Chapter Six: Explaining The Impossible: Patient Zero/September 1974
By Professor A. Vincenzo.
(Excerpt)
With some trepidation, and the uncomfortable sensation that I was being observed by someone unseen, I eyed the creaky old stairs to the second floor apartment on Quarters Lane.
The landlord had permitted me entrance to the ratty building in somewhat begrudging fashion and then led me quickly – almost nervously - to the narrow, vertigo-inducing stairwell. It was clear he wouldn’t be going upstairs with me.
When questioned even briefly about the second-floor apartment and its former inhabitant, the landlord was evasive and twitchy. I asked him about more recent occupants and he insisted the place hadn’t been rented, hadn’t been inhabited, hadn’t even been touched, since the incident in September 1974.
“It’s haunted, the whole apartment...” he claimed; his voice barely a rasp, hardly a whisper. “I never believed in things like that, you know. Not in my nature…”
“…But sometimes…at night…I still hear her singing,” he confided wistfully. “Always will I’m afraid.…”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I just listened. He seemed willing to continue, and I was fascinated by his sudden outburst and its unexpected intimacy. Like he had been longing to tell somebody this; longing to share some secret part of himself. It was like he was a whole different person.
“She was beautiful,” the landlord said softly, as if somehow, some way, he had been in love with her, with the siren. Then he stroked his goatee almost unconsciously, and I saw that he was a million miles away. His dark, expressive eyes went downcast, and I tried to imagine the place he had gone to; the daydream he was visiting with such intensity.
I tried to imagine her too. Tried to imagine the woman I had met just days before, but in this world of the past. The 1970s. It might as well have been another planet.
Still, I could almost picture it. I could almost picture her as she must have been in her glory days. I’d seen photos of her from the time period, after all. From a time before
REDACTEDXXXXXXXXXXXXX
END REDACTION.
So I smiled and listened and tried to keep an open mind. I don’t know that I believed the old man’s tale of a ghostly singer at first, but when I finally let myself into the upstairs apartment, I knew he was being truthful; or more accurately, I knew that he believed what he said.
I can’t claim that I felt the presence of ghost at first. I must report (with disappointment) that I heard no songs from the spirit world. It was more like I felt…the presence and weight of history bearing down on me. Do you know that feeling you get sometimes in a museum? When you realize that people of historical importance – someone who lived long ago - once wore the very clothes on display? Or had sat in the very furniture laid out before your eyes?
It was that kind of feeling. A resonance of a past life. A connection to a time gone. More than thirty years past. And yet, in that “haunted” space, after the landlord’s unexpected lapse into emotional memory, I felt like I had gained access to the other world. I could almost touch the past.
The first thing I did upon entering the apartment was take a deep breath. I inhaled and tasted the air. I wasn’t surprised that it seemed stale. Like a tomb: dusty and untouched. And somewhere, ever so faintly, I thought I could detect the subtle bouquet of a woman’s perfume. Like she had been present as recently as yesterday.
I cast my eyes ahead. The apartment was laid out awkwardly and without regard to comfort. An alcove above the angled staircase led to two oddly-proportioned, relatively small rooms: a bedroom and a bathroom. A black rotary phone, still plugged into a jack, caught my attention in the alcove. It had played a legendary role in the case of Patient Zero, and I immediately went to it with anticipation. I picked up the heavy old receiver with curiosity and listened for a dial tone. Disappointingly, I heard only a few intermittent clicks, nothing out of the ordinary. The phone was apparently dead, the service long since terminated.
I continued my tour. The bedroom was sparse. A twin bed, unmade, dominated the room. To one side was a makeshift night table. A little green lamp sat on top of it beside an old, dusty eight-track player.
Behind the table, I could make out the outline of an old guitar case. It was dotted with graffiti and bumper stickers, a telltale sign of the owners’ independence and personality. There was a peace sign, a notation to “END THE WAR” and what looked like the symbol or icon from a TV band, the Partridge Family. All drawn in her hand. I was certain of that: the style matched exactly the writing I had seen on REDACTED XXXXXXXXXXEND OF REDACTION.
