Ghosts of Rosewood Asylum

by Stephen Prosapio

  “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 hom
e.

  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.

  He reached the top stair, listened intently, and then headed down the hall towards the far end where he assumed the sounds were coming from. Through the room’s open doorway, a picture window let in the moon’s blue light. Glenn heard nothing. No talking. No movement. Not even any breathing. He inched closer—a few feet from the door.

  “When she’d seen what she had done…”

  Tap.

  Recognition didn’t click right away. Glenn peered into the room. Sitting cross legged on the floor, a girl no older than nine-years old wore pigtails and a white nightgown that glowed in the moonlight. In her hands was a large kitchen knife. Was this one of the daughters from the photo on the stairs?

  “She gave her father forty one.”

  She drove the blade into the wood floor where a wide deep hole had been carved.

  What in the love of hell, Glenn thought.

  Her unlikely appearance. Her vacant expression. She seemed more an apparition than real.

  Glenn slowly backed away. Through the cracked door, he caught a glimpse into the next room. An arm extended at an unnatural angle from a lump on the bed. Even in the half light, he could tell that the sheets were stained with dried blood. There was no doubt that at least one murdered body lay in there.

  “Lizzy Bordon took an axe…”

  Tap.

  Glenn almost puked. He rushed to the staircase.

  Before he took his first step down, a floorboard creaked. Not underfoot, but behind him.

  He whirled and heard the “Pfffft” before he felt the stabbing pain in his thigh.

  “She gave her mother forty whacks.”

  Her eyes. Wildly insane—inhuman.

  Glenn pulled the knife from his groin. Some blood spewed out the hole in his jeans, but most gushed down his inseam.

  He staggered down the stairs and clawed at the front door. He clutched his leg remembering to press on the wound. The blood was slippery, warm and wet.

  Christ, don’t let it end this way!

  He fumbled with the locks. He flung open the door and glanced over his shoulder.

  She stood atop the staircase. “And when she’d seen what she had done!”

  Glenn stumbled outside, across the porch and down the first two steps before tumbling into the cold dusty snow. He frantically gathered a handful of it and pressed it to his wound. He was already lightheaded. Too much blood lost.

  Or was this shock?

  He tried to stand and couldn’t manage. His trail of blood extended from where he was laying, up the front steps through the doorway—the warm red liquid melting the white powder.

  He just wanted to live.

  He cried for help. But it came out more like a gasping croak. Even to him, it didn’t sound very loud. So he inhaled deeply.

  And then, as forcefully as he could, Glenn Razzovich screamed.

  Acknowledgements

  Those who either know me or appreciate the novel writing process, understand that this book is my baby. We’ve all heard it said that it takes a village to raise a child, and practically the population of a small town deserves credit for helping my work breathe life.

  Thanks go to Beta Readers of this novel: Maria Crisman, Susan Prosapio, Judy Popp, Trevor Myers, and Zach’s first fan: Rachel Love. The ever intrusive Tammy Szkolny deserves credit to my presale line edits. And to Lynn Calvert for believing in the story.

  I owe a huge debt to many writing friends and colleagues: the North County Speculative Fiction Writer’s Group, whose suggestions and camaraderie helped make Ghosts of Rosewood Asylum the book it is today…at least the good parts. Special thanks to Nickolas Furr, Meghan Muriel, and of course Irina Ivanova for both help with the writing as well as her amazing cover design. Much gratitude goes to Lisa Brackmann for sharing the journey.

  Thank you to everyone at National Search Associates—my second family. Special thanks to Robert Rossi for his photo and logo work.

  Those to whom a mere “thanks” is woefully inadequate: Dave Knopp and Joe Prosapio were nothing short of lifelines during the writing of this novel.

  No amount of accolades could express enough gratitude to my incredible agent Taryn Fagerness who, for all her ideas and suggestions, might well deserve a writing credit for this novel.

  Many people have helped me grow the XPI group on Facebook thanks to all of you, with special gratitude for Liz Nichols, Gayle Bedwell, and Sonya Alarcon, Joe Evans, Lorna Collins, Robert White, Angela Morrell Arnold, and everyone else!

  As XPI expands to the world at large, I hope all of you share in my joy.

  Other Works by this Author

  Dream War — a novel, available now as an eBook

  Decades ago, the CIA developed the technology to enter our dreams and extract information. It was just a matter of time before they took things a little too far…

  About the Author

  Stephen Prosapio received his Bachelors of Arts degree in Political Science from DePaul University in Chicago. After reporting for one of the nation’s largest fantasy football websites, footballguys.com, Stephen wrote his first novel, Dream War. Competing against 2,676 other novels, it won a Top Five Finalist award in Gather.com’s 2007 First Chapters contest. Dream War was released as an eBook in July of 2010. Articles about him and his writing have been featured in the San Diego Union Tribune, The North County Times, Today’s Local News, San Diego Magazine and the DePaul University Alumni magazine.

  Stephen resides in Oceanside, California. He is currently crafting a sequel to Ghosts of Rosewood Asylum that chronicles the Xavier Paranormal Investigators next case—The Atchison Haunting.

  Contact the Author:

  Contact the Author:

  email: steve@prosapio.com

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