

### The Open Door

_The Open Door_ is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

First Edition, January, 2014

Copyright 2014 by _Brian Brahm (Brian Braham)_

All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced in any form, in whole or in part, without written permission from the author.

## The Open Door

### PROLOGUE

In life, there are people who are content to accept things as they are, never venturing outside that which they know and find comfort in. There are others whose minds are infinitely more open. These are people who see things a different way and often times are able to think of more options—more solutions to the nagging problems life can offer.

Sometimes having an open mind has its downfalls. An open mind is not unlike an open door; it can let in a draft, insect, spider, rodent, and sometimes far worse. The more open the door, the more room for larger, creepier things.

Most people close the door early on, either inadvertently or intentionally. These people rarely find themselves face to face with anything more troubling than a skeleton in the closet.

For people who leave their door open entering adulthood and beyond, enough time is allotted for something far more heinous to find its way into their lives.

Scott Abrahamson is the latter—his door had been left wide open his whole life—leaving him with an extraordinary dilemma. It is his story that I am here to tell. For you to know and understand his life's path, it's of the utmost importance that his life experiences be shared in full chronological order. After that be told, his story will begin, and knowing the history of Scott Abrahamson will allow for you, the reader, to better understand the depth of his life altering revelation.

### CHAPTER ONE

September 20, 1983: It all started in a large gothic cathedral, constructed of charcoal-grey stone. It sat at the end of Shallow Hill Road, atop a wooded hill. A true work of architectural art, it was ornate and ponderous with statues of angels standing guard on every corner, and the highest tower supported a massive cross—proudly displayed in the center of the cold stone structure. Large, intimidating wooden doors, with detailed carvings of tangled vine, welcomed all who passed. Majestic and meticulously maintained, the dark richly colored entrance was grandiose.

Visitors from all over were always in awe of the early 1800's cathedral.

Age thirteen and not yet baptized, Scott Abrahamson still attended mass each Sunday with his Dad, Frank.

His Dad had attended high school with the head priest, Father Cunningham—the same priest who was once a teenager, constantly scorned by Catholic school nuns.

Each Sunday they discussed enrolling Scott in the next bible study class, a requirement for baptism, but for some reason he never attended.

His Dad's old high school buddy, the priest, was a good man, so there was no logical explanation as to why Scott never followed through with the required class—preoccupied with being a teen—most likely.

Tall and hunched over, an elderly gentleman with untamed pure white hair, and a permanent scowl fixed upon his face, sat to the rear and in the center of the stage with his back to the audience as he played the massive pipe organ—passionately.

His head often dropped down below his crowded shoulders, springing up like a _Jack in the Box_ each time he struck a dramatic chord. Hair flailed, pulsating veins popped out of his skull—as if keeping time like a flesh-covered metronome.

Mr. Vanderbrook was the highlight of the service for many who attended. For twenty years he opened and closed the sermon each and every Sunday; he had become a permanent fixture of the great hall.

Bach in D-minor echoed throughout the thick stonewalls to begin the 11-O'clock mass.

Mr. Vanderbrook's cold boney fingers lifted from the keys of the colossal organ, the last note reverberated for several seconds before slowly vanishing into the cobblestone floors.

Father Cunningham began reading from Genesis, his voice loud, clear, and authoritative.

Each time someone from the audience coughed or adjusted themselves in the old wooden benches, the noise creaked throughout the massive structure. The Father's voice did the same as he read through Scripture.

Looking around the interior of the place—as Scott did every Sunday—he studied the ornate stained-glass windows, ceiling carvings, statues, and the hundreds in attendance.

There was always a lot to take in, and as he panned around the magnificent walls, he noticed a man standing at the main entrance.

The entrance doors were open, the sun was at his back, and he was wearing a top hat and long dark coat, making it impossible for Scott to identify the shadowy figure.

His hands were knitted behind his back; his head tilted slightly forward, the brim of his hat lay over his shaded eyes, exposing only his pointy nose and chin.

Sitting towards the back and near the isle, Scott discretely watched the man—trying to catch a glimpse of his eyes, but the stranger never moved from his concealed posture.

Tall and lanky, but not weak, he stood strong and seemed to be sure of himself.

The man faced Father Cunningham while he gave the sermon, but with his eyes hidden, he could have been looking anywhere in the room.

Scott took another look around. He was the only person in the entire church that held more of an interest in the ominous stranger than the priest—everyone else faced forward, quietly listening.

Scott's Dad, who was sitting to his left, also ignored the presence of the man who chose to stand in the entrance rather than find a seat.

Looking back at the statuesque figure, he remained fixed, like a new addition to the Godly fortress had been erected, or in this case, resurrected, as if from the dead.

Father Cunningham began reading the part where Eve, in a moment of weakness, listened to the evil serpent, and ate from the forbidden tree.

Looking back at the statue of a man, Scott noticed something was different; something had changed. The right corner of his mouth was raised, crinkling his paper-thin, transparent skin. Grinning like a mischievous child preparing to do wrong—to do evil.

Scott looked around, unable to find anything humorous or that would entice a smile.

Again he gazed back at the entrance. This time the ominous figure looked in his direction, still grinning, eyes still blackened under the brim of the dusky hat.

Startled, Scott faced forward and watched Father Cunningham. Curiosity quickly got to him, so he slowly turned to see if he was still being watched. The man was gone.

Father Cunningham continued reading, his voice began to sound horse, and he started to cough. Taking a sip of water, the humble looking priest was able to read clearly again. After only making it through another two verses, the Father again began coughing, only this time it was uncontrollable.

Father Cunningham excused himself and hurried behind stage where he could attempt to gain composure.

Mr. Vanderbrook walked back on the platform, sat at the organ, and began playing another haunting piece of music to entertain the crowd until Father Cunningham was able to return.

The eerie song Mr. Vanderbrook chose to play was not one familiar to the weekly attendees, but he seemed to know it well, and played it with more intensity than what they were used to seeing. The music began to ascend; the organ seemed to rise in volume as Mr. Vanderbrook became increasingly violent, pounding on the black and white keys as if he wanted to show the audience he possessed the strength to crack the ivory bars.

At what seemed to be the finale of his piece, Mr. Vanderbrook struck chords with both hands, allowing the tangled notes to reach almost painful levels. He thrust his head back, and glared at the cathedral ceiling while tears glided over his pale weathered skin.

Two alter-boys approached and attempted to comfort the organist, as he crumpled to his knees—an emotional wreck. "Back off!" Mr. Vanderbrook screamed in a voice not fitting of his frail appearance.

The alter-boys ran to the back where Father Cunningham still rested. Although he appeared exhausted, and his voice horse . . . Father Cunningham appeared to be fine.

Many people began to file out of the church's exit. Some too uncomfortable to stick around and see what might happen next, and some confused by the spectacle.

Scott and his Dad finally made their way out the towering sanctuary doors; doors that seemed more unpleasant than before, as if they were meant to conceal something inside that the world would do better without.

The day was sunny and unseasonably warm. Vehicles crowded at the exit, and one by one started down the hill. Scott stood by his Dad's vehicle waiting for the herd to thin before attempting to leave.

Looking back at the open entrance doors one last time, something troubling caught Scott's eye: on stage inside the cathedral, the tall thin man stood facing him. Still wearing his top hat, and with a sinister serpent-like grin about his face.

A gust of wind blasted by, and the two cathedral doors slammed shut simultaneously, concealing the ominous figure inside.

A once beautiful place of worship now carried the look and feel of an ancient tomb.

### CHAPTER TWO

October 13, 1984: A little over a year later, Scott experienced something even more chilling than what took place in the old cathedral—where he had not returned since.

It was on a cold and breezy night in mid October, the snow had yet to fall, but the bitter temperatures were telling of a storm on the horizon.

Scott lay in bed with his back pressed against the chilled wooden headboard, and the covers pulled just to his waist, leaving his arms and hands free to hold the book he had selected.

The twin bed was sufficient for a normal fourteen year old, but being tall for his age, the bed appeared to be closer to a single beneath his tall lanky frame.

Scott's bed was centered in the room with its headboard pressed against a wall, leaving just enough room to maneuver between the bed and the wall to his left so he could adjust the window. To his right was the bedroom door, which was always closed. Straight ahead on the opposite side of the tiny room was another window. Outside of that window was an old crooked tree, stripped of its leaves, and constantly tapping Scott's window on nights such as tonight when the wind whirled and howled.

The sound of the wind rattling the two bedroom windows, tree branches gently tapping, accompanied by the dry brittle leaves clattering on the ground, were a haunting symphony that often lulled Scott to sleep these winter months. But for some reason, the sounds of nature left him restless and uneasy this night.

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.

### CHAPTER THREE

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.

### CHAPTER FOUR

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.

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.

### CHAPTER FIVE

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.

### CHAPTER SIX

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.

Scott peered into the balconies where everyone whistled while enthusiastically clapping. During the midst of the crowd's roar, one individual stood out from the rest. Not because he had been making more noise, or was dressed loudly, but because he was the only person in the entire theater not on his feet cheering. It was as if a corpse had been placed to fill an empty seat.

Cloaked in darkness, unnerved by the noise and highly active people, the man in black sat in the balcony, completely still and void of emotion. A feeling of eerie familiarity came over Scott as he studied the freakish ghoul. He was weathered and pale with clothing reminiscent of an undertaker, and he wore a hat—a tall thin top hat— the brim of it covering his eyes.

_That's it!_ Scott thought. _It's the same man I saw six years ago in church!_ It had been a most disturbing day at church for all who attended, but Scott was the only one who noticed the man in black, or gave him credit for the unusual events that day.

Father Cunningham recuperated after two weeks of rest, but poor Mr. Vanderbrook ended up living in a home for the insane. He had lost his mind that day, and could not bring himself to stop humming the last song he played on the pipe organ the day of his nervous breakdown. The last Scott heard, Mr. Vanderbrook still hummed the haunting melody six years later, only stopping to eat, drink, and sleep, which wasn't often.

Turning away from the man, Scott attempted to steal Cameron's attention so he could show him the creep from the cathedral, but Cameron wasn't able to hear him over the noise of the crowd.

Scott looked back at the balcony, but the man was gone. In his place was a vacant, blood red, crushed-velvet seat. Scanning every inch of the theater in an attempt to locate the man, he became frantic, turning his head from left to right in search of the six-year mystery.

Scott desperately wanted to find the man—who resembled a wraith more than a human—and talk with him, find out who he is, why he was at mass, and why he was now at the Gothic?

Always appearing in the most unsuspecting of places, Scott now glimpsed the man lurking on stage. He moved behind the actor who played the Phantom, Scott could see the tattered top hat. He half expected to see a maggot-infested rat crawl out from under his unholy black haven atop his weathered brow.

The man was close to the curtain, shrouded in darkness, and just behind the actors, like a predator about to pounce on its unsuspecting prey. Scott could still make out his pointy nose and chin, and just like in '83, the right corner of his thin lips began to curl up into a smirk. His frail, thin, pale tissue rippled from the wicked grin.

Scott fought his way through the thick crowd as he inched his way towards the stage. Finally reaching the actor's platform, he managed to stand to the side where he could see behind the actors. The illusive man had once again disappeared.

### CHAPTER SEVEN

April 15, 1998: Managing to make it nearly a decade without seeing the Tall Man or being visited by unwanted ghostly guests, Scott was about to experience incident number-seven. And like incidents one and two, he was in the company of his father.

Uncle Jack was ninety-six, and although he wasn't too physically active, he was mentally acute. He still lived alone in the home he and his beloved wife shared together for over fifty years.

Aunt Lola had passed away six years ago, which contributed to Uncle Jack's sad decline.

Scott and his father took care of their Uncle's landscaping and home repairs during his last few years.

One day they received a distressing call: Uncle Jack's lungs had filled with fluid, and his internal organs were beginning to shut down—indications the end was near.

Scott's father was especially close to Uncle Jack, so the news of their Uncle's rapid decline was difficult for him to accept. Uncle Jack on the other hand, seemed at ease, and almost welcomed the onset so he could once again be with his Lola.

Lola had passed away at home in the bedroom—the very bedroom where Scott's father slept now that Uncle Jack's house served as a temporary dwelling for them.

His house was just down the road from the hospital where he was admitted, so they stayed at Uncle Jack's 1940's abode to maintain it, and to be close by for visits.

It was 10:00 P.M., and Scott and his father were both tired from working in Uncle Jack's yard all day. As usual, Scott's father took the spare bedroom, while Scott took the couch located in the living room, just outside the kitchen entrance.

Prior to transforming the couch to a bed, Scott's father told him stories of noises he had heard while sleeping alone in the house. Never the superstitious or paranoid type, his father still found it necessary to share his haunting tales just before turning off the lights and going to sleep.

"While lying in bed, I could hear the dresser drawers open and close, and creaking noises from the wooden floors, as if someone was walking by my bed." His father said in a serene voice. "Don't worry though. Nothing bad has or will happen."

Scott found the stories to be alarming, probably because he knew they were true. In Scott's twenty-eight years, his father never spoke of such things, and he was too old for ghost stories.

His father was off to bed.

Scott grabbed the sheets, blankets, and pillow, and began to nest on the cold leather sofa. He turned off the lamp located on the end table, and rested his head on the prickly down pillow. Tips of feathers found their way through the thin, transparent, white cover of the pillow, and poked the back of his neck. It took some time, but Scott adjusted the pillow enough to where he couldn't feel the feathers on his skin.

The discomfort that came from a lumpy pillow, undersized couch, and drafty window, were eclipsed by noises typical of an older home; noises that were magnified, and fed his paranoia due to his father's stories.

