The Open Door (10 page)

Neighbor’s testimonies that overheard the
horrible sounds filling his home that night, confirmed everything
he had told the police. A search of the woman’s clothing resulted
in dirty needles, a syringe, and a knife. After testing her blood,
high doses of Methamphetamine and alcohol were found, which greatly
helped his case.

The investigators chose to ignore the
unexplainable strangeness, such as the awful smelling black bile
and the word etched in his door, which by the way was written in
Latin, and means, “Death.” It all added up to a psychotic woman on
drugs entering Scott’s home and endangering his life.

He told no one of the unnatural events he had
witnessed that night, for fear they would find him confused or
insane, and dictate that he receive a series physiological
evaluations, followed by months, or maybe years of counseling.

Lazily written off as, “justifiable self
defense” by local law enforcement, Scott allowed for everyone in
his life to believe as such. Although it was justifiable, he wanted
for all to know the truth—that this was something supernatural.
Some things however, are better kept inside, so inside is where it
remained.

The moment that will forever haunt him had
also enticed his curiosity and ignited a thorough investigation of
his past. An investigation that had already produced more questions
than answers.

The bottom of her three inch heel struck the
top of a pebble just so, causing her fragile and perfectly formed
ankle to bend slightly, throwing her off balance, just enough to
make her look clumsy. Not dorky clumsy, cute clumsy, like a newborn
fawn walking for the first time. That’s how Ella Marie Warren felt
in heels, like a fawn, only dorky, not cute.

At five feet four inches, and just under a
hundred and fifteen pounds, Ella was petite. Small boned, long
slender legs, athletically built but not physically coordinated
like her physique would suggest, long and wavy auburn hair down to
the small of her back, bright-green almond shaped eyes with long
lashes; lashes long enough to fan the flames of most men’s desires,
rose-red lips concealing perfectly formed white teeth, and a kind,
shy smile that was never intended to attract the opposite sex, but
often did, much to Ella’s dismay.

Whoever invented heels should be shot!
Well . . . maybe not shot, that’s harsh, but publicly humiliated at
least!
Ella fumed, as she walked from the parking lot to the
building that held the job she so wanted to quit.

An office manager for a small business
offering reading material, audio and video recordings, and other
things Biblical in nature—this was a job Ella was good at—being a
spiritual and morally sound person. But in her late twenties, she
longed for her dream job: a stay at home mother to several
beautiful children, and a wife to her dream man. “
Domestic
Diva
,” was the name she gave her dream profession.
Unfortunately, Mr. Right had eluded her all these years, and she
began to think that maybe it wasn’t meant to be. She began to
question her outer beauty and her inner beauty; her confidence
shrunk with each passing year, and sadness seemingly conquered her
once positive, outgoing spirit, eclipsing any trace of which she
once was and wanted to again become. Her Bible was her best friend,
her guide, her light in the darkness, and her beacon of hope.

It wasn’t that men weren’t attracted to
Ella—they were, or that she didn’t receive offers—she did. Ella had
a list she wrote when becoming a woman, at age eighteen. The list
consisted of all the qualities her man would need before she would
give herself to him, marry him, and most importantly, have children
with him.

Not a single man from the time she became a
woman—ten years ago—met her requirements.

1. Tall, strong and handsome. A protector.
   

2. A kind heart to be knitted to mine.
   

3. A lover of God, children, and all things
   good.
   

4. A man whose morals and ethics cannot be
   compromised.
   

5. A man who will always fight for what is
   right.
   

6. A man who will love our children and me
   unconditionally, forever.
   

Ella’s list remained in a small decorative
box, covered in pastel colored Victorian flowers and lace. From
time to time she would remove it, unfold it, careful not to tear
the now fragile paper, and read the list, praying that her man
would find her. Soon. Now.

After sleeping for ten straight hours, Scott
awoke to a sunny day, feeling rested and healthy for the first time
in days.

