The Open Door (2 page)

This is why he lay in bed with the door
closed, sitting upright, and in his hands a good book that, in
reading it, would hopefully tire him to sleep.

As he read page after page, a thought popped
into his head:
surely I must be into self-torment, or possibly
my “dark-side” is itching to get out
. The book he held in his
hands was a book of horror, not some tale filled with brightly
colored fairies, where the princess and her beloved are married and
live happily ever after.

This was a book whose pages brought about the
dark, and all things darkness concealed, placing Scott in a nearly
hypnotic trance. But then again, maybe the book was a good idea
after all. Being engrossed in such a story, although terrifying,
seemed to take his mind off of the horror that took place outside
his window.

You see . . . he was old enough to know that
there was nothing outside his bedroom window, but his imagination
was an active one, and he imagined a monster so horribly
disfigured, and with eyes so cold, that the very idea of such a
beast would freeze even the toughest of men.

Scott’s eyes were finally giving in and the
pages became blurred as the sounds from outside faded away. As soon
as his eyelids closed, he jumped ever so slightly, and would again
become alert, if only for seconds. The very thought of lying
unconscious in bed left him feeling vulnerable, so he fought to
stay awake.

It didn’t matter that his big strong father
was in the very next room; he was still uneasy and uncertain.

If something should enter my room, would
my father hear me? Would he get to me in time?
Scott thought.
Then reality crept back in and he chuckled at how silly he was
being.
What would the guys at school think if they could see me
now?
He puffed out his chest, sat up straight and continued
reading with a renewed sense of awareness.

What had seemed like hours were only minutes,
as he looked up at his digital alarm clock, sitting upon his dark,
antique, wooden dresser, located across from the foot of his bed.
The red digitized numbers were more blurred than the pages in his
book, so he had to focus for a moment just to be sure it was only
11:45 P.M.
Could that be right? Has it only been 45
minutes?

It was late, but tomorrow was Saturday, one
of the few days Scott was able to sleep in. He looked back down at
his book, ready to push through another chapter.

Before his eyes could focus on the first
word, something out of the corner of his left eye begged for
attention, but Scott ignored it and stayed focused on his book.

Between the decrepit tree outside, tapping
away at the cold frosted glass, and the pages his mind had
consumed, Scott’s senses were on overload. He shrugged off thinking
he had seen something, and continued reading.

Before finishing a single
sentence—again—movement to the left, accompanied by the feeling of
something watching. Scott didn’t want to, but curiosity got the
best of him, so he turned his head to face whatever it was at the
window.

With heightened senses due to the adrenalin
rush, focusing was no longer an issue. His eyes became wide open,
and unable to blink, as he stared at what it was that attracted his
attention.

Scott was motionless, and unable to speak or
even breathe. An eerie green transparent head quietly floated
through the closed window while staring directly at him. Its eyes
were intense, and glowing deep red, like lava spewing out from a
volcano. Veins covered the neck and head like a creeping vine
devouring a pale corpse. The green misty shape seemed to leave a
disappearing trail behind it, as it glided around the foot of the
bed.

Although frightened, Scott studied the
floating apparition with intensity as it did the same to him. It
was as if the head and he were playing a game of chess, each
anticipating the other’s next move.

This was not a human head; this was the head
of a horse. Most horses have a beautiful statuesque and peaceful
look about them, but this horse was pure evil and unlike anything
he had ever seen. Scott could tell by the eyes and facial
expression that it had intelligence—and worse yet—bad
intentions.

A fiery mane adorned its head, its brow
furrowed, and its mouth closed tightly as if to conceal razor sharp
rows of daggers where teeth should be.

The head continued to stare at him, study
him, as it slowly floated around his bed, rotating perfectly,
mechanically, so its eyes remained locked on his.

This horse . . . this thing . . . beast . . .
whatever it was, drew closer to Scott as it rounded the right side
of the bed.

Scott screamed, “Help! Dad! Come quick!”

Within seconds his father flew into the room,
first looking at him, and then scanning the room intently. He
looked at his Dad, and then searched the room for the creepy
floating head, but it was gone. It was as if it had disappeared the
very second he turned away.

“What’s wrong?”

“I thought I saw something, Dad. Sorry, I
must have been dreaming.”

Scott knew what his Dad must have been
thinking, as his expression went from an intense alertness, to a
look of relief and near annoyance.

Scott second-guessed himself.
Did I fall
asleep, and have a bad dream? No! I was wide awake! I know
it!

His Dad turned the lights off, said
goodnight, and closed the door. He couldn’t blame him—there was
nothing in his room and he was unharmed.

Lying down, Scott pulled the covers to his
nose and peered out from underneath the protective cloak—scanning
the room—waiting for the eerie horse head to reappear.

August 10, 1985: Nearly a year after the
horrifying horse head spectacle, life was looking up, and the
incident rarely entered Scott’s mind.

High school was just around the corner as was
his driver’s license test. No longer having to walk or take the bus
was a dream that Scott was now salivating over; it was finally
within reach.

Excited about the many milestones that
awaited him over the next couple of years, he never lost track of
who he was.

Scott and his friends would ride their BMX
bikes nearly every day, and after returning home, Scott would
either draw a picture of some morbid creature that had been
bouncing around his head, clawing to get out, or watch his favorite
after school animated feature. Life was simple and good, and it was
going to get better.

Cameron was Scott’s best friend at the time.
He was an honest and kindhearted individual with a wholesome church
going family.

They both enjoyed taking their bikes to the
most insanely dangerous jumps and tracks to see just how much
damage could be inflicted on their young, durable bodies.

There wasn’t a day that went by when Cameron
and Scott wouldn’t hang out.

