Ghosts of Rosewood Asylum

by Stephen Prosapio

  Sara smiled. “Thank you, sir!” Without moving her lips, and under her breath, Zach could have sworn she added, “Fucker.”

  “Hey, no!” Winkler screeched. “I said widdout their shit!”

  “Outside, sir.” Officer White pointed to the door. “Now.”

  Apparently state cops didn’t take orders from state custodians. Winkler reluctantly stumbled towards the door. As the threesome exited, the other state trooper turned to Winkler. “You’re not planning on driving home tonight, are you, sir?”

  “Zach and Bryce,” Sara called out. “Tomorrow morning. First thing. Sci-D headquarters. The rest of you, I’ll text you if and when we’ll need you to help us clear out the rest of this equipment. For now, grab the small stuff. Detectors and gadgets. Anything that people could walk away with.”

  If Sara could possibly have known what would happen at Rosewood shortly after midnight, she’d never have allowed anything to be left behind.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Welcomed by Muses door chime, Zach spotted Evelyn sitting at a table in the back. It appeared they’d have relative privacy. Four teenage girls sat a few tables away chatting and laughing, their movements and sounds resembling a gaggle of geese.

  After having been escorted out Rosewood’s gate by Winkler and an ever-growing number of Illinois state troopers, Zach knew he needed to get back to Muses. Afterwards he’d catch Ray before he got off work. Sara and Rebecca had chosen to call it an early night and headed home. When Angel heard that Zach was going to the strip club, he decided a few drinks would do him well. Turk agreed and it hadn’t taken much convincing to get Shelly and Wendy to tag along. Then again, they were so shocked that Angel and Turk agreed on something, they could hardly object. Matthew, obviously, wasn’t invited. He slunk out without saying anything to anyone and his fate, according to Sara, would be decided at the following morning’s meeting with Dr. Benz. Zach had sent his friends on ahead and had stopped to rendezvous with Evelyn at Muses.

  Being denied access to Rosewood didn’t mean the case was over. For Zach, a paranormal investigation was over, not just when most of the mysteries were solved, but when all elements of the haunting were set straight.

  He sat down. “Evelyn, no more fooling around. I need answers.” Zach’s adrenaline was flowing and pleasantries with her had gotten him nowhere.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Do you know what was written in Dr. Johansson’s journal about John Paramour?”

  “I didn’t know Dr. Johansson kept a journal.” Her mouth twitched.

  “You’re lying!” Zach slammed his hand on the table.

  Loud whispering came from the teenage girls. One looked over her shoulder at them, whispered something to another and they’d all giggle. Considering their age group was dead smack in the middle of his new demographic base, they were likely fans.

  “Cut the crap, Evelyn. Why have you been so secretive?”

  “I was instructed to withhold information from you.”

  “By whom?”

  “By your…patron.”

  “My patron?”

  “Yes,” she said, softly.

  Was she referring to Sara? Dr. Benz? Or was this merely a diversionary tactic? Zach decided to ignore it and bear down. “Paramour was a relative of yours, wasn’t he?”

  “No.”

  “You’re lying. I know you’re lying!” Zach slapped the table again out of frustration. Evelyn’s mouth hadn’t twitched, but Paramour must have been a relative.

  Tables away, the teens’ whispers and giggles had transitioned to full-fledged laughs. Embarrassed, Zach lowered his voice. “He’s too old to have been your father. Was he an uncle? Your grandfather?”

  “No.”

  “Who was he?” Zach whispered. “Who?”

  “He was an arsonist.”

  “C’mon, Evelyn, I figured that much out. He was also Pullman’s Police Chief and he killed the hospital orderly, Thomas Carter, too. But why? ”

  Her lips pursed and her eyes filled with tears before she fluttered them and looked away. “Honestly, I’m not certain.”

  “Why try and implicate the woman living in the basement of the crime?”

  Her teary eyes cleared with what looked to be amazement. She peered at him. “Wait, how did you know that?”

  “John Paramour was the man who burned himself alive, wasn’t he?”

  She appeared perplexed. “I don’t…he did?”