I couldn’t resist the temptation to pick it up, but when I opened the case and felt the weight of the guitar in my hands, I was surprised to detect a folded piece of paper inside the hollow instrument.
I reached in and unfolded the old paper cautiously, expectantly. It was a hastily-scrawled composition; some kind of ballad…a song. Wondering what I had stumbled across, I started reading, searching for clues as to its meaning.
Your good intentions paved the way/for me to learn to hate.
Your rules and restrictions and contradictions led me to my fate.
The chill between us broke me down/more than I care to say.
I'll sacrifice/if that's the price of your love then I will pay.
Chorus:
You left me unclean/Now I wander from room to room
in the House Between.
You may see Heaven or Hell /According to your doom
but I'll eternally dwell in the House Between
These walls will hold me away from Grace...until the End of time.
No Mercy Shown/I'm own my own, just like I was in life...
As I read the lyrics for a second time, I suddenly detected a flutter of movement in the bathroom beyond. The smell of perfume inexplicably grew stronger.
I quickly folded up the piece of paper with the composition on it and headed into the lavatory at full speed. I was certain I was going to catch an interloper, confront...a ghost?
But the room was ominously empty. My eyes had been playing tricks on me.
And my nose as well?
And then I realized that the flurry of movement had gotten the better of me, at least in some fashion. The bathroom was the room of the “event,” a room I would not have entered alone either willingly or unprepared, not without proper meditation. I knew that much about the paranormal at least. It was a novice’s mistake, and I immediately felt tricked.
A part of me - the superstitious part - couldn’t help but wonder if something had known all this; if something or someone had drawn me into the room deliberately. Before I was ready. When my mind was still open; still vulnerable.
I grew discomforted and reached into my pocket. I felt the outline of my cell phone, and felt a little better. I could still call for help if need be.
A porcelain white claw foot tub drew my attention next. There were rust-colored stains near the drain. Tiny brown droplets arranged in a trail. I realized somewhat belatedly it was dried blood I was looking at, and grew nauseous.
I reached in my pocket for a handkerchief when I inauspiciously received my second jolt. I turned around and felt a shock of adrenalin when I caught sight of my reflection in a broken mirror above a pedestal sink. I jumped out of my skin.
For a fleeting instant, I could have sworn my reflection had auburn hair…
I steadied myself and looked more closely. In all the literature I had read regarding Patient Zero, and in all the research I’d personally completed on the case, there had been no mention of a shattered mirror.
I stepped toward the mirror to get a closer look and heard a strange crunch. Then I felt a stabbing, stinging sensation. I gazed downward and saw that a shard of glass had penetrated my sandal, and dug into the side of my right foot.
I was bleeding. Badly. Without thinking (again!), I hurried to the tub and stepped into the basin gingerly, my foot now throbbing as the crimson fluid fountained from the cut. I turned on the spigot, and a torrent of brown, smelly water burst forth. Not exactly what I wanted to clean the injury with but I realized beggars couldn’t be choosers. I felt sick, and the odor of the fetid, stagnant water made me want to retch.
I bent down to touch the wound and at that precise moment, a buzz sounded. It echoed through the empty apartment. I couldn’t determine what it was at first. I didn’t recognize the sound.
Then realization coursed through me like an electric shock. It was the rotary phone.
The old rotary phone was ringing.
It was a phone that hadn’t been used in decades. In an apartment that hadn’t been lived in for just as long. And it was ringing.
I shivered and felt cold, and then stepped out of the tub to make certain I wasn’t hallucinating.
There was no mistake. The phone was buzzing. It was a plaintive, almost desperate sound, one I felt compelled to silence. I ran to it. I ran to the alcove as fast I could go, leaving a trail of my blood on the wood floor.
