Built in the 1800s, the Rosewood Center finally shut down last year after a tumultuous and controversy-ridden history.
Few cities capture the spirit of "has-been" more than Owings Mills. Structures that were considered mansions in past lives dot the landscape, consumed by mossy vines. Rusty industrial relics remind visitors of a gilded past now exposed and depleted. Lawns of weedy tallgrass partially cover the dusty brick walls of low-income and minority communities.
And then there is the Rosewood Center. Built in 1888, the mental asylum grew to the size of a large university, with its own cafeteria, recreational center, even its own clinic. Yet the management quickly learned of its inability to lead such a facility. Stories of torture, abuse, and even rape surfaced throughout the institution's life, destroying its reputation little by little, until finally in 2006 the Rosewood Center was forced to close its doors. Now, three years later, the center's colonial-style buildings reek of neglect and slowly crumble into nothingness.
Ethan knew nothing of this when he jogged through the campus. It was a mild, sunny day, and the weather suited a brisk run. Although he noticed the Center's unkempt yards and dilapidated buildings, he figured that he was in an abandoned college or boarding school.
As he headed up the main road's shattered sidewalk, Ethan noticed what appeared to be a running track some one hundred meters to the left. The obsidian track, partially shrouded by trees, lay in a grassy depression. Although the day was fairly windy, the air around it seemed to stand still. Birds and insects appeared to avoid the track enclave altogether.
Yet the most obvious indicators never seem to deter our headstrong hero, who decided that the track would be ideal for running suicides. A weightlifter, he tried whenever possible to complement his training with anaerobic sets instead of long-distance cardio. And he had just found his proving grounds.
Just then, the shriek of a loud siren startled Ethan, who fell backwards. Struggling to gain composure, he pushed himself upwards to find a white van marked with the words "Baltimore Security." The driver, a middle-aged, grizzly black man, stepped out, perhaps amused at how little effort he needed to knock the younger man to the floor.
"You can't go that way. I know it looks abandoned, but this land belongs to the government now."
Ethan dusted his sleveless t-shirt off, slightly embarassed. "What's so special about this place?"
"This used to be the School for the Feeble Minded. A mental hospital for all kinds of crazy people. There was one lady who died losing all her blood after pulling out all her toenails with her bare hands. Another man went mad during lunch and gutted his caretaker with a cafeteria fork. Come to think of it, that happened twi-"
"Okay I get the picture!" Ethan snapped, somewhat disgusted. "Why did they shut this place down? Where else would those people go for help?"
The security officer's hoary brows tightened as he stared Ethan in the eyes. "They weren't getting any help here. People were tortured, they were mocked, raped, and abused at this center. Their beds were stuffed with asbestos so that they would pass away sooner and make room for new victims. You're in a twisted place. Stay away."
Some people shy away from what they fear. Others, like Ethan, take it as a challenge. The greatest adventures, after all, lie outside their comfort zones. Rejection only increases their curiosity and intrigue. So it was no surprise that scarcely one hour later, Ethan returned to the Rosewood Center, sneaking toward the obsidian track, past the security officers' watch.