The Diamond Back BMX freestyle and racing
team was making an appearance at the local bike shop where Cameron
and Scott frequented. They had been waiting a month for the event;
Scott even had the poster tacked to his bedroom wall as a
reminder.

Cameron arrived at Scott’s house early in
anticipation of the event. He had a chrome Mongoose bike that was
the envy of many riders at their middle school.

Scott rode a white GT with all of the
trimmings, and every time he would ride, he dreamed of becoming a
sponsored BMX professional. No more school, just riding all
day—every day.
What a life!
Scott thought.

They rode to the shop in eighty-degree
weather with clear blue skies. It was like a dream, and they both
grinned ear to ear the entire ride, anticipating the awe-inspiring
acrobatics displayed by the seasoned riders.

Excited about the combination of perfect
weather and seeing BMX celebrities, Scott and Cameron pedaled fast,
taking a few off road paths along the way just for fun.

They arrived early enough to find a good spot
in front where they could study the riders normally only seen in
their favorite magazines.

For two hours straight they watched in
amazement as the valiant riders took turns performing gravity
defying stunts.

After the show, Cameron and Scott were able
to get a few autographs before going to their respective homes.

A tall glass of ice cold lemonade and a
shower sounded good after the bike ride to and from the event, not
to mention, standing out in the heat for over two hours squeezed
nearly every ounce of moisture from Scott’s pores.

Scott made it back a little over an hour
before his father would be home from work, drank his lemonade, and
picked out new clothes to wear after the much needed and
anticipated shower.

He locked the door behind him after entering
the bathroom, turned on the water, adjusted it to just the right
temperature, and then stepped in, feeling instant relief.

The pressure of the warm water relieving
tensed muscles felt amazing, but he needed to finish in time for
his father to get home and have dinner.

Scott stepped out into the air, which now
seemed cold compared to the roughly hundred-and-four-degree water.
He grabbed a towel, and dried off quickly to be rid of the
chill.

Walking over to the mirror, Scott reached out
to wipe off the steam, and was disconcerted and startled at what
his eyes had gazed upon.
Selehpotsihpem,
had been pressed
into the vapor on the mirror.

Water still dripped down from the letters as
if someone had just finished pressing on the surface with their
fingertip. At second glance he realized the letters had been
written backwards. He picked up another mirror and held it up to
corroborate his theory. The mirror now spelled:
Mephistopheles.

Still horrified at the thought that someone
or something had written on the mirror while he showered, Scott
gathered his thoughts, and grabbed a pen and paper so he could
write down the correct spelling of the word. He then grabbed a
thesaurus and a dictionary to try and locate the foreign name and
find the meaning.

Unsuccessful at locating the name, Scott
called his friend Cameron, and asked him to go through his parent’s
library of books. Ten minutes later, the phone rang.

“Hello?” No response. “Who’s there? Cameron?”
Scott asked desperately.

“Yeah, it’s me, Cameron.” He said
hesitantly.

Cameron was quiet, as if ashamed, or possibly
frightened of his findings. His voice even shook during the few
words, which he spoke.

Growing impatient, Scott asked, “What did you
find?”

“Satan,” Cameron forced out, as if it pained
him to say the word.

“It means Satan?”

“My parents have every Bible and concordance
imaginable. It means exactly that. Look up Satan in your thesaurus,
and you should find your word there.”

He was right. Between
Belial
and
Lucifer
was the word written on Scott’s mirror.

Scott thanked his friend, and nearly
speechless, Cameron quietly murmured, “Talk to you later,” and then
hung up.

Scott ran to the bathroom to take another
look at the mirror, but the steam had already dissipated along with
the evil script.

Puzzled, and uncertain if he should tell his
father, Scott sat and pondered:
How did that end up on my
mirror? The door was locked from the inside. I’m the only one home.
Could it be a joke? Maybe someone had smudged it on the mirror days
before, and it showed after it fogged up?

But who would think to write that name, and
take the time to write it backwards, perfectly?”

His mind raced, driving him crazy with
curiosity.

Scott never did tell his father. Cameron and
he alone held on to the secret.

November 2, 1986: Nothing came of the message
found on Scott’s mirror, and after more than a year, he was
confident his life was back to normal.

While in the basement laundry room folding
clothes, Scott heard a light but methodical scratching noise coming
from the top of the stairs.

Although it was broad daylight, the basement
was dark as night, with only tiny shards of light speckling in
through the vine covered windows. Scott was unable to see to the
top of the stairs.

The home was arranged in such a way that the
stairs led from the basement directly up to a door that opened into
the garage. To the left of that door was another door that led to
the kitchen on the main floor of the house.

As he peered up the stairs unable to make
sense of the noise, Scott flicked on the light located on the
ceiling, directly above the landing. Illuminated by the light, a
pair of bright green eyes looked down at him with intense interest.
His beloved feline, Whiskers was staring with anticipation; it was
his feeding time, and his food dish awaited him on the other side
of the garage door. Whiskers was a large all grey male cat with
exceptionally long whiskers—hence the name.

Scott grabbed the large bag of chicken and
seafood flavored cat food, and made his way up the stairs.

Whiskers paced impatiently back and forth,
purring loudly, saliva building up on his course tongue as he
picked up the scent of the food drawing closer to him.

After unlocking the garage door deadbolt,
Scott nudged it open with his knee while both hands were occupied
with the bag of cat food. He propped the door open with his right
foot while carefully dumping the pungent smelling cat food into
Whiskers’ bowl. The thickly built cat impatiently dove through his
owner’s legs, and into the garage where he could position himself
in front of the bowl, and begin devouring his favorite dried cat
mix.