Scott could not fall asleep. The relic clock on the wall displayed 12:00 A.M. Both of its gothic hands pointed up while the sound of the bell echoed off of the vaulted ceiling. While watching the second hand slowly tick its way through another minute, a noise came from the kitchen.

The kitchen was behind a wall, so Scott was only able to see the actual entrance to the small kitchen. Through the entrance, to the right, and against the wall, was the refrigerator.

Again, he heard the noise: the sound of the decaying rubber refrigerator seal breaking apart slowly. Years of steam filled air, filled with bacon-grease and other airborne mucilaginous debris had clung to the door's seal, giving it a most distasteful sound each time it opened.

White noise from the refrigerator door being open pierced the silence. A yellowish light appeared on the white tile floor just inside the entrance to the kitchen. Then all of a sudden, the light disappeared, followed by the sucking sound of the door seal. The refrigerator noise was no more.

A skylight rested atop the eight-foot wall that separated the kitchen from the living room. It was flat and made of glass, not a plastic bubble like most modern skylights. This one resembled a window more than anything. If you were to look through the skylight, you would see the weathered roof of the kitchen, begging to be repaired. The skylight was approximately two feet tall, four feet wide, and joined the roof of the kitchen to the main roof of the house.

A light slowly and gradually appeared through the skylight. _A headlight._ Scott thought to himself. The light became more intense. Unable to blink, he studied the light, and thought, _It couldn't be a vehicle passing by. It would have been gone by now. Maybe the police are using a spotlight to search for someone._

Growing in intensity, the light became almost blinding. Scott began to squint as he watched the light seemingly take form and move through the glass. An indistinct human-like face morphed from the light, followed by a torso and arms. Long boney fingers pushed through the transparent hands, like blunt twigs forcing their way through a deflated balloon. Staring at Scott with its evolving features, it waited in air, as if to complete its transformation.

The apparition seemed to solidify while hovering eight feet above the ground. The light so intense, it seemingly cloaked the more detailed features of its face.

Slowly the jaws of the glowing figure expanded and opened, like a snake unhinging its jaws to devour its prey, exposing rows of jagged teeth. Like flickering flames dancing on the wicks of candles against the night sky, the shards glowed in front of the black gapping backdrop where its throat should be.

Without warning, the ghastly white being lunged towards Scott. He watched, petrified, as the lifeless black eyes drew closer. Time seemed to slow down. He was able to study the face as it bolted directly for him, even though it only took less than a second for the figure to close the distance.

Black eyes and glowing shards were within a foot of his face. Scott launched horizontally off the makeshift bed, which would normally seem impossible, but thankfully not.

If he had attempted to sit up, he would have run face first into it, giving it the opportunity to wrap its jaws around his head and sever it at the neck.

Scott slammed into the glass table located beside the couch. The crashing sound of the table hitting the floor, accompanied by coasters and a decorative vase filled with marbles, crashed through the silence.

After hitting the floor, he sat up and scanned the room, searching for the ghost, or whatever it was that tried to attack him.

Scott's father ran from his bedroom, and into the living room.

"What happened?" His father asked, as he glared at the table and its contents, strewed all over the floor.

"I saw something! It came right for my face, so I leaped off the couch and knocked the table over."

Scott's father gave a look as if he believed him, but didn't know what to say. He asked if Scott was okay, and then reminded him that he too had seen and heard strange things. _Yeah, but nothing like this_ , Scott thought.

Scott didn't divulge any of the details. It was late, and he was satisfied that his father believed him. Any more talk about what he had seen, and it may have caused his father to question whether or not he was dreaming or actually saw something.

Scott's father went back to bed after helping him clean up the mess.

Again, he labored to find comfort on the sofa. Once settled in, Scott lay with his eyes open, scanning the room, constantly looking back at the kitchen entrance. Activity ensued in the kitchen. _Please! Just go away!_ He ordered the entity in his mind. _But then again, if I can hear it, I'll know where it is. It was when it got quiet that it came after me._ He continued in his mind.

So as odd as it might seem, the sounds from the kitchen gave him a sense of assurance, and eventually lulled Scott to sleep just before dawn.

"Hey son! How about some breakfast!" His father cheerfully bellowed.

Scott was surprisingly alert for having only slept for a few hours.

"Sure, that sounds great." He replied to his father's offer.

Dragging his feet towards the kitchen, with his hair asunder and eyes barely opened; the smell of the coffee his father had made helped guide Scott.

The day before Scott had purchased a bag of cookies. In the bag were eight soft batch chewy-chocolate-chunk cookies, which were divided in half by parchment paper.

He grabbed the still sealed unblemished bag, and opened it. Peering inside, to his dismay, were the remains of a cookie in the form of crumbs that lay atop the other cookies. Seven cookies remained—an entire cookie was missing.

Upon close inspection of the counter top, he found more crumbs by where the bag had been sitting all night.

Fully awake by the sudden and puzzling surprise, Scott performed a 360-degree sweep of the kitchen to see if anything else was amiss. The silverware drawer was pulled opened four inches, and the cupboard where the glasses were kept was ajar.

The noises he heard were real. Something or someone had been in the kitchen all night.

### CHAPTER EIGHT

March 15, 1999: Snow slammed the door to Scott's town-home like a battering ram, as he peered through the mostly frosted front window, watching the rapid collecting flakes produced by the blizzard.

Closing the blinds to shut out as much of the cold as possible, he lit a fire, and started a batch of heavily buttered popcorn. A movie and snack by the fire was the best remedy he could think of for a cold winter night.

Willie Wonka & the Chocolate Factory was the chosen film to entertain Scott on the night he found himself stranded at home. There was virtually no chance of anyone risking the roads to come over and hang out, even the police were scarce due to the limited number of four-wheel drive vehicles they possessed, and the news cautioned people to stay off the roads unless absolutely necessary.

The warmth of the fire was enough for Scott to appreciate the freezing gale that had already managed to cloak his vehicle in a blanket of white and sparkle.

Wonka, played by the great Gene Wylder, had entered the scene in all his insane glory.

Dark, twisted, and hilarious, Willie Wonka was one of Scott's all time favorite characters.

He had already consumed half the bowl of popcorn when he decided to take a bathroom break.

After pausing the VHS player, the only audible noise left was the pounding storm outside. Curiosity got the best of Scott, so he approached the window to take a look outside and see how many more inches had accumulated since last he looked.

Flicking open the blinds, he was surprised to see a woman walking along the sidewalk on the opposite side of the street. _This lady must be crazy!_ He thought, as he watched her press against the winds, lifting each foot at least eighteen-inches off the ground to clear the ever rising drift. Her clothing, which was light considering the temperatures, was thickly coated with ice, but the woman drudged on as if she didn't feel a thing.

He closed the blinds once again, and walked away to use the bathroom. Once finished, Scott plopped down in front of the fire, and pressed play on the remote. A few moments later, he paused the movie once again, wondering how the woman outside was fairing in her epic battle against the blizzard of '99.

Twisting the rod on the shades, he watched them slowly open, unveiling a dark silhouette. Only the woman wasn't walking, she was standing—facing his window.

Focusing through the stirring sea of glowing flakes, wondering if the woman needed help, Scott noticed she wore tattered and very insufficient clothing. Her face was weathered and dirty, and her straggly hair stuck to her head under a layer of sleet. She stood perfectly upright, with her hands to her sides, perfectly still and completely stiff, just staring at him with what looked to be feelings of disgust and envy under a layer of grease, dirt, alcohol, and whatever else had collected on her face, now perfectly preserved thanks to a thin coat of ice.

An uncomfortable sensation came over him, so Scott abruptly closed the blinds, and walked away. _Do I let her in_ — _let her use my phone while she gets warm? She's creepy and probably crazy, but she's staring for a reason_ — _she must want in._

Back and forth Scott went while pacing the floor. "Fine! But if I can't find help, she leaves anyway! No way is she staying the night!"

Scott yanked open the door, the woman was standing only two feet away as she peered through his screen door, staring at him without so much as a flinch or wink, even though wind and snow smacked her in the face. Quickly, he locked the deadbolt on the screen door.

"You okay? Do you need something?"

She just stared, piercing through his eyes as if to get to his soul.

"I can call someone to help you, but you have to tell me what you want . . . okay?"

Her long boney index finger pressed against the window of the door, and slowly wrote a word: 'Help.' She had written it backwards so it read perfectly from Scott's viewpoint. _Impressive, but definitely unusual._

"Look, if I let you in, you need to sit by the door while I call someone. Understand?"

The woman gave no response.

Hesitant, but certain he needed to help, Scott unlocked the door and cautiously opened it.

"Come on in and get warm."

The woman's feet were under a foot of snow, she inched forward, but without lifting her feet, as if she were gliding. The snow gathered in front of her, and then she lifted one of her feet up and placed it inside the door.

"Slippery, eh?" Scott said, assuming she slid on ice that built under the snow.

The woman was finally in, so he closed the door, leaving it unlocked—just in case. She stood in the entryway, dripping until a puddle quickly formed at her feet.

Sitting by the fire, and watching the woman from ten feet away, she still stood just inside the door, thawing out like something from the ice age.

"Can I get you some hot tea, or cocoa maybe?"

The woman was still unresponsive.

"How about a blanket or towel?"

She turned and looked at him, her eyes filled with intensity, as if she harbored hate for the man that brought her in from the harsh storm and offered her help. It made no sense. _This woman is crazy; I never should have let her in._

"I'm only trying to help. If you like, you can stay there while I call. Okay?"

Dialing 911 on his cell phone, Scott felt immense pressure to get help, and get her out of his home immediately.

One call after another, all he could manage was a busy signal or nothing at all. "I'll try again in a few minutes, there's no service—probably the storm."

Again, there was no response.

"What's your name? I'm Scott."

Her lips didn't move, but he could hear a grumble come from within her, almost like an animal growling.

"Excuse me, I just need to go upstairs and grab something."

Scott walked up the stairs while watching the unresponsive stranger stand in his doorway—paranoid she would try something at any moment. His compassion had overwhelmed his common sense, and he was regretting it. _I should have never let her inside my house!_

After entering his room, Scott quickly went for the closet where he hid his .45 ACP 1911 handgun. He popped a fully loaded seven-round magazine in, and pulled the slide back, placing a round in the chamber so the gun was ready to fire. He shoved the gun in the rear of his pants, placed his shirt over the grip to conceal it, and made his way downstairs.

"OK, I'm back! I just wanted to try the cell phone upstairs, but it didn't work there either."

She didn't believe him, he could tell by the look in her eyes. In fact, she didn't appear intoxicated, or high, or even weakened by lack of nutrition or harsh weather; she had a look of strength and eagerness, which made Scott uncomfortable.

"Apage humani." The woman said.

"Excuse me?"

The right side of her mouth curled up, forming a half-smile.

In a voice not proportionate to her appearance, the woman quietly mumbled something else. "Audi Satanas."

"I'm not understanding you. Do you speak English?"

Again she smiled, and then Scott realized that he had seen the smile before. The man with the top hat that he had seen on two other occasions had the same smile. He wondered: _why does she share the same taunting grin?_

Feeling uneasy, Scott walked back another four feet to create more distance between the foreigner and he. Her long boney finger, with jagged yellowed nail, reached out to the door—the grotesque nail pressed into the hard wood as if it were made of balsa, and she began scratching it, making an agonizingly slow scraping noise, like nails on a chalkboard.

"Please stop," Scott begged, as she somehow etched letters deep into the wood of his door with her fingernail.

Quickly, and with a cracking sound, she turned her head toward Scott while still carving on his door. A smile grew on her face as her brow furrowed. She was done, and scribed in his door was the word, "Mortem."

"I don't know who you are, but you need to leave. Now!"

"Mortem!" She screamed in an unholy tone.

Scott drew his gun and took aim at the woman's chest.

"Leave, or I shoot!"

She hissed at him, like some sort of foul serpent, and then spoke, "Peto et aheram! Peto abyssus!" Her voice had changed again; it was so abysmal, that it couldn't have possibly come from a woman, or a man for that matter. It was grossly inhuman.

Physically Scott could easily overpower a woman, especially a woman of her stature, but there was something horribly wrong. Instinctively he knew that a greater strength, an evil lie inside this woman that he couldn't contend with on a physical level.

As he focused on her, waiting for any sudden movement that would give him an excuse to pull the trigger, something even more horrifying took place. The woman's body went completely limp while still standing, resembling a puppet hanging from its master's strings. From shoulder to elbow were parallel to the ground while her forearms dangled on their hinged joints. Her neck no longer supported the weight of her head, which was buried in her chest.

Suddenly the woman's body began moving around in a circular motion while maintaining its scarecrow like pose. She elevated off the ground with only her toes touching the hardwood floor entry, and her toes dragged on the floor, creating a perfect circle. After watching this for what seemed like several minutes, she stopped and slammed against the floor with her knees in a praying position. Still lifeless and limp, the body repeatedly and violently stood, then dropped to its knees. Her head and arms continued to dangle and shake from the movement—it was as if a giant hand had hold of her lifeless body at the waist, picking her up and slamming her to the ground. Again and again, her knees slammed against the floor.

Scott looked at the indented floor where blood and flesh saturated and stuck to the lacquer. The exposed shattered bones of her knees began to break apart, and bone shards were pounded into the wood like nails.

The kneeling stopped as the body rose off the ground; its legs together and arms outstretched in the form of a cross.

Her head whipped back hard enough crack the spine, and her jaw seemingly disjointed itself, hanging by only skin and tendons.

A deep routed gurgling sound erupted as the monstrosity roared and spewed black sledge from its mouth—all over the floors and walls of the living room.