I picked up the receiver and held it close to my ear. I listened.
There was a series of clicks, and then a sound that I will remember to my dying day. It’s a sound that haunts my slumber, and calls to me in my nightmares.
A brittle, ancient female voice spoke to me. It had reached out from somewhere…dark.
“Mind the glass…” She said.
And then she laughed.
The phone went dead, and I slowly lowered the receiver, gooseflesh bubbling on my arms, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.
I took a single step back. Then another.
I heard something rustle in the bathroom. Afraid of what I was going to see, I turned anyway.
I turned slowly and deliberately…my eyes watering with fear. There was a coruscating shadow on the wall, moving quickly. In a minute, I would catch sight of what I had waited my whole life to see. A ghost.
I stepped forward, and at that moment, the guitar in the other room struck a note by itself. It sustained eerily, sounding warped.
As the shadow moved closer to clear view, I felt a firm hand land on my right shoulder. It belonged to the landlord. His piercing eyes were watering, as though he were expecting to see not a ghost, but the spirit of a loved one he had long ago lost.
"She's here," he whispered in a reverent tone, and his voice caught, a lump forming in his throat.
There was something about the way he said it-- it wasn't as much terrifying as it was anticipatory -- and I experienced a sudden flash of insight. As much as I needed to pay attention to the event occurring in the next room -- to my interface with the paranormal -- I knew I needed to be paying even closer attention to the landlord.
Foolishly, I had written him off too soon; discounted him as an uninterested party. But on the contrary, he was a crucial player in this. I looked into his dark, soulful eyes, and saw another glistening tear form.
And then I knew. I knew for sure. The ghost wasn't just haunting this place. It was haunting him. And what's more. He longed to see it.
By Professor A. Vincenzo.
(Excerpt)
With some trepidation, and the uncomfortable sensation that I was being observed by someone unseen, I eyed the creaky old stairs to the second floor apartment on Quarters Lane.
The landlord had permitted me entrance to the ratty building in somewhat begrudging fashion and then led me quickly – almost nervously - to the narrow, vertigo-inducing stairwell. It was clear he wouldn’t be going upstairs with me.
When questioned even briefly about the second-floor apartment and its former inhabitant, the landlord was evasive and twitchy. I asked him about more recent occupants and he insisted the place hadn’t been rented, hadn’t been inhabited, hadn’t even been touched, since the incident in September 1974.
“It’s haunted, the whole apartment...” he claimed; his voice barely a rasp, hardly a whisper. “I never believed in things like that, you know. Not in my nature…”
“…But sometimes…at night…I still hear her singing,” he confided wistfully. “Always will I’m afraid.…”
I didn’t know how to respond, so I just listened. He seemed willing to continue, and I was fascinated by his sudden outburst and its unexpected intimacy. Like he had been longing to tell somebody this; longing to share some secret part of himself. It was like he was a whole different person.
“She was beautiful,” the landlord said softly, as if somehow, some way, he had been in love with her, with the siren. Then he stroked his goatee almost unconsciously, and I saw that he was a million miles away. His dark, expressive eyes went downcast, and I tried to imagine the place he had gone to; the daydream he was visiting with such intensity.
I tried to imagine her too. Tried to imagine the woman I had met just days before, but in this world of the past. The 1970s. It might as well have been another planet.
Still, I could almost picture it. I could almost picture her as she must have been in her glory days. I’d seen photos of her from the time period, after all. From a time before
REDACTEDXXXXXXXXXXXXX
END REDACTION.
So I smiled and listened and tried to keep an open mind. I don’t know that I believed the old man’s tale of a ghostly singer at first, but when I finally let myself into the upstairs apartment, I knew he was being truthful; or more accurately, I knew that he believed what he said.
I can’t claim that I felt the presence of ghost at first. I must report (with disappointment) that I heard no songs from the spirit world. It was more like I felt…the presence and weight of history bearing down on me. Do you know that feeling you get sometimes in a museum? When you realize that people of historical importance – someone who lived long ago - once wore the very clothes on display? Or had sat in the very furniture laid out before your eyes?