  “But who was he to you? Your mother’s first husb—”

  One of the teenaged girls, one with long dark hair and wearing braces, had taken on the role of The Leader. She approached cautiously and stood halfway between her table and Zach’s.

  “You’re the guy from that show, right?” she called out.

  “I just might be.” He tried to make his smile as pleasant as possible, given the circumstances.

  “Do you talk to ghosts?” she asked, inching closer.

  Behind her, the friends grabbed each other and embraced in giggles. Zach thought he heard one whisper, “He talks to dead people.”

  “From time to time, I do,” Zach said, still smiling.

  “Oh,” she said. “’Um, ‘cuz my friends were wondering—are you talking to one now?”

  “What?” Zach asked shaking his head and flashing an apologetic look at his companion.

  Evelyn wasn’t smiling. Since the girl had approached, Evelyn had sat there staring with a blank expression—she seemed frozen, as though on pause waiting for him to resume their conversation. The unmistakable scent of Sailor Black tobacco had enveloped them.

  “Well, like, we don’t see you with a headset or an earphone and,” the girl looked back for support at her two friends who, at that point, were doubled up with silent laughter. “And if you’re not on the phone, then…”

  “Then, what?” Zach asked, trying to hide his annoyance. What were girls this age doing out this late on a school night in the first place?

  “Then, who are you talking to?”

  This time, the voice in Zach’s head was his own.

  The store was completely deserted.

  The secretive old girl kept some late hours.

  Evelyn snapped out of her trance-like state. Her eyes grew wide, as though she was offended but afraid to say anything. Things other people had said replayed in Zach’s mind.

  “Anything for your friends tonight?”

  “What’s up, boss?” “What woman?”

  Evelyn’s wrinkled face had changed, transformed. Her skin looked hard, scorched. And then, as overwhelming as the pungent bouquet of Sailor Black during one of his episodes, it hit him.

  Evelyn had zipped around the corner of the building and was gone.

  “I cannot be seen with you.”

  Evelyn’s skin continued to transform—into charred, black flesh. Her hair burned away leaving ragged, uneven stalks. Some peeled from her skull. In addition to the Sailor Black, Zach now smelled soot and ash.

  In his head, he replayed the EVP recording in the basement. His subconscious mind finally supplied the missing parts:

  Female voice: Meet me.

  Female voice: Zach go there.

  Charred flesh covered Evelyn’s face. The smell of Sailor Black hit Zach so strongly that he wanted to vomit. He heard the voice of his godfather; however the words had been Wendy’s. “The only reference we have are the initials, PM.E.”

  Her figure morphed again—blonde hair chopped short, delicate features, an impeccable complexion and those same kind eyes—the face Turk had discovered in the video footage of the basement! Evelyn’s right hand was smeared with black ink. She was the woman who had been in Dr. Johansson’s office—the one he’d fingerprinted. The one hiding in the basement and accused of murdering the orderly.

  The only reference we have are the initials, PM.E.

  “Paramour, M-something, Evelyn,” Zach mumbled.

  “Evelyn Marie Paramour,” she whispered, almost apologetically, and then smiled
as though noting the recognition in his eyes.

  She vanished.

  Behind the counter, a tray of glasses rattled seemingly of their own accord. The bell on the store entrance chimed as the door opened and then banged close.

  “OH MY GOD,” the leader girl said to the others. “Did you see that? Did you see her?”

  “Yes!” they screamed in unison. They waved their hands around in staccato tempo, as their yells filled the coffee shop.

  One of them screeched, “There was a woman sitting there.”

  In a teeming flailing bunch, they rushed outside; a chime marked their departure. Only then did Zach recall that the door had never chimed when Evelyn had entered Muses.

  He sprinted towards the door. Before he could exit, the snotty barista tossed out a feeble semi-warning. “Dude, if you come in here again…”

  “Don’t worry,” Zach said, storming through the door. “I won’t be back.”

  He knew he wouldn’t find Evelyn outside, but he knew where she’d be—the basement of Rosewood. He couldn’t get to her there. Or could he?

  But it wouldn’t be alone.