Some of the tar like substance managed to spray on Scott. The smell was obscene and nearly caused him to vomit.

Frozen in terror beyond words, he managed to keep his gun pointed at the possessed woman, but was too petrified to pull the trigger.

In its broken state, the demon began to laugh as if thoroughly amused with what it had done. The laugh started as a deep throaty bellow, and quickly changed to a pitchy nasally chuckle.

Snapping out of his trance, Scott regained his senses and took careful aim with the gun. His heart pounded hard enough to hear, and his breathing became labored—it made it impossible to stand still.

Doing the best he could to stabilize his shaking hands, Scott squeezed the trigger. _Boom!_ The .45 caliber hollow-point blew a hole in its chest the size of a fist, causing the pale body to go completely limp and collapse to the ground.

Watching the body intently while still holding aim with his gun, a sense of relief came over him. The body lay motionless—it didn't breathe or twitch—there was no sign of life.

Minutes went by. Scott didn't dare move on the chance that it would come to, but it never did.

He placed his gun back in his pants to free his hands so he could call 911. Terrified of police involvement, Scott nearly hung up when he received a dial tone. _What will the cops think? A dead female that appears to have been beaten, then shot by my gun, and is now lying inside my home._

There was hope that an autopsy of the black sludge and internal and external damage would show that this thing destroyed itself from the inside out, but he was being realistic; police want an open and shut case, and they have Scott holding the murder weapon. Case closed.

The phone stopped ringing. "Hello?" There was nobody there. "Hello? Is this police dispatch?" Scott asked.

The line was scratchy due to the weak signal brought by the storm

"Luc—" The line cut out. He listened closer trying to make out what the dispatcher was saying.

"Luci—" Someone said.

"Lucille? I'm sorry, but I'm having a hard time hearing you."

Taking a chance on the dispatcher hearing him, Scott clearly stated his address and told the person that he had shot an intruder.

Then the voice came through clear: "Lucifer hostis humani generis!"

Startled, Scott looked at the body; it still lay lifeless.

"Mortem ad vitam! Mortem ad vitam! Mortem ad vitam!"

The voice kept repeating the same phrase over and over.

Scott hung up the phone and looked at the body, trying to think of a way to get around the evil corpse that blocked his egress.

The body was lying face down in a crumpled mess of a position. Its hair covered its entire face, so he couldn't look for eye movement.

A crackling sound exploded from the silence. The head began to move, sliding the black matted hair across the blood soaked floor. The head turned slowly, and continued turning causing the vertebrae in its spine to snap loudly, as if someone had stepped on an old dry tree branch.

The head continued to turn until it faced the ceiling, its body still belly-down. With its jaw hanging loosely, it let out a deafening cry using a myriad of grotesque voices.

Blood began to ooze from its eye-sockets, ears, mouth, and nose, while the screaming continued.

Covering his ears did no good; the power behind the voices caused the living room window to crack, and brought Scott to his knees.

The screaming stopped. On his knees, Scott stared at the horribly disfigured body. Then in an eerie voice he had not yet heard, it quietly spoke one word, "Scott?" And then like a sadistic clown, it began to chuckle.

Drained of all energy, Scott fired two more shots into its skull, silencing the madness.

### CHAPTER NINE

Born on Friday the thirteenth, the number thirteen was never an unlucky number for Scott, and he never bought into silly superstitions. Raised in a home where the address is, 1300 Cape Way, seemed destiny.

With an appetite for horror, his viewing diet consisted of mostly scary films. Never a dark child with even a hint of malice; Scott was just a child who enjoyed a good scare from time to time. Oddly, he never scared easy, so the fascination with horror was more of an outlet for a side of him rarely seen.

Art was a talent that presented itself in his early drawings. Even in elementary school, Scott was accused of tracing the images seen in his works. Images of cartoon witches, goblins, vampires, and other various creatures of the night, flowed from his number-two pencil with ease. Eventually, Scott was able to look at paintings from his favorite fantasy artists, and sketch their every detail with perfection.

Then there was music. Drawn to the guitar at age sixteen; Scott quickly learned his way to mastery of the fingerboard. Haunting classical pieces from the likes of Bach, Beethoven, Vivaldi and Paganini, romanced Scott into his own dark compositions. Harmonic minor would become his jewel for which to vent his emotions.

Despite Scott's obvious fascination with all things dark, he was happy, moral, and a firm believer in God. Never understanding his own intense interests, he never pondered the question: "Why?" Rather, Scott accepted the fact that it was one of many things that defined him. His soul is what it is, and he embraced its very essence instead of fighting it.

### CHAPTER TEN

After years of terrifying experiences, Scott had been pushed over the edge when faced with a possessed woman—a woman whose actions were so grotesquely inhuman—there was no doubt that the supernatural existed. He had questioned and written off past experiences as hallucinations or paranoia, but Scott now knew they were all real, and he made it a priority to find out why he was chosen.

Being at a point in his life where he worked for himself, he was able to take time off to pursue his quest for answers. After being a competitive kick-boxer for ten years, during which time he acquired several certifications in nutrition and physical fitness, Scott started up his own business. He mainly taught clients self-defense and prepared diet and fitness programs for them. Due to his expertise in the field & the national recognition this resulted in, he was also brought into existing schools and gyms for seminars.

Conservative in nature, Scott had saved most of the money he earned by living a modest life. A small portion of his savings would now be invested into whatever equipment was needed to begin his investigation. First, Scott needed to rent or buy several wireless digital cameras, a digital audio recorder, IR thermometer, and an EMF detector for his new endeavor.

It was a difficult decision for him to spend some of the hard earned savings for this endeavor. It was of some consolation that he was able to rent most of the necessary equipment. Being as he already owned camping gear and other items for the trip, he was able to keep expenditures to a minimum.

Scott's sarcastic and incredulous friend had dropped by to visit while he got ready. "Better pack plenty of clean underwear!" This was Cody Blanks—the man who always had something smart to say & was rarely serious. At twenty-nine, he was two years Scott's junior, but you would swear he was fresh out of puberty. Scott loved the man like a brother, but could only take his company in small doses.

Cody relentlessly cracked jokes about Scott's desire to expose and prove that the spiritual world truly exists, but he could see right through Cody's facade. He was frightened, hence the jokes about clean shorts, and so he pretended to not believe in the spiritual world. He didn't want to believe. Not unlike many in today's world, Cody would rather turn and look the opposite direction than face reality.

The humor Cody displayed was an ill attempt to mask his true emotions: fear, concern, and intense curiosity.

"Better yet, why don't you buy yourself some disposables and a container of baby wipes? You're gonna need 'em!" Cody said, with a Cheshire grin.

Ignoring Cody's onslaught of immature jabs, Scott continued working on his list of tools and equipment needed for his research.

Scott didn't have the heart to ask Cody to leave, and besides . . . Cody was a form of entertainment and really seemed interested in what he was doing. He would watch intently as Scott scanned the Internet for equipment normally only seen on off the wall Sci-Fi and horror shows.

Cody and Scott were polar opposites in every way. Cody was short with the body of a panda bear—and his eyes were so squinty that people sometimes wondered how he could peer through those subtle slits well enough to see where he was walking.

Due to Scott's tall athletic frame, they looked like Laurel and Hardy when they stood side by side. Cody was chatty, and Scott was more the silent type. Cody loathed the idea of marriage, while Scott daydreamed about the future Mrs. Scott Andrew. Cody was a bit of a slob, where Scott needed things to be organized and sanitary. Somehow despite their differences, they managed to be good friends, and his loyalty was a trait Scott greatly admired.

"Cody, I can see that you are interested in what I'm doing. You're welcome to join me you know. After all, I need an assistant to carry all of this equipment."

"Gee Scott! That sounds like a heck of a deal! I could also bathe you, feed you, and sing you to sleep. How does that sound?"

"Hmmmmm . . . I'll accept your offer on one condition— and this may be a deal breaker for you. There will be no bathing of one another. I like you, but not that much." Scott continued, "Your singing voice, as beautifully soothing as it is, is not something I desire to go to sleep to. Ever. I'd let you feed me, but I know where your hands have been, and I know you're not one to take personal hygiene seriously, so no thank you. You can however, assist me in carrying and setting up the equipment. Who knows? You might witness history in the making?"

"You had me at, _hmmmmm . . ._ " Cody replied.

Scott had wanted Cody to join the mission despite some of his annoying shortcomings. He was entering into the unknown, while delving into his haunted past, so Scott wanted a companion that would keep him balanced with humor and skepticism. AND he needed help carrying all of the equipment.

### CHAPTER ELEVEN

Scott's shipment of paranormal toys had arrived, and in the time it took to reach its destination, he was able to plan out his first mission.

The goal was to revisit his past, and figure out why certain things had paid him an unwelcome visit.

There were so many unanswered questions: what exactly was trying to communicate with him? Why he was able to see and experience things so few people ever do?

One thing was for certain; whatever it was made him feel uneasy, so Scott knew it wasn't anything good.

If he could take all of the pieces, and put them together like a puzzle, everything would become clear. He needed to know what haunted him all those years, and why.

Whirling winds accompanied Scott and Cody during the long drive to Scott's childhood home—the home where the apocalyptic horse stared him down with only death in its eyes.

Many years had gone by since Scott had seen the place he called home. Seventeen years to be exact. Not knowing what to expect, the nerves in his stomach started to awaken, as if he had eaten a bowl of tacks. The closer they got to the house, the more his stomach knotted up and the harder his grip on the steering wheel.

Entering the neighborhood, there was a feeling of inertness. The paint on the barely standing structures was faded and peeling off, windows were almost nonexistent, and doors were hanging by their hinges. It was as if they had entered a ghost town.

Scott remembered the homes being archaic while growing up, and half of the homes were vacant, but he never expected the decay that assaulted his senses as he drove through what was once his happy neighborhood.

Recognizing certain landmarks, such as the old red school house that still sat in the middle of a field just off Raven Street, told Scott that they were just blocks away from their destination.

Cape Way, the street where his old home still rested, was in site. Turning left on to the street, Scott could see his house off in the distance. Not as decrepit as some of the other homes, but still severely weathered, as if it had been sitting unoccupied for a hundred years.

Staring in the front window as he pulled up, Scott tried to detect any signs of life; he wasn't certain if the home was abandoned like the rest, and he wanted to be sure before possibly trespassing.

Dust settled around his silver '68 Plymouth Roadrunner after coming to a stop in front of 1300 Cape Way.

Parked adjacent to the house, Cody and Scott continued to gaze into the windows for signs of movement, or instability within the anatomy of the lifeless cold structure.

Only slivers of the once new and shiny coat of snow-white paint remained on the grey, warped, splintered wood that creaked each time the slightest breeze brushed against it. Windows were still intact minus cracks and the occasional hole where a shard of glass had worked its way loose. Shingles clacked against an unstable roof like castanets. The chimney remained intact minus a few bricks missing from the top. Hinges on the screen door creaked loudly—the rusted spring moaned as it inhaled and exhaled with each movement the door made.

Dead, cold, and seemingly abandoned; the house still seemed to carry a life of its own.

### CHAPTER TWELVE

Withered, gnarled, thorny rose bushes stood at attention on both sides, as Scott and Cody walked up the crumbling cement path that led to the front entrance. Amber light fell over them, as dusk settled in, giving everything in its path a radiant but eerie glow.

When they approached the screen door, it seemed to creak louder and slam more violently, as the wind picked up its pace. Finally the moment had arrived: they stood before the door, filled with hesitancy, fear, and curiosity.

_Will it look the same? Will I find anything left behind by my father or me? May his soul be with God,_ Scott thought.

Reaching out for a hole in the metal frame of the door where a handle once was, Scott caught the inside of the rusted gap, and pulled the screen door open. Suddenly, the main door cracked open slightly, as if something was peeking out to see who was there. Then the door slowly creaked its way open. They watched anxiously, poised to turn and run. Dust from the whirling wind moved across the floor like a slithering sidewinder. Nothing else was present.

Taking his first step inside, Scott could hear the hard wood floor moan as if it ached from old age. It seemed to give a little, feeling more like a springboard than a solid foundation.

To his right was the red brick fireplace that enveloped the entire south wall of the living room. Howling winds echoed through the chimney causing the metal chain mail to sway side by side in front of the fireplace.

Continuing to enter the home with caution, they proceeded past the living room, and into the dining area. Making a left into the kitchen, Scott could see his father opening the oven to remove the baked stuffed peppers he had prepared for dinner. His father was a man of many talents, and cooking was one of them.

"Hey! What's wrong? See something?" Cody forcefully whispered.

"No, everything is fine." Scott replied, after coming back to reality.

Being in his old home was more difficult than Scott expected; memories of his father manifested throughout the painfully deplorable framework.

They walked back into the dining room and walked down the hallway that led to his old bedroom.

To the left, a spare room containing workout equipment. Scott's father had made him a gym after he turned sixteen. A little further down was his father's room. Not yet ready to travel down that memory, Scott went right for his room, which was to the right of his father's. The door was ajar. He gently pushed on the center of the door, exposing the room where he spent most his childhood.

Memories again flooded Scott's mind; all were positive except for one: the horse that creped out from the depths of Hell, and paid him a visit on the darkest of nights.

They hesitated, and then entered the room.

"Small room for such a big guy," Cody murmured.

"I was fourteen."

"Is that where the floating head entered?" Said Cody—pointing at the window.

"That's where."

Scott walked over to the window, and glanced outside. It was just how he remembered it, only dead. Bleak.