It was that kind of feeling. A resonance of a past life. A connection to a time gone. More than thirty years past. And yet, in that “haunted” space, after the landlord’s unexpected lapse into emotional memory, I felt like I had gained access to the other world. I could almost touch the past.
The first thing I did upon entering the apartment was take a deep breath. I inhaled and tasted the air. I wasn’t surprised that it seemed stale. Like a tomb: dusty and untouched. And somewhere, ever so faintly, I thought I could detect the subtle bouquet of a woman’s perfume. Like she had been present as recently as yesterday.
I cast my eyes ahead. The apartment was laid out awkwardly and without regard to comfort. An alcove above the angled staircase led to two oddly-proportioned, relatively small rooms: a bedroom and a bathroom. A black rotary phone, still plugged into a jack, caught my attention in the alcove. It had played a legendary role in the case of Patient Zero, and I immediately went to it with anticipation. I picked up the heavy old receiver with curiosity and listened for a dial tone. Disappointingly, I heard only a few intermittent clicks, nothing out of the ordinary. The phone was apparently dead, the service long since terminated.
I continued my tour. The bedroom was sparse. A twin bed, unmade, dominated the room. To one side was a makeshift night table. A little green lamp sat on top of it beside an old, dusty eight-track player.
Behind the table, I could make out the outline of an old guitar case. It was dotted with graffiti and bumper stickers, a telltale sign of the owners’ independence and personality. There was a peace sign, a notation to “END THE WAR” and what looked like the symbol or icon from a TV band, the Partridge Family. All drawn in her hand. I was certain of that: the style matched exactly the writing I had seen on REDACTED XXXXXXXXXXEND OF REDACTION.
I couldn’t resist the temptation to pick it up, but when I opened the case and felt the weight of the guitar in my hands, I was surprised to detect a folded piece of paper inside the hollow instrument.
I reached in and unfolded the old paper cautiously, expectantly. It was a hastily-scrawled composition; some kind of ballad…a song. Wondering what I had stumbled across, I started reading, searching for clues as to its meaning.
Your good intentions paved the way/for me to learn to hate.
Your rules and restrictions and contradictions led me to my fate.
The chill between us broke me down/more than I care to say.
I'll sacrifice/if that's the price of your love then I will pay.
Chorus:
You left me unclean/Now I wander from room to room
in the House Between.
You may see Heaven or Hell /According to your doom
but I'll eternally dwell in the House Between
These walls will hold me away from Grace...until the End of time.
No Mercy Shown/I'm own my own, just like I was in life...
As I read the lyrics for a second time, I suddenly detected a flutter of movement in the bathroom beyond. The smell of perfume inexplicably grew stronger.
I quickly folded up the piece of paper with the composition on it and headed into the lavatory at full speed. I was certain I was going to catch an interloper, confront...a ghost?
But the room was ominously empty. My eyes had been playing tricks on me.
And my nose as well?
And then I realized that the flurry of movement had gotten the better of me, at least in some fashion. The bathroom was the room of the “event,” a room I would not have entered alone either willingly or unprepared, not without proper meditation. I knew that much about the paranormal at least. It was a novice’s mistake, and I immediately felt tricked.
A part of me - the superstitious part - couldn’t help but wonder if something had known all this; if something or someone had drawn me into the room deliberately. Before I was ready. When my mind was still open; still vulnerable.
I grew discomforted and reached into my pocket. I felt the outline of my cell phone, and felt a little better. I could still call for help if need be.
A porcelain white claw foot tub drew my attention next. There were rust-colored stains near the drain. Tiny brown droplets arranged in a trail. I realized somewhat belatedly it was dried blood I was looking at, and grew nauseous.
I reached in my pocket for a handkerchief when I inauspiciously received my second jolt. I turned around and felt a shock of adrenalin when I caught sight of my reflection in a broken mirror above a pedestal sink. I jumped out of my skin.