After eating a hearty breakfast, he wrote out
his agenda for the day, which consisted of finding the meaning and
origin of what had been etched into his bedroom door at the old
Cape Way house, and seeing if there was any correlation between the
word/symbol, and what the possessed woman said to him using the
defunct language of Latin. He also wanted to review the video
footage captured at the Cape Way house to see if there was anything
revealing. Before all that—first things first: hesitant to do so,
he called an exhausted and emotionally stripped Cody for his
assistance.

“Hello?” Cody still sounded half asleep.

“In the mood for some research? I could use
another set of eyes when reviewing the footage.”

“You’re playing me, right? This is a
joke.”

“Sorry man, I’m just a little anxious.”

“Can I join you tomorrow? Seriously Scott,
the visit to your humble abode wiped me out.”

“No problem. Get some rest, and call me
tomorrow.”

Starting off with the ancient looking symbol
that was scratched into his door was daunting, but it had Scott
curious and seemed like a good starting point. Surely something was
trying to communicate with him, or why would it leave such curious
messages? To execrate him? To torment him—just for fun? Why? For
fear that very simple question would continue to haunt him, and
that the answers would forever elude him, he worked feverishly to
seek answers—to find an ending to this chapter in his life.

Searches for dead languages on the Internet
only left Scott more confused than before, and the library had come
up short as well. Sure there were history pieces for the nerdy and
obsessed, but nothing that revealed the true meaning of what he
witnessed. If only there was a translator who could simply read it
to him, explain the meaning.
That’s it!

Desperate and defiant, and now with a light
bulb burning bright above his head like a halo of ideas circling
his brow, he knew just what he needed to do. Scott looked up local
language specialists using the net, and found one that claimed to
have resources on all ancient and dead languages.
Too good to be
true? Maybe, but worth a shot!

Benjamin Mustapha had a small office near
downtown in an old residential neighborhood. The structure that
housed a variety of families for generations was now an office
building where Mr. Mustapha held his highly specific practice.

Wasting no time, Scott arranged a meeting
with Mr. Mustapha at his earliest convenience, which just happened
to be that very afternoon: 1:00 P.M. to be exact.

As he pulled up in front of Mr. Mustapha’s
place of business, he was relieved to find parking just at the end
of his walkway—right on the street.

Walking up the cement path he noticed many
things, things that caught his eye—a glimpse into the world of
Benjamin Mustapha. Not a blade of grass dared cross the perfectly
edged line that ran on either side of the walkway. The lawn was
plush, green, perfectly manicured, much like a putting green at a
golf course. Kentucky bluegrass was used. He could tell because it
was so soft, so thick, it resembled something from the Shire; he
fully expected a Hobbit to answer the door at that point. As he
approached the entrance, he cleared three steps, and then found
himself standing on a mat that simply read, “Welcome.” Looking up
at the entwined white vines of iron, which made up the outer screen
door, he felt exactly that: welcome.

Reaching out to press the doorbell, sure that
he would hear the theme to Nutcracker Suite in place of a standard
doorbell, the boring kind they install in most homes; the inner
door was pulled open—depriving him the opportunity to hear the
jingle. Staring in through the mesh like screen, he at first saw
nobody, and then a voice rang out in a thick accent—an Egyptian
accent. “Mr. Abrahamson, I presume?”

Looking down at the exceptionally short, thin
man, Scott studied him as he peered up at him through bushy
eyebrows, like individual nests resting atop his eye sockets. He
had dark, wild hair with large L-shaped sideburns slapped on each
side of his face like a couple or pork chops, a smallish mouth, and
big brown eyes. He looked more like a Muppet character than a
man.

“Yes, I’m Scott, I’m here for the one
‘o’clock appointment.”

“Ah . . . yes, do please come in, Mr.
Abrahamson.”

“Thank you sir.”

“Call me Mustapha, it’s what all my friends
call me. Even the ones I don’t like.” He giggled to himself.

“I appreciate you seeing me on such short
notice.”

“No problem at all, kind sir. I had a
cancellation, and your case intrigued me. It’s not often I hear of
such strange and unexplainable happenings.

But—I will—when I’m through helping you—bring
full explanation. I will shed light on all that is now dark.”