Scott turned and looked at where his bed had been. He envisioned himself sitting up with the book. He was close to the level where the horse's head first entered, and began watching him. The perspective sent chills down Scott's spine, as he realized how vulnerable he was, seventeen years prior.

Had his father not entered when he did, who knows what might have happened?

Wanting to conclude the search, they continued, quickly peaking in Scott's father's room.

"Empty. Now let's move along."

"Why the rush? Don't you want to look around?" Maybe see if your dad left anything behind?"

"Maybe later. I'm going to check out the basement—make sure there are no vagrants hiding out down there."

Peering down into the basement from the top of the staircase, Scott wondered if Whiskers would hear him, and come out of hiding for more of his favorite dried cat food.

The sun had set, and the moon's light—extinguished by dark thick clouds—lent little light to the already murky basement.

Grabbing a flashlight, Scott made his way down the stairs, and into the abyss. Matching step for step, one inch behind Scott, Cody followed, breathing heavily with his eyes stretched wide open.

The beam from the flashlight cut through the black. They could only see what the flashlight exposed, making the search tense and lengthy. First they cleared the living room. The light rolled over the bricks of the fireplace, exposing the ash-covered interior.

Black shiny remains of what was once wood still lay on the cold steel log support.

"Wait! What's that?" Cody asked in a startled tone.

Moving the beam to the right corner of the crusted black slab of cement where Cody pointed—Scott could see what looked like an odd shaped ball. Black as the place it rested, the object sat motionless. They slowly approached with the light fixed on it; Cody and Scott were unable to make out what it was from just a few feet away. Moving in closer, the lifeless ball was fully illuminated, unearthing its shiny, uneven, dirty black fur. The light bounced off of something reflective that peered from within the matted filament. Upon closer inspection, the reflection came from a glazed over eyeball. Yellow, with a black vertical slit down the middle, the eye stared back at them.

"Is, or was that one of your cats?" Cody stuttered carefully.

"I don't think so. I've owned many cats, but Whiskers was the only one alive after I moved, and he had longer grey colored hair with green eyes."

They whipped their heads around simultaneously as if on swivels. A scratching noise came from atop the stairwell. Like a row of knitting needles slowly ripping through a piece of thick fabric, the noise echoed down the stairs.

"Probably just an animal in the garage trying to come in from the cold," Scott said, unconvinced.

Cody seemed unable to speak, so Scott nudged his shoulder, and signaled that he was going to approach the stairs.

Cody again followed closely as Scott carefully planted one foot in front of another, trying not to make a sound. Pressing his back against the wall while Cody waited behind, Scott did his best to stay out of sight.

Waiting to turn the corner, fearing the light would expose something at the top of the stairs; Scott took one last deep breath, praying that whatever it was would be on the other side of the door, in the garage.

He turned—the beam of light turned with him as it sliced through the dead air. His eyes focused in on the landing. Startled, Scott dropped the flashlight. A circle of light bounced off of the walls and stairs until the flashlight settled at his feet. The scratching had stopped, and silence fell upon the house.

Scott could hear Cody breathing heavily behind him as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't. Scott stood

frozen in place, waiting to hear footsteps descend from the top of the stairs.

Suddenly, the flashlight shot up the stairs until it reached the landing. Cody had lost patience and grabbed the light. They both stared at a large, healthy cat, with long grey hair, and green eyes.

"Whiskers?" Cody asked.

"Not possible," Scott replied, with uncertainty.

The cat sat perfectly still on the landing at the top of the stairs, glaring at them with glowing green eyes.

Cody jumped and screamed, dropping the flashlight, only this time, the light didn't reflect off of the walls, allowing them to see where it landed. Either the switch had been bumped to the off position, or the light had broken. They prayed it was only the switch.

In total blackness, they dropped to their knees, frantically searching with shaky, unsteady hands.

"Why did you drop the light?"

"Something bumped the back of my leg!" Cody replied.

"That's not possible; the cat was still at the top of the stairs"

"It was something else. I need to get out of here!"

Cody was losing it, and Scott was terrified at the thought of what shared the dark basement with them.

Running his hand along the floor, Scott felt his pinky bump something hard, and then it rolled away. _The flashlight!_ Moving in the same direction, he was able to grip the handle of the light. His thumb found the switch. _Thank God!_ The light still worked.

They both jumped to their feet. Scott quickly scanned the area around for whatever it was that bumped into Cody.

There was nothing in the area that he could see, so they shot the light up to the top of the stairs. The grey cat was no longer perched on the landing.

Scott quickly walked into the living room and shined the light on the fireplace. The black lifeless feline corpse was gone.

Loud footsteps quickly faded up the stairs. Scott turned the light to where Cody was standing, but he was gone.

"Cody! Come back!"

The door leading to the kitchen slammed, then pounding footsteps raced across the ceiling above his head. Scott followed up the stairs, and before he could reach the kitchen door, he could hear the old screen door slam shut. Scott bolted through the house, headed for the exit.

Upset that Cody had abandoned him, Scott could feel rage overwhelm his feeling of fear.

He exploded out the front door, tearing the screen door off of its hinges. Nearly unloading a violent explicative onslaught of words that rarely escaped his mouth, Scott was stopped by the site of a grown man sobbing, with his head buried between his knees.

Now composed, he asked Cody if he was all right.

"No, I'm not all right." Cody labored to say. "My heart is pounding out of my chest. I can't breathe."

"You'll be okay. Let's go back to the car and rethink this whole thing."

### CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sitting in the car, and contemplating what their next move should be, Scott and Cody stared at the house with mixed emotions.

They had gotten a late start on their road trip, which placed them at the house at dusk—too late to start an effective search.

The condition of the neighborhood was a shock to both of them, especially Scott, who believed there would be occupants still in the house. The vacant rotted lot where he once lived did however make it easier for them to access; they didn't need permission to enter.

Another problem looked them in the eye—they found themselves in the midst of unwelcome guests—guests that although would normally seem harmless—startled them to the point where reentering the house at night was not a viable option.

Concerns sprouted in Scott's mind: _temperatures are likely too cold to stay in the car. We don't have enough gas to leave it running all night, so the car heater is out of the question. If we opt to set up camp in the home, we take the chance of running into more unwelcome surprises, and renting a motel would chew up the funds set aside for fuel and food._

"What now?" Cody asked.

"Well . . . we either layer up with blankets and clothing and sleep in the car—or we set up camp in my room like originally planned. I have a propane heater, sleeping bags, and pillows, so it would be much warmer and more comfortable."

"It's not safe in there!"

"It's just a couple of cats. You're letting my past experiences and the dark freak you out. A couple of cats were able to access the house and make it their home—they probably eat the mice."

"Sure . . . a cat that just happens to look identical to your cat, Whiskers, and who also scratches at the top of the stairwell just like Whiskers. That doesn't scare you, even a little?"

"It was a little weird, but a twenty something year old cat wouldn't look that healthy—the cat in the house is no more than five years, so again, it's impossible."

"We're here to try and recreate a scenario so you can record a horse head from hell, and you think a Whiskers homecoming is impossible?"

"It's different. The head is something from the spiritual realm, the cat is a physical thing—not the same."

"The curtains! They just moved! Cody screamed, pointing at the front window.

Scott looked at the window, but the curtains remained perfectly still.

"You're seeing things, calm down."

"No! They moved! Keep watching!" Cody insisted.

Watching, waiting, for what seemed like several minutes— the curtains finally fluttered.

"See? I'm right! There's something there!"

"Yep, you're right. It's a cat. That's all that's inside—cats."

"Whoa!" Cody screamed again, causing Scott's ears to ring.

Whiskers, or a cat that looked like Whiskers, jumped up and landed on the ledge inside the main window. Staring at them with its intense green eyes, it almost seemed inviting.

"It's probably lonely and in need of food, that's all." Scott said, annoyed.

"It's hungry all right. It's staring at me like a giant bowl of Kibbles and Bits!"

"A fifteen to twenty pound cat is going to eat you?" He said, laughing hysterically. Scott needed a good laugh and Cody had just reminded him why he decided to bring him along.

They had both had dozed off, and Scott was the first to wake from the bitter cold. Looking at the time on his cell phone, he was shocked to see that it was already midnight.

Scott glanced over at the main window of the house. His eyesight was still slightly blurred, so it took a moment to focus. The cat was gone.

"Wake up!" He said, as he nudged Cody's shoulder.

Half awake, Cody attempted to respond, "Wha . . . Hmmm? Tired—Go away."

"Seriously, we need to do something. It's freezing out here."

A sound erupted from Cody's direction that resembled an underwater explosion.

"That should warm you up!" Cody said, laughing hysterically to the point where he had tears building up in his eyes.

"That's rancid! Just for that, you're sleeping outside . . . alone!"

His reply only added fuel to the fire that originally ignited his laughter. Cody's laugh quickly turned into a wheezing sound, which soon led to Cody coughing and gagging as he tried to catch his breath.

"I'm sorry man. That nut mix I ate earlier had a profound impact on my gaseous state." Cody replied as he continued to chuckle, like some evil clown tormenting a child.

Cody would sometimes say things that didn't necessarily make sense, but would have a twisted ring to it. He would do this to elicit a response from his victim, and the more agitated and serious the victim became; the funnier Cody thought it was. Most of the time—and tonight being one of those times—Cody would be the only one laughing.

"Alright man! Let's do this like Thelma and Louise. We'll grab our stuff, and run for the house holding hands!" Cody chuckled, again trying to amuse himself.

"Seriously? You want to go for it?"

"Yeah. It's too cold out here. If we stick to the upstairs, and barricade the bedroom door once inside, we'll be fine till morning."

Cody actually displayed some semblance of sincerity, so Scott took him seriously.

"Who needs a barricade? Eat more nut mix, and there won't be a cat within ten miles of here by sunrise."

"That's right brother! And if any of them should mess with us, I'll just light a match, and boom! I'll take 'em all out!"

"Unless the cats have lost their sense of smell, that won't be necessary. It's good to have a plan-B though."

Although pretentious and immature, their conversation put both Cody and Scott at ease. All of a sudden, the fear was gone. At least most of it was.

### CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A gnarled limb tapped at his window as if begging to be let in from the howling winds and cold. It was just how Scott remembered it.

His sleeping bag was placed in the same area where his bed used to be, while Cody rolled out his bag by the closet, which was to the right and at the foot of where Scott chose to rest.

Cody wedged wood chips under the inside of the door, which he had found outside. He believed it would make the door more difficult to open. He also placed their luggage against the door; it weighed no more than forty pounds, but it made him feel safer. Scott on the other hand, relied on twenty years of martial arts training and a .45 auto that he kept by his side. He also brought a-hundred rounds of ammo and two extra thirteen-round magazines just in case.

Feeling somewhat warm and secure in their heavy down bags, they finally began to doze off at approximately 1:15 A.M. It had been a long road trip and a stressful evening, so regardless of the less than desirable conditions; they both had no trouble falling asleep.

The sound of something sliding across the floor woke Scott. He turned his head to try and make out what it was. There was nothing, no movement, no shapes lurking in the shadows, just Cody snoring away the night.

Still half asleep and having a hard time focusing, he continued to search for something that could have made the sound. _The zipper on Cody's sleeping bag, as he dragged his feet?_ He thought. Possibly, but Scott wasn't convinced.

Continuing his scan of the room, the luggage by the door caught his eye. It didn't look like it had been moved, and the door was still closed shut.

Knowing nothing had entered the room; Scott felt satisfied, and rolled on his side for some much needed rest.

Silence filled the air, Cody had stopped snoring, and the quiet was so dense that Scott could actually hear his heart beat.

His eyes had just closed when he heard a loud thud. This time he was alarmed, and his attention was brought immediately to the door. The luggage bag was lying on its side. Scott's eyes quickly shifted to the door—it was closed. If the door was closed, what pushed over the luggage?

Cody was still sleeping and oblivious to anything that was going on around him. Scott shined the flashlight on the door handle—no movement.

Bringing the light down to the base of the door due to another noise he heard, he noticed that one of the wood chips had been pushed in, and sat at least three inches from the inside of the door. Something had pushed the wood chip and knocked over the luggage, but what? _Pop!_ Another chip seemingly ejected itself out from underneath the door where it was tightly pressed by Cody's stubby desperate hands.

Grabbing his already loaded .45, Scott sat the flashlight down and positioned it so it pointed at the door, and took aim.

He kicked Cody's foot with zero results. _Pop!_ Another wood chip went flying from under the door with more force than the last, and struck Cody in the head. Alarmed, Cody rolled over to his knees and scurried his way to Scott's side of the room.

Staring at the area of the door where the flashlight was focused, Cody asked, "What's happening? Why is the luggage knocked over?"

Scott didn't say a word—Cody knew.

After he realized what had happened, Cody began to cry like a small child. "We should have never slept in this house!" He said in a shaky voice.

Both terrified at what awaited them on the other side of the door, they sat and stared motionless, waiting for another wood chip to fly across the floor.

"Shoot it!" Cody yelled while pointing at the door.

Scott wasn't about to shoot anything unless he knew exactly what it was and whether or not it meant them harm. What if it was just a cat, or another animal, like a raccoon?

_Flick._ Another piece of wood—and then another—until just one remained. Staring at the final wood chip, waiting for whatever it was to enter, and wondering if he would have to shoot it, Scott thought to himself, _What if it's not of the physical realm, and bullets have no effect?_ The thought terrified him, and Cody was on the brink of losing it, so Scott didn't dare share his thoughts with him.

An unwelcome sound suddenly came out of nowhere; it was as if the door was being sucked off of its hinges while being pulled towards the hallway.

