The Open Door (3 page)

Scott closed the door and watched Whiskers
plow through his meal with ravenous pleasure, as if he hadn’t eaten
in days. He couldn’t help but watch with a smile on his face;
Whiskers was actually very entertaining, and had a colorful
personality—especially for a cat.

Scott closed the garage door, locked the
deadbolt, and made his way down the stairs to resume folding
clothes.

Now how does this go again?
He
thought, while attempting to fold a pair of jeans.
Creases
touching, align the legs, lay flat, fold over . . . Ah—that looks
right!

A noise pierced the still air; Scott again
heard something at the top of the stairs.

He stopped what he was doing to better hear
the noise. Again, it sounded like scratching.

“Wow! Whiskers ate that bowl of food fast!”
Scott said to himself, while thinking about how spoiled the cat
was.

Starting back up the stairs, Scott again
flicked on the light switch. “Whiskers?” He said, as a chill went
up his spine.

Standing on the first step, unable to move,
Scott stared at the cat with a puzzled look on his face. His mind
went through all the steps he took when feeding Whiskers, and it
didn’t add up. He knew the cat was in the garage when he closed and
locked the door—he was certain of it.

Bringing his attention back to the pair of
green eyes that stared at him—the cat seemed to be fine—not even
the slightest bit spooked.

Slowly creeping his way up the stairs, Scott
stood in front of the door. Hesitant to check the lock, he raised
his shaking hand, and eased it towards to deadbolt.
Whew! It’s
locked.
He opened the door, and peered through the screen door
at an empty cat food bowl.

Okay . . . how is it that I closed and
locked the door as I watched Whiskers start on the bowl of
food?
—
which by the way was full. Now his bowl is empty, and
again he’s scratching to be let out?

Thinking about it only made Scott crazier.
There was no logical explanation. He was certain about what he had
done, and that he had locked the door while Whiskers was still in
the garage.

Scott grabbed the cat’s food bowl and brought
it down to the basement where he could watch the cat eat. Whiskers
followed Scott down to the basement where he poured another bowl of
food. He sat and watched the tiny predator eat—clearly still
hungry—indicating he had not eaten the food while in the garage.
Scott pondered what could have happened, and again came up
empty.

Although the cat was seemingly fine, Scott
was still shook up several hours later. Some people may have
shrugged off the chain of events that he had witnessed that day,
but for some reason, it left him feeling uneasy—possibly due to his
highly unusual past experiences. He had a sick feeling every time
he thought about how Whiskers could have been let inside the house,
and how the deadbolt had been locked from the inside.

Two years had gone by since the incident with
the Horse head of the Apocalypse, which floated around his room
like an under-inflated helium balloon, blindly finding its way
along a wall. It had taken place upstairs in his old room, in the
very house he still lived, and that thought was unsettling at
best.

A few odd things had happened since, but
nothing that had sent chills careening down his spine.

The incident with Whiskers had such a deeply
profound affect on Scott, that every creek, tap, drip, and any
other subtle noise in the house, left him nearly paralyzed. He shut
down, held his breath, eyes wide open, as if his eyelids were taped
to his forehead. He only listened to hear if something was in the
house with him. Scott’s paranoia had gotten to him. That night was
one of the longest he could remember. He wasn’t exactly sure what
time he finally fell asleep, but he knew he lay awake for many
hours, listening for any sign of movement. His hands clenched the
sheets so tightly, that his fists trembled. He had not blinked for
so long, that his eyes dried up, causing them to sting—terribly. He
had focused on one spot for too long, which caused his eyes to play
tricks on him—adding to the paranoia.

Morning came, but not soon enough. Scott was
tired, but thankful nothing more happened. Whiskers lay at the foot
of his bed, still sleeping off the bowl of cat chow. Scott prayed
that nothing weird would happen on that day and got up to make
breakfast.

July 22, 1988: Incident number-five found
Scott in the basement of his home. It was a stormy mid-summer
Saturday night; Scott was eighteen and home alone.
Probably the
ONLY eighteen year old with nothing to do,
he thought to
himself.