For a fleeting instant, I could have sworn my reflection had auburn hair…
I steadied myself and looked more closely. In all the literature I had read regarding Patient Zero, and in all the research I’d personally completed on the case, there had been no mention of a shattered mirror.
I stepped toward the mirror to get a closer look and heard a strange crunch. Then I felt a stabbing, stinging sensation. I gazed downward and saw that a shard of glass had penetrated my sandal, and dug into the side of my right foot.
I was bleeding. Badly. Without thinking (again!), I hurried to the tub and stepped into the basin gingerly, my foot now throbbing as the crimson fluid fountained from the cut. I turned on the spigot, and a torrent of brown, smelly water burst forth. Not exactly what I wanted to clean the injury with but I realized beggars couldn’t be choosers. I felt sick, and the odor of the fetid, stagnant water made me want to retch.
I bent down to touch the wound and at that precise moment, a buzz sounded. It echoed through the empty apartment. I couldn’t determine what it was at first. I didn’t recognize the sound.
Then realization coursed through me like an electric shock. It was the rotary phone.
The old rotary phone was ringing.
It was a phone that hadn’t been used in decades. In an apartment that hadn’t been lived in for just as long. And it was ringing.
I shivered and felt cold, and then stepped out of the tub to make certain I wasn’t hallucinating.
There was no mistake. The phone was buzzing. It was a plaintive, almost desperate sound, one I felt compelled to silence. I ran to it. I ran to the alcove as fast I could go, leaving a trail of my blood on the wood floor.
I picked up the receiver and held it close to my ear. I listened.
There was a series of clicks, and then a sound that I will remember to my dying day. It’s a sound that haunts my slumber, and calls to me in my nightmares.
A brittle, ancient female voice spoke to me. It had reached out from somewhere…dark.
“Mind the glass…” She said.
And then she laughed.
The phone went dead, and I slowly lowered the receiver, gooseflesh bubbling on my arms, the hair on the back of my neck standing on end.
I took a single step back. Then another.
I heard something rustle in the bathroom. Afraid of what I was going to see, I turned anyway.
I turned slowly and deliberately…my eyes watering with fear. There was a coruscating shadow on the wall, moving quickly. In a minute, I would catch sight of what I had waited my whole life to see. A ghost.
I stepped forward, and at that moment, the guitar in the other room struck a note by itself. It sustained eerily, sounding warped.
As the shadow moved closer to clear view, I felt a firm hand land on my right shoulder. It belonged to the landlord. His piercing eyes were watering, as though he were expecting to see not a ghost, but the spirit of a loved one he had long ago lost.
"She's here," he whispered in a reverent tone, and his voice caught, a lump forming in his throat.
There was something about the way he said it-- it wasn't as much terrifying as it was anticipatory -- and I experienced a sudden flash of insight. As much as I needed to pay attention to the event occurring in the next room -- to my interface with the paranormal -- I knew I needed to be paying even closer attention to the landlord.
Foolishly, I had written him off too soon; discounted him as an uninterested party. But on the contrary, he was a crucial player in this. I looked into his dark, soulful eyes, and saw another glistening tear form.
And then I knew. I knew for sure. The ghost wasn't just haunting this place. It was haunting him. And what's more. He longed to see it.
"I never see her," he whispered, shoulders quaking. And then his big eyes turning downcast. "She always comes here. But I never actually see her."
"You know what happened, don't you?" I asked him, bewildered by the turn of events.
"When the breach occurred here, two worlds intersected," he explained, suddenly sounding like a lecturing professor. "I don't know how or why precisely the breach occurred, but the two worlds continue to...push against each other. Occasionally there's spill over...and she returns. She comes through."
"Are you a...medium?" I stammered the question like a child.
"No," he answered, an ironic smile forming on his lips. "I'm a...dabbler in...quantum theory...."
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