They both watched the door handle and the last wood chip for any signs of movement. At first, nothing, and then the wood chip squirmed like a maggot riding on fresh kill. The door again pulled away from the hinges, and then the piece of wood quickly vanished underneath the door.

Quiet filled the house, the door relaxed, and the only noise to be heard was heavy breathing conducted by both Cody and Scott. Still, they waited for a sound, movement, any sign at all of life other than their own.

Two hours had passed by ever so slowly. It was 5:00 A.M. and there was still no movement on the other side.

"Cody, you open the door while I stand ready with the gun."

"Are you kidding? Something had the strength to pull that piece of wood under the door, hard enough to nearly take the door off! And you want me to open it? No! The answer is No!" Cody forcefully replied.

"We've got two hours before sunrise. Do you really want to wait here, staring at the door for that long?"

"I'll hold the gun, and you open the door!"

"You've never held a firearm in your life. I've fired over a-thousand rounds through this gun, and I'm certified, so I'm the only one that is handling a firearm tonight."

Cody gathered his confidence and slowly rose to his feet. He carefully planted one foot in front of the other in an attempt to keep the wooden floor from creaking. Slowly inching his way to the door, Scott stood behind him in a stable firing stance with the .45 pointed down at an angle so it wasn't aimed at Cody.

Grabbing the handle, Cody took a deep breath, and then squeezed the handle tightly with his sweaty palm. Yanking the door open as fast as he could, Cody quickly stepped out of the way while Scott raised his gun at the black hole that was the hallway. Tension was high, and his nerves caused him to nearly squeeze the trigger.

Staring into the dark, he waited for a sound indicating movement—anything at all that would give him reason to send a .45 slug into an unsuspecting beast. There was nothing—no glowing eyes, no movement, no breathing, and no footsteps—nothing.

Cody held the flashlight, but forgot to point it in the hallway out of fear. "Cody! Shine the light in the hall!" Cody kept his back to the wall, refusing to look into the hall as he extended his arm, and pointed the light into the dark narrow abyss.

Scott's eyes didn't deceive him, the hall was vacant. He didn't know whether to feel relief or frustration.

Glad that there was no immediate danger, he was also upset that they might never find out what lurked on the other side of the door.

### CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Morning finally came; casting light throughout the catacomb where evil dwells, and transforming it to a welcoming place that looked more like home.

Like zombies, they appeared lifeless from lack of rest—having spent an entire evening in the house of horrors.

Hesitant to spend another night, Scott contemplated packing up and driving home. Pride quickly overwhelmed his initial feeling of flight and the decision was made to stay and complete his mission. Nothing would push him away from his own home and stop him from finally being able obtain answers to questions that haunted him for so many years. He would not falter.

Surprisingly, Cody didn't have anything to say—he just followed Scott's lead like a mute servant.

They ate a breakfast consisting of dry whole grain bread, chocolate flavored whey protein powder mixed with water, and a banana.

Scott brought very basic foods that didn't require refrigeration, and that were healthy and nutritious—a long cry from Cody's usual fast food diet.

"How about we set-up the recording equipment throughout the house, and then get some sleep while there's still light?" Scott suggested.

"What are we going to do after the sun sets?"

"We'll sleep during the day, and monitor at night. I need to capture something convincing before leaving."

"I'm not sure I can do another night in this house. No offense, man, but there's something in here—something other than cats and mice."

"We can drive around the neighborhood, and locate something that we can use to barricade the door. I'll also remove the window screen so we can escape if needed. How does that sound?"

"Well . . . I don't know."

"Come on, Cody! Aren't you just a little curious? Do this for me, and I'll introduce you to that personal trainer at my gym. What's her name?"

"Laura. Her name is, Laura."

"That's it! You've been begging for months, now here's your chance!"

"We can try another night and see how it goes, but you're introducing me to Laura the second we get back! I won't forget!"

Cody despised working out, but would join Scott at the gym from time to time, specifically on days a particular trainer was working. It became painfully obvious that he was only there to gaze upon the unattainable beauty, with no intentions of actually speaking with her, and certainly no intentions of working out.

They set up three cameras in the basement: one pointed at the dining area and fireplace, one in the bedroom facing the adjoining door to the second bedroom, and one facing up the stairs to capture the landing and door that led to the garage.

In the upstairs they set up three more cameras: one in the room where they made camp, one in the hallway, facing the door to the room where they were staying, and one in the living room facing the front door.

All of the cameras were wireless, and ran off batteries. Each camera had two backup batteries, as did Scott's laptop/monitor. If the equipment were to die before capturing the needed footage, he could drive to the nearest gas station, and recharge the batteries. The rest of the equipment was set up in the room in hopes that they would capture the demonic horse.

The alarm on Scott's cell phone went off at exactly 6:20 P.M.—the time the sun laid to rest behind the Rocky Mountains that silhouetted the October sky.

They woke from their uninterrupted slumber feeling somewhat rested after receiving five hours of creep free sleep.

Running to set all six cameras to record, Scott had a sick feeling as dark fell upon the bleak home.

They met back at the room just moments before dusk, giving them little time to set up the audio recorder, thermometer, and EMF detector.

Managing to get everything set up before dark completely blanketed the home; they pushed the small freezer they found two houses down against the door. Weighing approximately a-hundred pounds, the freezer offered more resistance than the luggage, and if something should manage to push the door open, the freezer was bulky enough to only allow about six-inches of clearance before hitting the wall. Nothing larger than the average cat could enter, and if anything larger reared its ugly head through the limited opening, Scott could easily blow its evil, maggot laden brains all over the walls with a well placed .45 hollow-point.

Feeling more secure than the night before, Cody was actually able to relax.

"This is more like it. I can actually sit here without my heart pounding out of my chest." Cody said.

"I concur. If something comes near our door tonight, it'll have a rude awakening."

"You need a nick name. How about, Spookster?"

Cody's sense of humor was returning.

"I like it. What shall we call you?"

"You're the one heading this expedition, I don't need a moniker. Cody will do just fine, thank you." He said with a smirk on his round squinty-eyed face.

Six hours had passed, and there was no activity detected by the high tech equipment, or their natural, organic, God given senses. It was almost as if the creatures of the night knew what a camera was, and were avoiding them.

Midnight was now upon them, and Cody's eyelids were becoming heavy. Every once in a while they would stand up and walk around to get their blood pumping, but the confinement was getting to both of them.

"Did you see that?" Cody asked. He pointed to the monitor, which had the basement bedroom on display.

"I thought I saw movement on camera-six! It looked like a shadow—nothing clear."

Scott looked closely at the monitor, hoping and praying that something would show itself. His prayers were answered. The door the camera was facing was open. A black, blurred object came from the lurid adjoined room, and closed in on the camera lens. Suddenly, the blurred image was gone. The camera started to shake violently, and then the picture from the camera became lined and grainy, as if something had interfered with the signal. A few moments later, the monitor went black. They lost their signal completely.

"What was that, Spookster? There's no way that was a cat!" Cody fearfully said.

"I don't know. I couldn't make it out. Maybe tomorrow we can review the footage and enlarge it."

"Whatever it was went right for our camera and disabled it! What if it finds the rest of the cameras?"

Cody made a good point. The camera sat four feet above the ground, which ruled out any type of small animal. Besides, whatever it was, it appeared shapeless, formless, and was intelligent enough to take out the camera.

"We're going to be all right. Even if it takes out the cameras, it won't be able to open our door far enough to enter, and I have the ability to blow a hole right through it." Scott said in an attempt to convince Cody.

Cody calmed down a little, but Scott wasn't convinced. If what they were dealing with came from the spiritual realm, his gun would be of no consequence.

### CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Watching the number-four camera closely to see if their mystery guest would attempt to head up the stairs, Scott contemplated whether or not Cody and he should leave out the front door while, IT was still in the basement. Scott didn't dare mention his thoughts to Cody, as he knew he would jump on the idea and be out the door before he could finish his sentence. He had to think things through before suggesting anything.

Camera-four started moving forward and backward, as if the tripod sat atop a rocking horse that had been put into motion. Ever so slightly, the image displayed on the monitor—via the camera—swung in a downward motion and then upward. Gradually picking up speed, the camera went from rocking only a few inches to nearly touching the ground, and then as it rolled back it pointed directly at the ceiling.

The movement became violently nauseating. Faster and faster it rocked, until finally . . . the camera thrust forward one final time, smashing against the floor. The image on the monitor went blank.

Another camera signal down, and this time there wasn't even a glimpse of what had caused the damage.

Petrified, Scott and Cody stared at the dead screen, uncertain of what their next move should be.

Only one camera remained that could possibly capture the image they so desperately sought out: camera-two, which aimed directly at the entrance to their room.

At that point, they had no idea if this thing was still in the basement, or if it had already made its way upstairs to continue stalking them.

Leaving the room was no longer an option. They were stuck—waiting.

Pouring with sweat, hair matted to his head, and eyes about to pop out of his squinty eyelids; Cody nearly lost his mind with anticipation until remembering that they had an escape route. "The window!" Cody said, as he rushed to pull the window open.

Scott was too focused to respond to Cody's sudden glimpse of hope. He needed to keep watch on the visual aid that guarded the gateway to their stowage.

Camera-two still focused at the door they barricaded. Scott watched its perspective, while from his peripheral vision, he could see Cody shaking frantically with his entire body, trying to pry the window open.

He couldn't bring himself to ask Cody what was the matter, or if he needed any help. Scott's senses were distracted by what he feared was a dangerous if not deadly enemy within the very dwelling he then occupied.

"Scott! Help! The window is stuck!" Was all Cody could muster in his panicked condition.

Still focused on the monitor, Scott gave no reply to Cody's cries for help. He would have to find something to smash the window with if it wouldn't open, but Scott could not take his eyes off of the monitor. He needed desperately to see what it was he was dealing with. More than a morbid fascination, it was an obsession.

Exhausted, Cody took a moment to catch his breath. Still waiting, motionless and silent, Scott watched for the much anticipated arrival of what might explain the many unanswered questions that festered in his brain. _Reveal yourself to me;_ he thought over and over, as if by doing so he would summon the entity for a face-to-face encounter.

### CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Pulling and pounding on the filthy web covered window, Cody looked back at the monitor.

"See anything? Let me know if you see something! I'll smash the window with the flashlight! I'm serious!"

"Nothing yet. Don't worry, I'll definitely let you know." Scott replied.

Except for a breeze outside, the house was quiet. The roof creaked, and the tree limb tapped an uneven beat on the window, but there was nothing stirring outside the bedroom door.

Cody gave up on pulling the window open. It had remained closed for too long, and was stuck.

With flashlight in hand, Cody waited by the window, catching his breath, and gathering his strength for when he might need to smash his way outside.

Over two hours had passed by, and still nothing. They knew it was still in the house with them, but they didn't know where, and they weren't about to investigate.

They had two choices: stay in the room until sunrise, or go through the window and into the backyard.

"Cody?"

"Yeah?"

"Sorry man, I didn't mean to ignore you earlier. I was just focused."

"No sweat. Don't worry about it. I—"

Cody stopped mid sentence while looking at the monitor. Looking to see what had stopped him cold, Scott too was speechless. It had been rendered completely black. The camera looked to be still functioning, but they could no longer make out the hall or the door—everything was pitch-black.

"It's there, blocking the camera! We've gotta go!" Said Cody.

"Don't smash the window! Not unless the door moves! Just wait!"

Not wanting to persuade the unknown entity into entering our room, Scott thought it best to remain still and not panic. Breaking the window prematurely may have caused it to rush the bedroom door.

With any luck, maybe it would leave them alone. Then again, what if it could sense them? Smell them like a half-starved wolf? What if its hearing was so intensely keen, that it could hear their whispers, their breathing— sense their fear?

They still wanted to see the thing, but had no desire to find out its true intensions.

The monitor was still black, and they couldn't detect any movement outside the door.

Suddenly, there was a methodical but subtle scratching at the door. The noise was long and painfully slow, as if it meant to torment them with the sound of the scraping.

They sat silent and motionless, praying it would go away. Drawn out clawing noises went on for minutes, and then stopped. They looked at each other—both anticipating something horrible—looking for the other to show strength or hope, but finding nothing but fear in each other's eyes.

They both shook frantically, still staring at each other, waiting for the door-handle to turn, but there was nothing.

The screen on the monitor was still black, but the scratching had been over for a few minutes. They began to breathe normal again—heart rates dropping—eyes still unable to blink—mouths so dry the white mucousy stuff formed into a thin crust.

What was seemingly an endless night, and most certainly sleepless, came to an end. Sunrise was upon them at last, and a new day brought hope. Hope that whatever was outside their door would be gone, never to bother them again.

Hope that they could leave the nightmarish world they found themselves in—behind.

### CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

After only receiving a few hours of sleep during their highly stressful two-day stay, Scott and Cody were exhausted.

"It's 7:30 in the A.M. Rise and shine!" Cody said sarcastically.

"Funny, but seriously, we need to get some sleep this afternoon, even if it means driving somewhere." Driving somewhere sounded like a good option—actually. Driving . . . never looking back . . . never returning.

They again checked the monitor, which was still black as the night. "There's no way that thing stood in front of the camera all night." Cody said.

"I'm not sure we should open the door; is that what you're implying?"

"I'll open it quickly, and you cover me with your gun. We need to get out of here, and I'm curious about the camera. Besides, we need to try and recoup as much equipment as possible, or you're going to have to pay for it."

Cody made a good point, Scott couldn't replace all of the equipment, and he too was curious as to why the camera went blank, and why the thing scratched the door.