He now lived in the basement, which had been
recently renovated and turned into a separate apartment with two
bedrooms, a full bathroom, kitchen, and laundry room. He began to
enjoy the solitude of having his own space, and would often stay
home while others were out partying. With a TV, VCR, Atari game
system, and his guitar, Scott had plenty to keep him occupied.

Thumbing through the mess of VHS movies,
Scott searched for something he was in the mood for, and much like
the weather, his mood was gloomy.

Large heavy raindrops descended from the
swirling sky like tiny liquid meteors. They splattered on the
ground like fist sized bugs ramming into an oncoming
windshield.

Gutters flooded only minutes after the storm
hit. Clouds in the night sky glowed with violent radiance every few
seconds from the frequent lightening, and the wind lay dormant,
bringing a dead calm about the storm.

The Exorcist!
He thought.
Nothing
like a classic on a night like tonight!

Sitting on the heavily cushioned tan sofa,
five feet from the TV, Scott had buttered popcorn to his right, and
a tall glass of lemonade sitting on the tray to the left.

Thunder boomed so loud, it sounded as though
it cracked the foundation of the home. Lightning flashed on and off
in the windows with intense frequency. The stage was set for the
movie, as the opening scene displayed itself on the nineteen-inch
screen.

Midway through the movie, Scott needed to
take a bathroom break. The bathroom was down the hall from the
kitchen, and further down the hall was his bedroom. A door adjoined
the second bedroom to his, and he always kept that door shut.

After noticing that the door was ajar, Scott
shut it before walking to the bathroom to relieve himself of the
tall glass of lemonade he had just devoured. After closing the door
he ventured towards the bathroom when he heard the creak of the
door opening behind him. He slowly turned to find the door half
open.
The door must not be closing all the way,
he thought.
Scott walked back into the room, and pushed it shut. A clicking
sound resonated, indicating the door was secure. He pulled on the
handle to be sure, and was unable to pull the door open.

Thankful the door wasn’t broken, and certain
that it was closed tightly; he again walked away towards the
bathroom. Hesitating, Scott turned to check on the door. He looked
over his shoulder. Still closed.

He finally gave himself the much needed
restroom break, and walked out of the bathroom to enjoy the second
half of his movie. Exiting the bathroom, something caught his eye
to the right.
Not possible!
The door was open.

Not wanting to close it again, for fear the
results would be concerning; he walked back to the living room to
finish watching the movie.

The movie was over as was the storm, and
Scott was left with a feeling—he regretted that he had watched one
of the scariest movies of all time during a stormy night when home
alone. He knew sleep wouldn’t come easy that night, especially
after the door incident, but he sucked it up and headed for the
bathroom to brush and floss his teeth.

Heading down the hall, Scott looked ahead and
noticed that the adjoining door in his room was now closed. He
remembered it being open when he last saw it, and it refused to
stay shut. A familiar feeling came over—a sick feeling he knew all
too well. It happened every time he experienced the unexplainable,
or whenever something that should only exist in horror movies
reared its ugly head in his reality.

Scott darted for the bathroom, closed and
locked the door, and took a deep breath.
I’ll take my time
getting ready for bed
—
maybe it’ll be gone by then
, he
hoped.

Buying time to refill on sanity, Scott found
himself sitting on the closed toilet-seat lid, and staring at the
door after he was ready for bed. He didn’t want to open the door,
he didn’t want to enter the room, and he certainly wouldn’t be able
to fall asleep. There he was, a strapping eighteen-year-old man,
alone and scared. Too scared to leave the bathroom and go to his
room.
Pathetic!

An hour went by, and Scott still sat on the
toilet seat, staring at the locked door. The house was dead silent;
his ears picked up on a white-noise that filled his head with a
deafening sound, reminiscent of a TV that had been left on after
the network went off air.

