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Tim DeZarn Discovered His K-11 Film Set at the Sybil Brand Institute Was Haunted, and Decided to Connect with His Deceased Son

Tim DeZarn
Tim DeZarn
Simone Paz

Filming was well under way when news of the ghost began to circulate. They were shooting the final scenes of the movie K-11, a prison thriller, at the abandoned Sybil Brand Institute women's correctional facility in City Terrace east of downtown.

One of the crew members, who declines to be named, was upstairs in the

solitary-confinement area fussing with the ventilation system. It was a

hot day, and the abundance of lights and wires was only making it

hotter. Talk about a creepy place. Pigeons had flown in through broken

windows, died of thirst and been eaten by rats. Their skeletons littered

the floors, heaped upon years of accumulated filth.

As he worked -- alone -- the crew member got the distinct and eerie impression that he was being watched.

Suddenly,

despite the ambient heat, he felt a "cold sensation" crawling up his

leg. Fingertips ruffled his hair, gently, as a lover might. He ran.

Feeling sheepish, he forced himself to turn around. That's when he saw

her: a lady in white. Or, rather, a girl in a hospital gown. She was

thin, with pale skin, intense blue eyes and chopped-off black hair. Her

feet were bare. She stared at him for a minute, then walked away.

He told the on-premises sheriffs about the girl. "Oh, yeah, that's Sally," they said.

"What do you mean, 'Oh yeah that's Sally'?" asked the crew member. "What's that?"

The

sheriffs told him about a prison inmate whose parents were on their way

to visit. They were killed en route in a traffic accident on the 405

freeway. Distraught at learning of her parents' death, Sally hanged

herself in the shower.

Like a child's game of telephone, word of

Sally's latest manifestation spread. It got around to actor Tim DeZarn,

who was at the prison filming, too. In the movie, he plays one of the

guards. DeZarn decided he would see about the ghost. He would free

Sally's spirit.

Sitting in his Culver City home a few weeks later,

wearing a frown and a shirt that says "I'm Bringing Grumpy Back," he

recalls the experience. Because he's the kind of guy who thinks better

when he draws, he reaches for a pencil and sketches the scene.

"The

hallway goes around like this, and down here it's all dark," DeZarn

says. "And in here are all these cells" -- he sketches the cells -- "and

here it's dark, dark, dark and a little brighter at the end."

He

remembers that he sat at the top of the stairs near the entrance to eat

some peanuts. Courage gathered, he walked the hallway, opening each of

the cell doors. "OK," he called out into the darkness, "I'm coming in."

Silence. "You don't belong here anymore." More silence. "You're not part

of this world anymore. Your parents are probably somewhere out there

waiting for you." Silence, still.

He sighs now, rubs his hand

across his face. "I don't even know if I believe this shit." He fiddles

with the slip of paper. "I told Sally, 'One of the reasons I want you to

go is so you can find my son and tell him I need to see him.' "

DeZarn's

teenage son, Travis, was killed four years ago in a car accident. It

was a foggy Saturday night, and the boy was driving along winding,

mountainous Palisades Drive coming home from visiting his girlfriend

when he was hit broadside by another vehicle. His car was ripped in

half. He died instantly.

No one thus far -- not the police, the

coroner or Travis' parents or friends -- can figure out what caused the

crash. Drugs and alcohol ruled out, DeZarn suspects his son might have

swerved to avoid hitting a deer. But the chaos of old skid marks at the

scene makes it impossible to tell. It is a notoriously dangerous spot.

"Maybe

because I'm so angry, that's why I haven't seen Travis yet," DeZarn

says. "But I just wanted to hear from my son and feel his presence."

He

does not consider the idea so far-fetched. He's had experience with

ghosts before. When he was 12 he saw one. It was his Uncle Howard.

DeZarn was out in the woods on his family's property when he saw a light

by the barn.

He pulls another scrap of paper now from the little

tray on the table. He sketches the barn. The woods. The darkness. The

light. Uncle Howard's ghost was the light. The specter spoke: "Timmy, I

need you to take care of your adoptive brother." Message conveyed, Uncle

Howard disappeared.

"It was like someone closed their hand on

him," DeZarn recalls. He cups his hands together as if extinguishing a

flame. DeZarn was much nicer to his brother after that.

In four

years he's had no extrasensory perceptions of his son. Not a single icy

tingle down the spine, or rattling doorknob or wisp of vapory mist. He

has, however, had dreams of Travis diving deep into the earth. These

dreams are always unsettling and sad. In DeZarn's darkest moments --

moments to which he can scarcely admit for fear of scaring his wife and

daughter -- he wants to die, too.

Instead, he runs. Up and up and

up stairs. Eighty-one flights total, one for each year of his and his

son's ages combined. DeZarn is 59. Travis was 18 when he died. This year

he'd have been 22.

DeZarn doesn't believe in an interventionist

God to whom you pray and "he does shit for you." But he believes in a

collective energy shared by everyone. Maybe Travis can't contact him

through the interference. Travis was his first thought, DeZarn admits,

when he heard of Sally's ghost. "Maybe she can help get a message to my

kid."

He flicks his pencil back and forth as he talks. "Even

though I've had these experiences," he says, "I'm a real doubting

Thomas."


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