_Are there claw marks? How wide . . . how deep are they? Maybe there's a new message etched in the wood, done by a grotesque, discolored fingernail—much the way the psycho, possessed lady had done._ Scott desperately needed answers to the questions flooding his mind.

He moved the freezer away from the door while Cody mentally prepared himself for the unexpected. Scott stood by ready to raise the .45 and fire, while Cody gripped the cold steel of the door handle—pausing to look back at Scott. Scott gave him the nod to go ahead—Cody turned the handle and jerked the door open—jumping out of the way as fast as he could. Raising the gun after Cody cleared; he first focused down the hall where the camera was positioned. Cody peaked his head around the corner and out the door to see what Scott was looking at.

"Oh Lord!" Cody stuttered, nearly coughing up what little food remained in his stomach.

A blood-soaked, matted head of a black cat had been forced onto the camera lens. In no way was the job clean; someone or something had ripped the head off. Blood and bits of brain that had ran down the body of the camera were now a dried sticky ooze with flies all over it—laying eggs that, by midday would be maggots.

The left side of the cat's head was distorted as if something had gripped it too hard and caused it to cave in. Its right eye was bulged out of its socket, and its jaw was barely attached, causing it to hang abnormally low and crooked.

Looking at the ground for bloody footprints or other signs, they noticed wood shavings at the base of the door. Slowly moving their eyes up the length of the door, they realized what all of the scratching had been. At about eye level was some type of intricate writing, but they were unable to make out what it said. The script was clearly in another language, and unlike anything they had ever seen before. Scott took pictures of the writing in hopes of showing them to experts that could shed light on the meaning and origin.

"We're dealing with something that's intelligent enough to write in some foreign language, and yet is barbaric and strong enough to rip a cats head off while crushing its skull. Great!"

"Let's gather what we can, and pack it in my car. I've got enough to do some research, and if we ever come back here again, I now know to better prepare."

"Next time? There's no next time for me, brother!"

They safely and quickly gathered all of the equipment they could, and loaded the vehicle. They made sure to stay together and watch each other's backs, and by 3:00 P.M. they were ready to leave.

As Scott started to drive away, a Sheriff's car came around the corner and stopped in front of them. A deputy stepped out of his vehicle and approached them while his right hand rested on his holster—ready to draw. He was tall and lanky with a well trimmed mustache, mirrored aviator sunglasses, a neatly pressed uniform, polished boots, a badge that was rubbed to a mirror shine—blinding actually, and a face so serious it looked as though it would crack at any attempt to smile.

Rolling down his window as the deputy approached, Scott decided to be proactive and speak first. "Afternoon sir!"

Not in a mood for conversation, the deputy got right to the point, "Why are you parked in front of this home? His mannerism was stern, his voice cold, almost robotic—void of emotion.

"I used to live here, so we dropped by to check it out. Obviously we're a little disappointed at the condition of the neighborhood. Do you have any idea what happened?"

"About ten years ago something polluted the water in this area rendering the drinking water and soil highly toxic. A few people got sick, one died, and everyone moved out.

The area was fenced in with signs posted, but that was all torn down about a year ago after the soil tested negative for toxins, and an investor bought the entire neighborhood for redevelopment."

"What exactly polluted the water?"

"I was never told, so I can't tell you that. You guys need to clear out of here; these structures are all condemned and deemed unsafe to enter."

"Yes sir, and thank you for the information. Have a good day."

The deputy gave no reply; he just stared, waiting for them to obey his orders as if they were family pets.

As they drove away, Scott and Cody watched the deputy and the house in the side mirrors until they faded away. The deputy stood still, like a cold lifeless mannequin, and watched them until they were out of site.

"We're lucky he didn't search us." Cody said with a sigh of relief.

"At least we know why the neighborhood was abandoned, although I doubt he told us everything he knows."

"Yep! He was definitely holding back something. But I do agree with him, we should never set foot in that house again."

Cody was right, and Scott knew it, but he also knew the day may come when he would have to return in order to complete the puzzle.

### CHAPTER NINETEEN

Exhausted, Cody barely made it to his front door after Scott had dropped him off at his house. Dragging his feet, head down, walking like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh, Cody looked pitiful—Scott couldn't help but feel somewhat responsible. At least he would sleep well tonight.

There was still time to return the equipment he had rented, some of which he needed to pay for due to the damage it received by the wicked hands of the unknown.

After returning the equipment, which took some time due to the damage assessment, Scott headed home. Opening the front door, he sat his bags down and looked at the two stained indentations still present on the wood floor. Nearly two years had gone by since the possessed woman entered his home and nearly ruined his life. Neighbors had called the police when they heard the screaming and gunfire. When the police finally arrived, they immediately took Scott's firearm and placed him in cuffs. He thought for sure he would spend life in prison for murder.

There was zero evidence that he did the damage to her knees, jaw, and neck, and the woman that the demon decided to possess had a long history of violent crimes, resulting in a few felonies and a warrant for her arrest, along with a history of mental illness. _Demons sure know how to pick 'em!_

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.

### CHAPTER TWENTY

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.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

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.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

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.

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.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

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.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

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.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

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.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

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.

"Hi, I'm Ella, how may I help you?"

_Add amazing voice to the list,_ Scott thought. "Hi! Yes! I would like to see your catalog; I'm looking to purchase a few books today, and I would like to see what you have in stock."

Ella reached behind the desk and pulled out a small catalog for Scott to look through. "Anything in particular?" Ella asked, with a kind smile.

"Well—it's difficult for me to explain. To be honest, I don't know much about this stuff. It's really for research."

"What type of research? Maybe I can help—I know our inventory and would be happy to recommend something for you."

Scott was afraid to mention anything that might frighten Ella or make her think he was crazy, so he was careful to answer. "It's research for someone who would like to bring some good into their lives. You know—out with the bad, in with the good? They've had some negative experiences and would like to—uh—pray—and possibly find a way to be rid of the negative experiences. You know?" Scott had embarrassed himself, but Ella smiled sweetly and responded in a way to not further embarrass Scott.

"I believe I have just the thing. I would start with the Old Testament and a Strong's, which will help to figure out the true meaning of the words and verses in the Bible. By simply knowing and understanding the Bible, many believe it nourishes the soul and brings more positive things into their lives. Maybe it'll be a good starting point?"

"Sounds perfect, I'll take both." Scott felt a little uncomfortable, as if the conversation became overly personal, even though it didn't.

He watched as Ella walked away to retrieve the books, and then turned to look at Cody, whom he had forgotten was sitting behind him the entire time. Cody stared at Scott with a sly grin.

"What?"

"Oh, you know. I saw how you looked at her."

"I was being nice. What? A guy can't be nice without it being taken the wrong way?"

"Not at all, but there's being nice, and then there's: BEING NICE. I'm not blind you know. She's cute, she has no ring, and she seemed to be a bit smitten by you." Cody said sarcastically, using a terrible English accent.

"Yeah, well, I'm not 'smitten' by you, so stick a sock in it!" Partly joking, and partly being serious, Scott ended the conversation before Ella's return.

Returning with the books, Ella gently handed them to Scott—placing them in his hands while her longing eyes locked into his. She found herself smiling involuntarily, as if she couldn't stop had she wanted to. A slight shy chuckle was shared between both parties, and then Ella released her hands from the books, realizing that she was holding one end of the books while Scott held the other.

There was so much Scott wanted to say to Ella—so much he wanted to ask, but the only words to escape his mouth were, "Thank you."

"You're so welcome, Scott. Do you have any questions? Anything at all? I'm no expert, but I know enough to where I can probably help, at least a little."

Her offer was so sweet that it almost overwhelmed Scott. _Don't blow it!_ He thought to himself. "Actually, I didn't want to bother, but since you offered, I could use a little help."

"There's a coffee shop on the other end of the mall; how about we discuss your problem and any questions you have tomorrow?"

Now overwhelmed with excitement and happiness, for having the opportunity to have one-on-one time with Ella, Scott accepted her invite while doing his best to conceal both his relief, and his rapidly growing feelings for Ella. "That would be perfect. What time would you like to meet?"

"Does noon work for you? I can take my lunch at that time."

"Perfect! I'll see you at noon."

Cody found it hard not to grin, and also felt slightly uncomfortable at the familiar exchange between his friend and a total stranger.

Scott and Cody exited the building—Scott looked back every few feet—admiring the building only because he knew an enchanting angel still graced its interior.

"It's over."

"What are you talking about?"

"I've never seen you like this. It's sad—scary and sad. You were whipped the moment you laid eyes on her."

"Whatever. She seems nice, that's all."

"Oh right! I've seen you around, 'nice' girls, and you didn't act like that!"

"OK, so she's nice—and pretty!"

"And?"

"And—maybe I like her. What will it hurt to have coffee?"

"It won't hurt. But that will most certainly lead to dinner, which will lead to a movie, which will lead to: 'hey, why don't you just come over and I will make dinner for you?' And of course, that will lead to: 'hey Cody? How would you like to be my best man?' I'm right—you'll see."

"You get all of that from me liking a girl?"

"I'm just saying."

Scott dropped Cody off at his home after enduring his verbal assault, which was an attempt to fully embarrass Scott, and also gave warning that his best bud was maybe a little jealous. And why wouldn't he be? Ella was smart, beautiful, well dressed, well mannered, and certainly was easier to look at than Cody.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Dormant, seemingly lifeless gallows whisked by like silhouettes against the gloaming star-filled canvas. The sun set early these winter months, making the day seem shorter than it was. Chills set in the almost night air that prompted Scott to turn on the car heater.

Peering down at the books that rest on the passenger seat, Scott thought of Ella: her smile, soft sweet voice, radiant hair, shapely legs, and an innocence that ultimately won him over.

Scott looked at his watch. A sound of exasperation escaped his lips. It was only a quarter till five, nineteen hours and fifteen minutes before he would see Ella again.

A thought then suddenly entered Scott's mind. _She said she would try to help ME, with MY issues._ "She knows it's about me," Scott said, now concerned she would think he was insane if he told her anything remotely close to the truth.

Ella was perceptive and caring. She was a pseudo counselor to all her friends and family because she listened, because she was sincere.

Quickly realizing that he would not be able to keep anything from her, he started to think of how he would word his experiences. His fears.

With twenty minutes of driving ahead of him before he reached his abode, Scott turned on the radio—already set to his favorite rock station. A classic by Ozzy rang out. _How ironic, that a man whose moniker is, Prince of Darkness, is playing on my drive home._ Scott laughed at the thought. "I'm being chased by the Prince of Darkness," he muttered under his breath.

Suddenly, a white noise interrupted the song, Diary of a Madman. "Come on!" Scott played with the radio's dials to no avail. Broken words separated by static started coming through the frequency, but not from the song. "Angelus . . . Lucifer . . . abyssus." Scott listened intently in an attempt to decipher the words. The voice grew louder each time it repeated the phrase. Scott turned the radio volume down, but still the voice grew louder, to the point where Scott's eardrums ached—on the verge of erupting. "Mortem! Die!" The final words came through at an unnaturally elevated volume.

Slamming on the breaks, Scott pulled over to the side of the road, turned the engine off, removed the keys from the ignition, and quickly exited his car.

His ears rang so loud; blood surely must be oozing out of them. Scott stuck his pinky in his right ear—no blood.

Scott was able to make it the rest of the way home without IT speaking through the car's stereo, like some demon that had possessed his car in order to reenact a scene from the movie, Christine.

After entering his apartment, Scott noticed the red light on the answering machine blinking. He pressed the button.

Beep! "Scott, this is Mustapha, please call me as soon as you receive this message, it's urgent."

Beep! "Hi Scott! This is Ella; I've been thinking about ways I can help. If you feel like it, give me a call with more details and I will be happy to talk before we meet tomorrow. Bye!"

Beep! "This is Mustapha again. Please call me. I would like to meet with you and your friend. No fee—this will be free of charge. Something happened, and we need to try and help each other. Talk with you soon. Call. OK?"

Beep! A falsetto voice spoke. "Scott, I love you! Passionately! Smoochie, smoochie! Marry me you big hunk of a man! This is Ella, your exotic love mistress." A loud, puckered kissing noise followed, and then the sound of Cody chuckling could be heard in the background before the message ended.

"Child," Scott said under his breath while dialing Mustapha. He had come within a fraction of calling Ella first, but Scott was a sensible man, not easily overruled by emotions or hormones.

The phone rang. "Scott! Thank God you called. Please, can you, Cody, and I meet? The sooner the better."

"What happened?"

"I would prefer to explain in person."

"Cody experienced something—"

"Cody too? This is worse than I thought. Please ask your friend to meet at your house tonight. Are you available tonight?"

"This is important. Come over whenever you can, and I'll call Cody."

Scott wanted to read and be in bed early so he could be rested and at his best for Ella, but his curiosity and fear were a ferocious appetite that needed to be fed.

"Come on . . . answer," Scott thought to himself, while impatiently counting the number of times the phone rang before Cody answered.

"Hello?"

"Scott here. Mustapha—this guy that's helping me with my case—he wants you to meet with us at my place, ASAP."

"What's this about? Did he say?"

"No details, but he's on to something and he believes he can help us. He sounded a little freaked-out, so we need to at least hear him out."

"I'll get dressed and head over, but this better be good."

### CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Cody and Mustapha arrived at Scott's house within moments of each other. Cody in his black 1974 AMX Javelin, and Mustapha pulled up in a 2000 silver Aston Martin.

Scott lived in a simple 1970's three bedroom home—a rental serving as a temporary dwelling until he met his future bride. Scott kept it clean; the lawn was always mowed and trimmed, and he lent a little of himself to the interior—consisting of gothic-renaissance era styled furnishings, sconces, artwork, etc. Most were surprised at his taste in décor, but Scott was an old soul who liked the finer things—even if he couldn't afford them.