A door handle turned, breaking the silence.
Alarmed, Scott looked at the bathroom door handle, but it remained
motionless. The sound of a door creaking its way open filled the
air. He pressed his ear against the bathroom door; the hallway was
again silent.

Knowing that he shouldn’t unlock the door,
and leave the faux security of the bathroom, Scott sat down on the
cool floor with his back to the wall, and closed his eyes. There
would be no sleep for him, at least not till sunrise.

February 13, 1989: Scott’s nineteenth
birthday had arrived, and friends had planned a night on the town,
filled with dinner, dessert, and a live performance of Phantom of
the Opera at the beautifully renovated Gothic Theater.

Being that Scott was not alone and traveling
two cities away from home, the thought of anything unusual taking
place was farthest from his mind. He would soon learn that the
strange happenings that had occurred at church and at home could,
and would take place anywhere—anytime.

First on the agenda was dinner at the best
steak house in town. Scott’s dear friends: Cameron, Dan, and Cody
all took part in the planning. Every year they would all pitch in
for each other’s birthday, and surprise the guest of honor with a
night and/or day to remember.

Last year they took Scott to a small mountain
town where they explored old buildings and mines, ate at some ‘50’s
diner with a waitress that had a beehive hairdo straight out of
Happy Days. It was always something different, and never
disappointing.

The steak: a particularly delightful pepper
steak, well done, seared with a pepper-crusted top, slightly tangy
and juicy.
Why is it that the best tasting food always seems to
come in the smallest portions?
Scott wondered.
Perhaps to
tease the pallet without rendering the patron gluttonous.

After dinner, they headed to Cheesecake
Palace, where they enjoyed some of the finest assortments of
cheesecake known to man. It didn’t seem right: a small portion of
steak—an amazing steak—the best—leaving you wanting more. And then
so much cheesecake, you don’t want to look at another piece until
the next birthday. All of them had to loosen their ever tightening
belts, serving to remind them of all they ate.

After desert, and to Scott’s surprise, a
black stretch limo pulled up to the curb.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Get in!”
Said Cameron, as he grinned ear to ear.

Having never ridden in a limo, Scott was
ecstatic. They all jumped into the back, and made themselves
comfortable. Cameron adjusted the stereo to their favorite rock
station, Cody opened the alcohol-free bar and served up soda, and
Dan opened the moon-roof, placing him on display like a piece of
meat to attract the female wolves that ran in packs up and down the
strip.

After accepting a root beer from Cody, Scott
enjoyed the rest of the ride to his destination: the Gothic
Theater.

The limo driver pulled up to the entrance of
the Theater; they felt like celebrities as they stepped out of the
plush ride, and based on the crowd’s reaction, they thought they
could be celebrities.

Dan had already purchased the tickets, so
they bypassed the window and walked right in. All four of them took
a moment to enjoy the ambiance of the Gothic before taking their
seats.

The outside of the Gothic was nothing special
to look at. Built in the 1940’s, it was a grey stone building with
an old lettered sign illuminated by flickering fluorescent bulbs;
bouncing red, yellow, and blue neon flashes off the damp
pavement.

Inside is where the place sprung to life:
detailed moldings and candelabras of gold, silk drapes in maroon
etched with lace, balcony views overlooking rows of crushed red
velvet seating that steeply sloped down to the shiny black stage,
and dim candles delivering just enough light to tease the senses
with the intense beauty of the theater. It had no equal in the
arena of interior design, and was the perfect setting for one of
the most notoriously entertaining operas of all time.

The air was heavy with anticipation, the
crowds buzzed with life, and laughter and chatter filled the
auditorium until the actors took to the stage.

An usher stood at the isle entrance, and with
a flashlight, escorted them to their seats.

The show started, and it was no ordinary
production. The make-up and costumes were spectacular, and the
actors were exceptional.

The curtains had drawn on the final scene,
and the entire theater erupted with applause and cheer. Taking it
all in, Scott looked around at the packed house. Not a single
person was seated as the actors took their bows before the standing
ovation.