The Open Door (11 page)

Looking up, Cody noticed the entire panel of
glass had shattered and fallen to the ground. A few shards remained
in the upper and lower parts of the window frame, sticking out like
razor sharp teeth in a gaping mouth. In an attempt to pull the
shards of glass free, Cody’s index finger slipped, gliding over the
glass edge, creating a surgically precise cut, as if from a
scalpel, turning the transparent pane to crimson-red.

Looking at his now unsightly finger, unable
to tell how deep the cut ran, Cody gazed down at the glistening red
crystals; blood continuing to drip and pool at his feet.

Concerned, Cody ran to the bathroom, opened
his cabinet, and fumbled through his stereotypical bachelor like
mess, desperately seeking first-aid supplies.

Only able to locate the rubbing alcohol, Cody
sloppily poured it over his wound as a stinging pain shot up his
hand, wrist, arm, and then neck, causing his entire body to tense
up as he let out a short but intense scream. The bleeding
continued, so Cody placed gauze on his finger, and secured it with
tape, hoping stitches would not be necessary.

After grabbing a small trashcan, broom and
dustpan, Cody made his way back to the front entrance where the
mess of bloody glass awaited him. Cody pulled the main door back
open. Startled, he dropped the broom and trashcan while
simultaneously jumping backward—attempting to create distance from
what he discovered. Blood had been smeared on the outside of the
door, forming three words:
death is imminent.
This wasn’t
some riddle written in ancient script, this was a threat written in
plain English.

Cody glanced across the street, his eyes
fixed on a man who appeared to be facing him, possibly looking at
him. It was hard to tell with the black top hat concealing half the
man’s face, but it gave Cody chills nonetheless. Cody noticed how
gaunt the tall man appeared, and questioned his unusual attire: a
long black coat, boots, and dusty gravedigger hat.

That wasn’t all: the man appeared to be
covered in arid earth that dusted off of him each time a gust of
wind brushed against his decaying garments.

Continuing to study the man, looking him up
and down, Cody noticed something on the man’s right index finger:
blood dripping from it, building a small puddle on the sidewalk
beside him.

Now focusing on the man’s face, Cody noticed
a crooked smile forming. Lifting his bloodied index finger to his
mouth, the man inserted it inside, his lips forming a perfect seal
around the finger. The man then slowly pulled his moist, boney
finger out, seemingly enjoying the taste of Cody’s essence, much
the way a child would enjoy a cherry Popsicle. Once dry pale lips;
now wet with Cody’s blood.

The man grabbed the brim of his hat using his
index finger and thumb, bowed his head, and turned just as a bus
passed by. And like the wind and dust the bus had stirred up after
passing, the man was gone. Speechless, Cody remained in the
entryway, staring at where the man stood moments ago.

Entering her small but clean and well
organized apartment, Ella kicked off her heels after a long
day—careful not to track any germs her shoes might have picked up
from the soiled asphalt in the city. The ten-year-old eggshell
colored carpet appeared new, thanks to Ella’s strict policy that
all visitors leave their shoes at the door. All who knew Ella, knew
her ways, so like well trained four legged companions, they knew to
keep her place spotless.

The last friend Ella made was three years
ago: a sales representative named Emily, who worked for the same
company. She hadn’t had a visitor for nearly a year—by choice—not
because people didn’t enjoy her company.

There wasn’t much furniture or decorations
occupying her space, which made it easier and quicker to clean.
This is not to say Ella’s place was cold and sterile. Like Ella,
the apartment had charm, warmth, personality—she simply had a thing
for cleanliness.
Cleanliness is next to Godliness,
Ella
could hear her mother saying the phrase as if she were standing
five feet away; staring at her with those judgmental eyes,
accompanied by her loving smile. Ella smiled at the thought, blew
her bangs out of her eyes, and sauntered into the kitchen to cook
up some steamed vegetables and rice.

Still in her work clothes, Ella finished her
meal, cleared the dishes, rinsed them off, and placed them in the
dishwasher. The dishes were so clean after Ella’s thorough rinsing,
they hardly needed further cleaning; the dishwasher was used
primarily to sanitize the already sparkling dishes and
silverware.