  As Zach sped down the 94 freeway to catch up with the others at Ray’s club, the shock of Evelyn being a spirit wore off. He’d seen spirits before, however they were typically only passing glimpses or apparitions. He’d never interacted with one like that. Except for his Uncle Henry.

  But that was different.

  With Evelyn, he’d had no idea that she was a spirit. Still, the pieces fit and on some level, maybe he’d known subconsciously all along. What plagued him were the whys. Why did she contact him? Why had she been so secretive?

  The vacant freeway offered no answers, and the hum of the road seemed almost to be mocking him. Zach flicked on the radio, but with his thoughts racing, he barely paid attention to the noise.

  Why hadn’t he pressed her on what she meant by “his patron”?

  In everyday language a “patron” referred to a regular customer. However in the past, perhaps Evelyn’s time, it was common to use the word for someone who supports or champions someone. Used in the term “patron saint” by the Catholic Church, it meant a saint who advances a particular cause or group. Evelyn could have only referred to one person with that term.

  Zach’s godfather, his Uncle Henry.

  Ironically, the word patron came from the Latin, “patronus,” meaning “father.” Before he was able to ruminate on his godfather instructing other spirits to withhold information from him on cases, Zach arrived at the club.

  Standing in the side parking lot was the pared-down group of XPI: Angel, Turk, Wendy and Shelly.

  “It took you long enough, mi hijo.” Angel said.

  Wendy elbowed him in the ribs.

  “Sorry, I had to make a stop first,” Zach said. “Let’s go find Ray.”

  He led them around to the front of the building.

  “What the hell happened?” Ray yelled out to them. He was standing under the black awning of Wine, Women & Thong. He had positioned himself behind a purple velvet rope that connected two gold plated poles not quite waist high.

  Zach shrugged. Behind him, the others remained silent.

  “Nice to see you too, buddy,” Zach said.

  “Everything okay?” Ray asked, opening the velvet barrier to their admission.

  “If by ‘okay’ you mean, ‘holy fuck-me crazy,’” Angel said. “Then yes. All is okay.”

  “You got alcohol in there or what?” Turk asked.

  Ray nodded, held open the door and waved them in. Shelly passed through first, pausing at the ticket window just inside the doorway. She pulled a bill from her purse. Ray leaned in, peered at the heavyset girl in the booth and held the side of his index finger in front of his lips. “Shhh, Gigi, we’re forgetting to collect a cover from these guys.”

  She flashed an okay hand gesture and went back to reading a magazine.

  The group received the news with an approving woot. As Wendy passed by, she ran her fingers across Ray’s chest. “Thank you, Rayyy.”

  To which Angel, behind her muttered, “Free shit rocks!” He slapped Ray on the arm. “Thanks, man.”

  After Turk passed through the entrance, Ray turned to Zach. “Let’s get these clowns settled in and then I want to hear everything.”

  Feeling somewhat weak and out of sorts, Zach leaned in and gave Ray a man-hug—a one-armed lean with a couple slaps to the back. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Ray quickly caught up to the group and guided them through the glitzy chaos to an elevated table off to the side of the club. Zach had only been inside Wine, Women & Thong one other time and it had been his very first adventure in a strip club. The week after Zach completed his undergrad degree, Ray took him out to celebrate. The strip club was Zach’s second-to-last stop on his graduation “celebration tour.” The final stop having been a glamorous close-up view inside his toilet. It had been an experience Zach was eager never to repeat and certainly not one, as a good Catholic boy, he wanted to become habitual.

  The club teemed with young, thin girls scantily dressed. Most wore miniscule underwear bottoms and skimpy halter-tops. During his previous visit, Ray laughed when Zach had expressed his expectation that the girls would wear more clothes before going on stage in order to prolong the experience of getting naked. He’d laughed even harder when Zach had asked if Wine, Women & Thong only served wine.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone drink a glass of wine in here,” Ray had said.

  Of course the girls did not get completely nude on stage or anywhere in the club. They stripped to merely topless in a skimpy thong. It had been more than enough excitement. The admission of his activities had resulted in a good chuckle, and then a half-hearted lecture from Monsignor Macginty during Zach’s next confession.

