as clear and loud as a church bell. As was his meaning. In the divine plan, Zach hadn’t been meant to follow Bryce and Matthew. Something bad would have happened.

  Stealthily, he circled around the boxwoods and approached the corner of the fence where earlier the guys had snuck through. From up close, he could see Matthew’s handiwork on the fence. A scene from Saint Xavier Theater’s production last year of Southside Story flashed through his head. It had been Matthew’s first in charge of set design, and he’d invited Zach and other team members to attend. There were tall fences set up on stage made of this very material.

  He’d used stretchable cords similar to, but thinner than, the webbing contraption used in place of a tailgate on the back of pickup trucks. He must have gone through painstaking lengths to match the size and color of the actual fence with such precision. Tiny hooks latched to the actual fence and the corner post. As Matthew had admitted to Bryce, it wasn’t built to last, but the forgery was invisible to the unknowing eye. He’d probably planned on coming back next week and cutting it off, maybe slashing up more of the fence to look like vandalism.

  Zach unhitched the hooks on the post, slid through the opening it created and emerged on the other side. As he reattached the hooks as they had been, a thought struck him—what else had Matthew designed and planted? No doubt he had concealed a device on the administration building wall, a contraption designed to create false EMF readings. The peach room was bogus, but what else?

  He strode up Lincoln Avenue as quickly as his legs would take him. At one point, he attempted a trot, but the pain precluded it. Each step felt as though he were walking on skeleton feet. The chilly night air nipped at his nose and his ears. The breeze carried with it more than a suggestion of burning wood. Apparently, people who just the previous afternoon may have run their air conditioners, were now blazing fireplace logs to prevent having to prematurely light their furnaces.