Ella plopped down on the heavily cushioned
sofa, propped her feet up on the arm, crossed her legs, and leaned
back as she closed her eyes and exhaled.
Seriously, am I so bad?
Twenty-eight and single . . . what would my mother say? I know what
she’d say: I’m waiting, Ella. Where are my grandchildren? I’m not
going to be around forever! That’s what she’d say. Bless her dear
soul.
Ella thought kindly of her sometimes overbearing but
loving mother.

Ella’s mother had passed-on two years ago
from ovarian cancer. Her mother was strong and had valiantly fought
off the cancer for several years, but the defiant, putrid disease
kept rearing its ugly head, refusing to relinquish, longing to
destroy.

Despite her pain, Ella’s mother never stopped
giving, caring, and loving. She gave even during her final moments,
in which Ella sat by her side, holding her hand, not wanting to let
go. Ever. Ella would often remember that day. In a soft comforting
voice, her mother said to her, “My beautiful daughter, Ella. I pray
. . . one day you will have a child of your own; so you can know
the love I have for you. The love that only a mother can have for
her child. You are my most precious gift, my dear Ella, and I will
never stop loving you.” Tears filled with life, love, happiness,
and sadness, gently glided down her mother’s face, as she took her
final breath. Her eyes closed one last time, her soft delicate hand
slowly relaxed in Ella’s. Unable to leave her mother’s side, Ella
rested her head on her mother’s chest, and cried herself to
sleep.

An angel died that day,
Ella thought
to herself. “God, I miss her.” Still lying on the sofa, Ella cried
herself to sleep—just as she did the day she said her final
goodbye—remembering how it felt to hold her mother’s hand.

After shaking off the chilling events of the
morning, Cody called for a window replacement while he gathered his
thoughts.  Once composed, he called Scott, explaining what had
transpired.  Before Cody could finish explaining, Scott had
hung-up and drove directly to Cody's, pushing his '68 Plymouth to
its limits in order to make good time.

  A few minutes later, screeching tires
and the abrupt closing of a heavy car door alerted Cody.  

Scott walked with purpose up to the front
entrance, staring intently at the bloody characters that had been
written with an ossified finger.  "This better not be a
joke, Cody."  

  "Seriously?  Look at me!
 Look at the screen door!"  

  "Alright, I'm sorry.  I just—I
can't believe you are experiencing the same things."  

  "Tell me about it," Cody said, as he
pointed to his door.  "I had the strangest dream.  Nice
at first, actually, but then—well—it got weird."

  "What?  What was weird about
it?"

  "The sky turned black, chaotic—it was
creepy as Hell.  

Flowers wilted, everything turned shades of
grey.  Then out of nowhere, a man stood in the distance,
wearing a long coat and hat."

  "A hat?  What kind of hat?
 What did he look like?"  Scott asked anxiously.
 

  "I couldn't see his face, that's the
problem.  His hat—I believe it was—um—well—it looked like a
top hat. Maybe.  Like something out of the 1800's or
something."

  "Did he say anything?  Do
anything?"

  "No.  That's when I woke up to
the door slamming."

  Scott believed but didn't want to.
 The fact that Cody had seen the same man who haunted him, and
also experienced written messages, which now were threatening,
changed the dynamics. A new plan was needed. The more Scott
investigated, it seemed, the more bizarre and frequent the events.
 Scott started to believe that he was endangering his friend
by dragging him into his peculiar mess.  "I don't want you to
help anymore, Cody.  Somehow, by assisting me, this thing has
found you . . . it seeks you. It has threatened you for crying out
loud!"

  "My choice, Scott.  You didn't
make me—you may have manipulated a bit, but you didn't force
me."

  "It may be time to back off—both of
us.  This is something that can affect the physical world we
live in, and now, according to you, our dream world.  This
means it can dig around our heads, physically harm us—it knows
where we live, when and if we're home—do you see what this means?
It's no longer about seeking something to satisfy my curiosity:
it's now a matter of saving our own lives—trying to survive
whatever this thing has intended for us."