Not fully comprehending what he just said,
and feeling as if he was meeting with a short green philosopher
named Yoda, Scott was grateful nonetheless.

“That’s very reassuring, Mr. Mustapha.”

“Just, Mustapha, if you please. Not so
formal.”

“Absolutely. I apologize. And please, call me
Scott. I’m not all that formal myself.”

“As you wish, Scott. Now, let’s see the
photos.”

Handing Mustapha a manila envelope containing
all his photographic evidence, he quickly pulled out the photos,
thumbing through them, and then stopping—abruptly. “Here it is . .
. the message you spoke of. Very disconcerting indeed, Mr.
Abraham—“ He stopped himself. “Scott, I apologize. I’ve only seen
markings like this one other time; about ten years ago in
Cairo.”

“Do you know the origins?”

“I was never able to trace the origins. It’s
definitely dead and without a lot of history. It is similar to
other ancient scripts, so I can take an educated guess at the
meaning.”

After an hour of deciphering the message by
sorting through other culture’s writings, Mustapha sat and glared
at his discovery with a perplexed and concerned look about him.

“Everything OK?”

“I could be wrong, Scott; I want you to know
that. This is simply an educated guess on an unknown and archaic
language.”

“It’s better than nothing. Honestly, I’ll
take anything I can get at this point.”

“I believe it reads, ‘Black Prince,’ or
possibly, ‘Dark Prince,’ which makes more sense. I can’t make out
the other part, but if I had to guess, it reads, ‘I am.’

‘I am the Dark Prince’ is what I believe was
etched in your door, Scott.”

“I don’t get it, who is the Dark Prince?”

“Satan. In most cultures, the Dark Lord, or
the Prince of Darkness, or Angel of Darkness . . . they all mean
the same thing: Satan.”

“But why would anyone write such a
thing?”

“Either to scare you into believing it was
actually him, or if you’re open to it, maybe it was actually him.
Take your pick, but that’s all I can make of it.”

Scott paid Mustapha two hundred dollars for
his time, and left with more questions than before.

What did he mean when he said, “If you’re
open to it?” Either it was Satan, or it wasn’t.
“Open to it?
What does that have to do with anything?”

Despite the confusion, He believed Mustapha
was correct in his assumption. It made sense considering the other
messages he had received over the years, and other experiences he
had encountered.

After returning home, Scott pulled all of his
notes out of a cardboard box he kept them in, and began placing
them together like a puzzle. A haunting puzzle missing several of
its pieces—and with each piece—a more disturbing picture.

Floating weightlessly through silken flowers
of fantastical colors, under a bluish-purple sky, speckled with
soft, fluffy white clouds, Cody slept deeper than ever he had. His
dream, one of which he wished to never wake from.

BAM!
A thunderous boom echoed
throughout his dream. Flowers wilted into faded, colorless,
crumpled pieces of lifeless paper. The sky filled with black,
ominous vapor that bled into swirling, dark funnels, threatening to
touch down and rip the dream world apart. Puffy clouds were no
more. Bright cheery colors were gone. Life; now engulfed by jaws of
death. In the distance, a figure seemingly rose from the ground—too
far away to make out any detailed features, but the blackened
silhouette appeared to be a tall thin man wearing a hat.

Bam! Bam!
Glass shattered and fell to
the ground. The dream: over. “What the—?“ Cody sat up, listening
intently. “Hello?” No answer.
Bam!
Again, the noise came
from the front door. A few more pieces of glass bounced off the
ground then settled, resting among other pieces of the glass
graveyard—sounding a little like a wind-chime as they trickled
down.

Rolling out of bed, Cody slid his tired feet
into a pair of soft wool slippers, ran both hands through his hair
in an attempt to look presentable, and walked to his front
door.

The door was found as he had left it: closed
and locked. Cody reached out, turned the dead bolt, grabbed the
door-handle, and slowly pulled the door open. Glass fell at his
feet; a slight wind parted the bottom of his robe and caused the
screen door to slam against the frame.