"You must be Mustapha! I'm Cody . . . how are you doing?"

"Been better, dear sir, but nice to meet your acquaintance just the same."

They walked in the already open door to Scott's warm and welcoming abode. Mustapha immediately complimented Scott on his taste in interior design, "Well done, Scott—you have a beautiful home."

"Thank you, but it's not mine. I rent for now."

"No matter—I was speaking of your furniture and overall interior, not so much the home itself."

"I'm glad you like it, everything will be coming with me when I'm able to purchase my own home."

"Not to rush things, but can we get started? Where shall we sit?" Mustapha said in an anxious tone.

"Let's sit at the dining table—would anyone like a drink? I've got water, orange juice, tea, milk, and two beers left by friends when they came over for the fight last Friday."

Mustapha settled on tea, while Cody insisted on a beer. Scott went with water—he wanted nothing with caffeine, alcohol, or sugar so soon before bed.

"First off—Cody—have you had any bizarre happenings since going to Scott's childhood home?"

Cody looked at Scott to seek approval. Scott nodded and Cody answered. "Actually, yeah—I had a dream that started happy and went sour fast. Everything turned black, and then this man appeared wearing a top hat, dressed all in black. I woke up to a loud banging noise, and when I checked my front door, it had been slammed so hard the glass had shattered." Cody hesitated, looking to his left, trying to remember the sequence of events.

"Go on." Mustapha said in an effort to coax Cody into finishing. Mustapha needed to tell his part before too long.

"I cut my finger while attempting to pry the glass from the door, so I went to clean the wound in the bathroom. When I returned, there was something written in my blood on the door."

"Yes? What did it read?"

"It was in English and it read: death is imminent."

"Troubling . . . then what?"

"There was a man—the man in my dream—he was standing across the street staring at me. He grinned, wiped blood on his lips after sucking on his finger, and then he disappeared."

"Disappeared?"

"Yes. A bus drove by, and after it passed he was gone."

Mustapha, intrigued by Cody's admission, dove directly into his experience.

"Last night, I was looking through your documents, your research, and I received a phone call. I picked up, but could only make out a hissing sound and static. I hung up, and then the phone rang a second time. I picked up, and when I was about to hang up again, I heard voices. They spoke in several languages, including Arabic." Mustapha paused, as if perplexed. "Now—why would it start off in my native language, knowing full well that I would understand? How could it have known?"

Mustapha looked at both Scott and Cody, his eyes wide open, shoulders half shrugged, as if he were awaiting an answer that would never come. "It spoke in several languages, and then all at once! I wrote down what I could make of it."

He handed Scott the paper, "This is what it said to you?"

"Yes. Quite troubling, isn't it?"

"So, if I'm reading this correctly, and assuming your interpretation is accurate, it's telling us that it will go after anyone who helps me?" Scott became vehement as a ball of concern formed in his throat. He was to meet Ella tomorrow. Would he now have to cancel? Maybe she's already marked? Maybe by giving him the books, she's already helped him?

"Dear God." Scott said somberly.

Mustapha inquired, "What is it?"

"This girl, she recommended two books and I purchased them. She also offered to help, and I'm supposed to meet her tomorrow."

"There's no telling if she's involved already. It may be best to stay clear of her until this is settled."

"I at least have to call to see if she's doing OK."

"I wouldn't involve her anymore," said, Cody.

Scott knew he was in a serious quandary. Should he completely blow her off—hoping this thing will leave her alone? Or is it too late? Should he meet her so they can face it together? Scott barely knew Ella, but couldn't live with the idea of something bad happening to her.

### CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The dawning of a new day: a fiery ball rose in the east, slowly evaporating the frost laden, dormant grass that awaited spring. For Scott, the new day meant the possibility of a new threat, a danger from depths unknown, and an uncertainty about his future with Ella.

Shutting off his alarm, he rolled to a seated position on his bed, pausing for a moment to gain his equilibrium before standing.

Scott had little sleep that night, pondering his dilemma regarding his meeting with Ella. It haunted him more than the tall mystery man. He had four and a half hours before his scheduled meeting with Ella, and indecision still plagued him.

Four eggs, one piece of dry wheat toast, and a glass of orange juice filled the morning air in Scott's kitchen with a familiar scent, and filled his stomach with much needed energy.

He worked out for thirty minutes, took a shower, and dressed for his special occasion—even though he wasn't sure he was going. Once ready, he prepared himself to call Ella. He should have called last night, but the meeting with Mustapha and Cody carried on into the morning hours—too late to call Ella.

Scott reached for his cell-phone, and dialed all but the final digit, hesitating, readying his right index finger to press the cancel button. He pressed the final digit to complete Ella's number—the phone rang.

"Hi Scott!" Ella answered, anxiously anticipating his call.

"Good morning, Ella. How are you?"

"I'm good, thanks!"

"I apologize for not calling last night, I had a late meeting at my place—I'll explain later." _Explain later? Great, now I'm all but committed to keeping our noon lunch date_ , he thought.

"No problem, I know how things can come up. I'm glad you called this morning . . . "

Scott winced, waiting for Ella to tell him that she saw a tall thin man, wearing a black top hat.

Ella continued, "I'm not sure exactly what your issues are, but I looked through my personal library and found a few more books I can share with you."

Relieved that Ella didn't have anything horrific to reveal, Scott accepted her kind offer, and kept the lunch date.

### CHAPTER THIRTY

Sitting at her faux wood desk, Ella finalized the previous day's orders to be shipped.

She was efficient and accurate, and although loved by everyone at the office, there were employees who lacked enthusiasm for the job, doing the bare minimum, and therefore harbored animosity towards Ella, believing they were overshadowed by Ella's herculean work ethic.

The clock struck eleven, and Ella became excited; her meeting with Scott was in one hour. She wore her favorite skirt and blouse combo, finest heels, and an alluring but ambiguous scent.

Not one to seek love, or even appear available, Ella was struck by new and unfamiliar feelings: she felt amazing, but confused. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach—they had been since he left her office the day before. These new feelings were an important sign for Ella; she knew he could be the one, so she acted on it the only way she knew how, discretely.

The bells on the door activated, a customer or delivery driver had entered. Ella rose from her desk that sat just down the hall, around the corner from the entrance. "Hello sir, can I help you?" Ella asked upon seeing the customer standing in the lobby.

"I'm a friend of Scott's. You know him, correct?"

"Scott who?" Ella questioned, uncertain if the man's intentions were good or bad.

"Scott Abrahamson," the man replied, with a meandering grin.

"I don't really know him—he came in for the first time yesterday—as a customer."

"Your pupils dilated at the mention of his name."

"I'm not sure what you're implying, sir."

"No matter—please give him this the next time you see him." The man handed Ella a bag. "Don't open it; I want it to be a surprise."

Ella, in a hurry to end the awkward exchange, accepted the bag and agreed to give it to Scott.

Watching the tall thin man walk away, she felt distressed. She hoped Scott would have answers as to who this man was, and how he knew they had met.

The clock reached noon, and Ella was already out the door and on her way to meet Scott at the coffee shop.

As she approached, Scott's Roadrunner was already parked outside: a good sign that he was punctual and equally, if not more excited about their meeting.

She entered and immediately spotted Scott sitting in a booth near the back of the shop. He stood up and waived to be sure she noticed him. A polite handshake started their meeting—he waited for her to sit before seating himself. _A sign of a true gentleman,_ Emma thought.

"Good to see you," Scott said, as he smiled—eyes dilating.

Emma noticed his eyes were dilated, and then wondered if hers were too, or if he would notice, or knew what that suggested. Regardless, it made her happy to know he had more than a fleeting interest in her.

"You too, here are the books I promised, and a bag from a stranger."

"A stranger?" He chuckled.

"Yes, just a little while ago a tall man—sort of gaunt looking—came in and asked if I knew you. He was strange, and he requested that I give you this bag, but he asked that I don't peek." She had a troubled look about her face, and then she brightened up with a smile and whispered, "It's supposed to be a surprise!"

Scott carefully accepted the bag, trying to grin and hide his concern. "What was this man's name?"

"Not sure, he didn't say."

"What was he wearing?"

"A long black coat, sort of dusty, and a tall black hat—that was dusty too."

Scott froze—set the bag down—and stared at it.

"What's wrong?"

"Did he have a pointy nose and chin, and pale skin? Kind of like death warmed over?"

"Actually, yes—you know him?"

"I know of him. I've seen him. I'll have to explain, but please don't think I'm strange; I have two friends that can back my story."

Scott told Ella everything: the sightings, dreams, Cody's experience, and Mustapha's phone-call. He had total trust in her, complete comfort, as if he had known her his entire life.

Ella sat silent. She believed his story, as crazy as it was, but she didn't know how to respond. "Scott—for starters—I believe you."

Scott let out a sigh of relief.

"I don't know what this all means. I can't believe I came so close to him." A paralyzing chill climbed her spine, as if a tarantula had been released in her blouse. "So you think he's after me too? Because I tried to help you?"

"I think that's why he paid you a visit today. He wants me to know that he's watching all of us."

She had no response.

"I'm sorry I got you into this mess—I had no idea."

"It's OK, it's OK." She repeated out of nervousness. "I just need to process this—it's a little weird." Ella sat for a moment, staring at the salt and pepper shakers on the table, contemplating, and then something clicked. She looked up, met Scott's eyes, and smiled. Her smile took his mind off of their trouble, and made the world right again; no more signs written in blood, dead cats, and demon possessed vagrants. "We're all in this together, and together we will get through this." She was completely unshakable—positive—downright cheery.

Scott, mesmerized by Ella's outlook and brilliant smile, found himself without words.

"You with me?" She added.

"Yes—we will get through this. Where do we start?"

"With you—tell me everything about your past experiences, and maybe something will click. There has to be something about your experiences that will give us a clue as to who or what has been following you, and now me, Cody, and Mustapha."

Scott opened up and told all. Ella listened. And for the next five hours they snacked on flavored coffee and an assortment of bite sized French pastries, while discussing his history of unusual events. She had never been so captivated by anyone. It no longer mattered that she and Scott seemed to be in mortal danger; she was going to be spending more time with him than expected, a lot more.

"Now, about that bag, let's see what's inside!"

"To be honest, I'm a little scared to open it. I thought I might wait till I get home."

"If we're going to do this together, why not start now? If it's something bad, I'm here for support. What do you say?"

He paused. Her eyes sparkled as she smiled back. "OK, let's do this," he responded.

He unfolded the top of the bag and slowly pulled it apart. Nothing jumped out, made a noise, or exploded. He looked in while she sat, anxiously anticipating the contents. Reaching in, Scott felt something: a strap, leather maybe, about a quarter-inch wide and six to eight inches in length. Something metal, a tag was attached to it. He pulled it out, exposing an animal collar.

"That's strange, do you own a pet?"

"Not at the moment." He read the tag, "Whiskers?" It was the collar of his beloved cat. "The last time I saw this was when we buried Whiskers in it," he said mournfully.

Ella was again speechless. They sat, staring at the collar, both wondering how the man in black was able to retrieve it—both shuttered in disgust at the thought.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Long and narrow, the decayed concrete of the downtown alley glistened an ominous glow beneath the streetlights— following the cold sleet that glazed over its past—stained from sinister crime and drug dealings.

Lying beside a dumpster, a lifeless pile of stench ridden, weathered clothing concealed yet another pile of skin and bone, which enshrined the barely beating heart of, Samantha; a rotted shell of a once beautiful twenty-six year old woman that, in the last ten months sought solace in the form of crack in a blown-glass pipe.

Life had dealt her a bad-hand, one she could not muster the strength to overcome, and therefore—fell victim to street vermin who accepted money for drugs when she had it, and her body when she had nothing more to give.

She had passed through the gates of Hell, breathed its fumes, and slept with demons.

Perfect rows of white teeth were now stained and rotted, her breath reeked that of something dying on the inside, her once angelic skin, now covered in dirt and open-sores that flies fed on while she slept.

Some people find the strength to bounce back, but not Samantha.

An abusive Uncle, an alcoholic mother, a father she never knew, and a habit of attracting friends that spent more time behind bars than in the free world—sent her over the edge and into a life of self-abuse.

The city's music was an orchestrated symphony of tragedy: sirens screaming, cries of pain and torment, animals battling to the death over the last scrap of food, vagrants mumbling nonsensical words under diluted breath, and the rhythm of her own labored respiration lined the walls of her mind with a cacophony that would drive the most stable to insanity.

Money earned through begging was now gone, and Samantha had gone too long without a hit. Withdrawals were setting in, weakening her to the point where she hoped for death.

Footsteps approached on the dampened pavement, a looming shadow draped over her as she struggled to open her eyes.

_One of my dealers_ — _it must be_ , she hoped.

"Samantha," an unfamiliar voice calmly spoke.

"I . . . I need some . . . I'm dying . . . I'll pay you back—I promise." She begged pathetically.

The man reached out his gloved hand; she reached for his palm, for salvation. His hand grabbed hers and clamped down, painfully tight. In her weakened state, she could not pull free from his grip, and accepted the crushing grasp of the stranger. And even though her hand—her entire body for that matter—was numb—she could hear and feel her boney fingers grinding together like walnuts on the verge of cracking open.

The numbness slowly dissipated as a jolt of energy shot through her entire body, causing it to stiffen.

Samantha now lay flat on her back, erect and unable to move.

Terror filled her heart while tears managed to build up in her eyes, further blurring her already failing vision.

She became cold, her vision went from blurry to black— she could no longer see.