  "Yeah . . . I thought about that.
 It seems our only hope is to delve into the spiritual realm.
 I can't believe I'm admitting this but, how else can we
fight—defeat this thing?"

  "It's worth a shot.  Turn on your
computer and let's look up local retailers who specialize in
spiritual, Biblical, and religious material."

  Cody typed in a search that brought up
three places within a ten-mile radius.  The closest being a
place called, Word of God.  "They seem to have a large
inventory—mail order mostly—but it reads that they have a catalog
customers can look through.  Maybe they'll have what we need
already in stock."

  "Let's hurry; maybe we can get some
ideas before, IT returns.

Candles flickered, distorting moving shadows
on the amber-lit walls of Mustapha’s home office.  He thumbed
through Scott’s documents and photos when a foreboding feeling
washed over him. 

  A language specialist and interpreter,
Mustapha had not been exposed to anything paranormal—it wasn’t his
line of work.  And yet he felt interested, even consumed with
Scott’s case since their first meeting.  Mustapha was
determined to unearth who or what was behind the heinous acts
perpetrated towards Scott. 

  An old fashioned ring chimed from
Mustapha’s 1950’s phone, “Hello?  This is Mustapha.”

  Silence absorbed the night, turning
the office into a seemingly unoccupied space.

  “Anyone there?  Hello?”

  A hissing sound coming through white
noise now filled his ear.  He listened intently, if nothing
else, out of pure curiosity. 

  “This is Mustapha.  I can’t hear
you.  Please call back.”   He hung up after figuring
there was nothing to be heard but noise providing nothing more than
annoyance. 

  The phone rang again. 

  “Hello?”

  One, two, three, four . . . After
counting to ten, he would hang up.  There was no time for
prank calls.  Five, six, seven, eight, nine—a voice spoke
something in Arabic.  Then Swahili, Russian, Latin.  All
of a sudden, they were all speaking at once, but in a whispering
tone, like thousands of snakes hissing into the receiver. 

  Mustapha listened closely as cold
shivers ran the length of his short body.  He was able to make
out the Arabic; after all, that was his native language, but he
could only understand bits and pieces of the other languages that
spewed out.  What he was able to decipher left him feeling
hollow, cold, almost in shock.

  He wrote what he could remember on
paper, filling in the blanks to form complete sentences: Y
ou and
your new friends are all damned to spend eternity with me, in
Hell.  You have been chosen, and all who help the tall
one. 
There were many vile words said as well, but
Mustapha chose to leave them out—they were obviously added for
effect and held little to no relevance.

  After some needed research, he would
have to call Scott to arrange a meeting.  Mustapha was aware
that Scott’s friend, Cody had already helped him; he had to get to
Scott before anyone else was involved.  Including him, there
were now three, although Mustapha wasn’t certain if Cody had any
contact with what he presumed to be, demons. 

Scott and Cody pulled into the near empty
parking lot. The building, which once housed a department store,
was now a plain looking brown-brick enclosure with the only window
being the entrance door. There was no signage displaying the name
of the company, just what was printed on the door; a sure sign the
business was a modest one.

Scott and Cody approached the front door;
Scott pulled it open, causing the tiny bells to ring that dangled
from the top—surely the bells were to alert the few workers that
someone had entered.

Cody sat in the lounge sifting through the
assorted magazines. Scott stood—too anxious to sit—and in too much
a hurry to waste time reading magazines containing cars he couldn’t
afford or movie stars he could care less about.

Footsteps from the hall became louder—Scott
stared at the hall’s entryway.
Heels . . . it must be a woman.
The footsteps sound light—she’s a small woman. The walk is crisp
and energetic—maybe a younger woman?
Scott’s intuitiveness
proved highly accurate; in walked a pretty but wholesome female,
well dressed, beautiful, long full hair, amazing eyes, and the
warmest smile Scott had ever seen.