  “What’s behind there?” Wendy pointed to a purple velvet drape that covered a door near the back of the club. Above and below the curtain, only mirrors and black lighting could be seen.

  “That’s restricted area back there,” Angel said, with a wave of his hand. “And it’s heaven!”

  Wendy didn’t seem to know what he was talking about, but laughed anyway before sipping her margarita. Apparently Angel’s machismo had made him, temporarily anyway, her favorite. Turk didn’t seem to mind. He guffawed at Angel’s quip and held out his fist for him to knock. Angel obliged and followed up with a sarcastic and mocking version of the Demon Hunter cheer.

  “Yeah, what assholes they turned out to be,” Turk muttered.

  Considering Bryce’s part in falsifying evidence, the Demon Hunters had not been invited along for drinks, and it had been an odd parting. Rico and Pierre shook hands and said goodbye as though nothing unusual had happened. Bryce got into the van without saying a word. Patrizia was solemn and cast Zach one longing goodbye glace. She hadn’t said anything.

  “Okay, kids. You all behave. No touching the performers. If they—”

  “Performers!” Shelly chuckled and then snort laughed. “Sorry, Ray…”

  “Anyway, if they touch you it’s okay, but no touching them.” He grabbed the nearest cocktail waitress. She probably wore less clothing than ninety-nine percent of women in ninety-five percent of all bars. Yet at Wine, Women & Thong, she seemed overdressed. “Maria, first round of shots and drinks is on me. The rest, these lowlifes can buy on their own.”

  The group cheered. Angel instigated the mock Demon Hunters cheer and the others immediately chimed in with gusto.

  Zach’s thoughts turned back to Patrizia and the kiss. It had come from nowhere. Seemingly nowhere, yet looking back the tension had been building between them since they’d first locked eyes. And now, considering how XPI and the Demon Hunters had left things, she might be out of his life forever.

  “Hey, buddy-boy.” Ray grabbed Zach by the neck with both hands and pretended to strangle him. “Come help me out up front a few minutes.”

  “Oh sure,” Zach said. “You’re just trying to get out of buying m
e a shot and drink.”

  “Tell ya what,” Ray said. “You down a shot’a tequila and guzzle a margarita, and I’ll get up there and dance.” Ray thumbed the stage.

  “Alright. Alright,” Zach said. “I’ll help you out up front!”

  “Hooooo!” Angel shouted out.

  Again they pounded fists Demon Hunter style. Zach pitied their waitress.

  “Then let’s go, son,” Ray said, grabbing Zach by the collar as though he were going to toss him out on his ear.

  They backtracked through the club. It was crowded for just past eleven on a weeknight. Ray navigated them towards the front door, and they arrived unscathed having survived flirtation attempts from several strippers.

  “How do you deal with this every night?” Zach asked.

  “Oh, I manage.” Ray carded a group of college aged guys who were patiently waiting outside. They entered, and he turned to Zach. “Okay, buddy. C’mon, spill it. Tell me everything.”

  By the time Zach updated Ray on the night’s events—most of them at least, and returned to the table, it was clear that the foursome had imbibed far more than just one round of shots and drinks. Empty glasses cluttered the table. Zach looked at his watch. 11:25. He’d been away for a little less than half an hour, but it appeared as though he’d missed at least three rounds of shots. Apparently Rosewood’s tension wasn’t cut with a knife; it was drowned with a bottle of tequila.

  Wendy was pressed up against Angel and—practically sitting on his lap. Even though she wasn’t wearing a slave outfit, Zach couldn’t suppress thinking there was a faint similarity to Jabba the Hutt and Princess Leia.

  If Wendy had intended on making Turk jealous, it didn’t appear to be working. He sat talking to Shelly; his opposite arm was casually draped around a “performer” who had nestled up to him. She’d rested her dyed blonde head on the front of his shoulder and was indifferently stroking his chest. As Zach walked up, he could have sworn he heard Turk talking about some girl he’d been dating less than a month whom he knew he was destined to marry.

  “Zachman!” Turk lifted a nearly empty glass of something on the rocks. Upon realizing Zach didn’t have a drink, he returned it to the table. “I got the last round. Whose is its turn?”