Her fingertips that once detected the callous surface of the alley's pavement, now felt nothing.

Certain she was dying; she struggled for a life that she was so willing to give up only moments ago. She felt as though her soul floated aimlessly in a body no longer belonging to her—then she realized: she's not alone.

Powerless to do anything, terrified of what shared her body; she cowered deep inside while the unknown entity took control.

The tall man walked away. "Thank you, Samantha. I knew you would be easy," he said as he faded into the murky shadows of the alley's end.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Hey, Spookster, how did your meeting with Mrs. Abrahamson go?" Cody asked Scott, being sarcastic as usual.

"Good, although she's now more involved than you might think."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that the man you and I both saw paid her a visit."

"No!"

"Yes! And he gave her something to give me, a bag containing the collar Whiskers wore."

"Your cat's collar? That's morbid. How did he get it?"

"I don't know, and I'm not sure I want to. We're going to get together soon—I'll let you know when I can arrange for Ella and Mustapha to meet. We need to start brainstorming—coming up with ways to defeat this before something bad happens."

"Tell me about it, this is getting seriously creepy."

"I'll call you soon. Take care, buddy."

"Take care."

After hanging up, Cody sat in his worn beer-stained recliner, a chair that had seen him through many football games, and he adjusted the seat for maximum comfort while reaching for the remote.

With not much on during the early part of the day, he left it on a channel showing a replay of a heavy-weight boxing match. As he stared at the screen with little interest, Cody began to slip into temporary hibernation—partly due to the large meal he had just devoured, partly because of the three beers that accompanied the meal, and partly because he had been going on little sleep ever since his nightmare.

He slumbered; the television no longer could be seen or heard. Light and time ceased to exist.

People laughing could be heard in the background. Cody searched, but found nobody. He knew the home was the one he grew up in, but it looked different. He turned, and in the dining room, his family engaged in a fluid and pleasant conversation. His father, mother, sister, and two brothers, all happy and eating one of the family's favorite traditional meals: beef stew.

At the end of the table, an empty chair, his chair. Cody sat; his family all looked and smiled. The stew smelled magnificent. A warm feeling came over him: the feeling of being home in a familiar atmosphere, with familiar people. In a sense, it was his Happy Place.

No bad guys would crash this party, not an evil soul in sight. The dream felt real, as many dreams did, and Cody had no interest in coming back to the real world where evil endures, even after losing many battles.

The sound of a car slamming on its breaks, tires squealing along the asphalt, and a thumping noise crudely woke Cody from his Happy Place.

He rose from his chair, still weary and unstable on his feet; he walked towards his front door and opened it to see what happened.

With still focusing eyes he saw a large four-door car sideways in the middle of the road, blocking both lanes. It looked like a 1970's Lincoln, or something similar.

On the other side of the car he saw two feet on the ground sticking out from behind the front grill, and he could hear someone frantically speaking, "I don't know! She's not moving! Please send an ambulance, now!"

Cody received a shot of adrenaline that brought his senses back to full—he rushed out the door towards the front of the car.

He stood and observed a ragged but somehow pretty woman lying on the ground. She may have looked rough due to being hit by a car, so Cody couldn't judge.

Her face had scratches and wounds, her eyes were closed, and if she was breathing it was hardly noticeable.

Her right hand was in bad shape—Cody continued to scan down her body—her left leg was bent unnaturally, in fact, her toes were pointed backwards, indicating her leg had been completely broken and twisted. She had other cuts and scrapes, but minor compared to these injuries.

The driver of the vehicle got off the phone, he was trembling at the thought that he may have just killed someone. "She came out of nowhere! I swear! I was driving, and then she just appeared in front of my vehicle! I don't even know which direction she came from!" The man continued his hysterics while Cody listened.

Cody looked down at the woman's face; he felt sympathy towards her for some reason, even a faint attraction that he couldn't understand.

It was clear that she had been beautiful, and could be again if she were cleaned up. She looked frail, which added to the number of strings being pulled on his heart.

_Had she attempted suicide? Jumped in front of this poor man's vehicle?_ Cody thought, as he continued to stare at the woman, feeling useless to help her and wishing the paramedics would hurry.

Sirens roared in the background, slowly closing in on their location. Cody looked down again, and realized he was holding the victim's hand. Sadness overwhelmed him. He thought: _if she lives, maybe she'll clean herself up. Please give her one more chance, God. Please._

The ambulance and police arrived at the same time, and directly behind was a fire truck.

The paramedics quickly ran towards the victim with a stretcher; Cody stood and backed off to give them room. The driver was pulled aside for questioning by police officers. Paramedics performed CPR on the woman, a shot of adrenaline was administered, and life appeared once again in the pale, limp body.

The woman had no identification, and the medics were rushing her off to the ambulance where they would transport her to the nearest level-one trauma center.

Cody had to think fast, he had to know the outcome: if she would be OK, and who she was?

"Excuse me! I'm with her, can I ride along?"

"You know this girl? One of the medics asked.

Cody hated to lie, and knew he could get in trouble. He would simply leave the hospital once the girl came to, and there would be no harm. "Yes, I know her."

"What's her name?"

"She told me her name is, Lisa. We just met, so I don't know her last name." Cody figured he couldn't get in trouble, because they could never verify if he was telling the truth with such limited information.

"Quick! Jump in!"

Cody rode in the back as paramedics continued working on stabilizing the woman.

They pulled up to the emergency room ambulance bay, unloaded the female, and rushed her into room number-six.

Cody lagged behind as to not get in the way. He was allowed to sit in the room with her, but was asked to leave when doctors entered and began working on her leg and checking her vitals.

Once stabilized, she would be transferred to surgery, and then to ICU for recovery and monitoring—if she made it. Cody was terrified at the thought that she wouldn't be given a second chance.

Knowing they would eventually identify the girl, either through family or friends that reported her missing, or by fingerprints, Cody knew his time was limited.

He waited till she was in surgery, at least knowing she was alive and most likely going to make it, and then he left.

His heart sunk knowing he would never see her again—never know her name, or even where she was from. He couldn't go back to the hospital because he wouldn't be able to ask for her by name, and they would surely know her true identity soon.

Cody hailed a cab and went home. When he arrived in front of his home, he noticed the blood stained street and one of the woman's shoes.

He picked up her shoe and brought it inside. Maybe it would be like Cinderella? Only this time the woman's shoe was no glass slipper, but a once white-canvas shoe, now shades of brown and grey, tattered from years of abuse.

He entered his home and placed the shoe in the closest spot he could find: his fireplace mantel. He sat in his recliner, and resumed his nap, hoping to find his way back to the Happy Place.

The sound of laughter and good cheer echoed from the depths and elevated until he found himself at the dinner table eating his bowl of beef stew—in the presence of his family.

The dream went on for a while, and then sadly, it came to an end. In his dream, Cody said goodnight to his family and went to sleep. Now he was sleeping in both the dream world and the real world, giving him the deepest sleep anyone could possibly imagine.

After sleeping for several hours, Cody woke up to a dark home; the blanket of night had draped over the sky.

Clouds loomed low, rendering the evening moonless, and what little light the amber street lamps offered, did nothing to brighten his home.

He sat up slowly, shuffled along the floor, taking short steps while feeling his surroundings with his hands, and then located the light switch to the hall that led to the front entrance.

The light was enough to see the front door, so Cody checked to be sure it was locked for the night, and it was. He looked at the fireplace mantel—the shoe was gone. He searched the floor to see if it had fallen, but the shoe was nowhere to be found.

A metallic clanking sound came from the kitchen. He turned and plodded towards the lit hallway, which was the only area of the house with a light on.

He peered into the opening on the other side of the hallway where the kitchen and dining room were located. Across from the dining room was the living room, where he had just woken from his nap.

It was too dark to see anything, and the light switches were located on the walls in the separate rooms, so he would have to walk into total darkness to turn them on. What if there was an intruder? He wasn't about to walk into a dangerous situation, so he went upstairs to his room where he had his cell phone, and locked the door behind him.

Not wanting to call in a false alarm, Cody listened closely for more unfamiliar noises.

For several minutes there was nothing, and then a faint noise came from downstairs.

He placed his ear against the door and closed his eyes, focusing all of his energy on what was making the noise.

A faint scraping could be heard. Metal on metal? No! Metal on wood! It became louder, indicating it was coming closer. Something metal being dragged along the stair railing—it had to be. It increased in volume and then stopped. _Someone's at the top of the stairs,_ Cody thought.

He dialed 911 while his left ear was still pressed against the door. "911 Operator, what's your emergency?" The Dispatcher said in a routine tone.

"This is Cody Wells, there's someone in my house!"

"What is your address, sir?"

"1901 Balsam Court, in Littleton."

"Please repeat the address sir."

"1901 Balsam Court, Littleton! I need someone immediately! Please!"

"An abrupt noise shot into Cody's left ear as it was pressed against the door. He pulled away and looked at where his ear was—the tip of a knife blade had pierced the door. He felt pain and put his hand on his ear; he was bleeding. Fortunately the blade didn't penetrate far enough to cause significant damage.

"Sir, are you there? Sir?" The Dispatcher was still on the line.

"I've been stabbed! They're breaking into my room! Please hurry!"

"I need you to stay on the line—" Cody hung up the phone. He had no time to speak to a 911 Operator while he was in the process of saving his life.

He searched his closet, throwing everything on the floor while frantically looking for an item to be used as a weapon.

He didn't own a gun, but he wish he had. If he lived to see tomorrow, buying a gun would be the first thing he would do.

A loud crash emanated from the door. The knife had been pulled out, but someone was trying to break in. _Bam!_ Another loud crash. The door was flexing with each strike; Cody could see the door handle being pushed in each time, which would indicate that the person on the other side was kicking near the lock.

With only moments before the intruder would blast in, Cody became desperate and grabbed his pool cue. It wasn't much of a defense tool, but it would have to do.

He looked over at his second story window—not a great option. It was approximately thirteen feet down, and waiting below was concrete due to an extended back patio.

He could jump, but would most likely injure himself to the point where running would be impossible. He decided to await the predator and stand his ground.

_Bam!_ The door continued to be repeatedly kicked, wood could be heard splintering, and the molding on the inside of the frame was giving way. One more good kick and it was go time!

The door gave and violently swung open. The hall was ink-black. Cody could only make out the silhouette of a figure, while the tip of the large butcher blade—most likely taken from his kitchen—was shimmering in the light offered by the bedroom.

The figure stood in the darkness that concealed it, silent, as if savoring the moment before the kill.

Cody stood frozen in time, waiting for the attack, hoping the police would arrive before it was too late.

Whispers hissed, barely kissing Cody's ear. He couldn't tell if it was a man's or a woman's voice—it almost sounded like several voices at once.

A low level, thunderous growl came from the intruder's direction. Cody wondered: _does he have a dog with him?_ Laughter followed the growl, as if the mysterious person found Cody's reaction to the animal-like noise humorous. The laugh was more of a sadistic clown chuckle.

Confused by the multiple sounds and voices displayed by the intruder, Cody's fear grew more intense by the second, not knowing who or what he was facing.

_Where the Hell are the cops?_ His patience grew dimmer while the fear inside grew brighter. He couldn't help but curse the police in his mind, knowing that death could be imminent. He paused mid-thought, remembering what had been written on his door. Was the tall man coming to make good on his promise?

He lost control and shouted out, "Who the Hell are you? What do you want with me?"

There was no response, just sickly breathing. The breathing stopped, and then a seemingly long pause filled the air with utter silence. A voice broke the stillness, a woman's voice. "Cody? It's me, Lisa."

He dropped the pool cue, forgetting he had hold of it. She had been half dead and completely unconscious when he made up her name, there's no way she could have heard him. "Please leave," he offered.

She stepped into the light, just inside the doorway. Her eyelids were sewn shut with black medical sutures; blood and pus oozed from the fresh wounds on her face. Her greasy hair still contained matted blood, dirt, sweat, and asphalt. There was a brace on her exposed injured leg with pins going into her skin, and dried scabs formed around the untreated punctures. She wore a hospital gown that was only partially tied in the back. Her skin was pale as were her lips—she looked like the walking dead.

She smiled, exposing her blackened rotted teeth, and then spoke. "I'm here to repay your kindness, Cody." She sounded like a serpent, as she whispered through her cracked bluish lips. "You and your friend are suckers for a damsel in distress, aren't you? It will be your undoing!"

She lunged at him with the knife; Cody sidestepped forcing her to fall into the wall. The leg brace was her only obvious handicap, and he would have to take full advantage.

Thinking he had a clear shot at the door, he ran for it out of sheer desperation. The possessed intruder let out a deafening scream that he couldn't escape soon enough, and both ears rang at shattering volumes.

He ran down the stairs too fast, almost losing his footing and sliding to the bottom, but regaining balance at the last moment. He made it to the bottom; the front door was in sight.

A cackling echoed throughout the small home.

He looked up the stairs. She wasn't there. He ran towards the door. "Don't leave me," a sweet, innocent sounding voice let out.

Cody slowly looked up. She fell from the ceiling like a spider dropping from its web, and landed directly in front of him.

Petrified, he stood motionless, staring at the grotesque female he once thought attractive.

"What's the matter, Cody? Don't you love me anymore?" She said in a frightfully eerie tone. "I can be pretty again, Cody. Watch!" Her voice became masculine, angry, and before he could take his next breath, she grabbed her hair with each hand, and ripped out fist sized chunks of hair and scalp.

It was apparent that the demon wanted to put on a show for him, making his final memories as horrifying as possible.

After ripping out half her hair, she reached for her eyes, grabbed both the upper and lower lids that were attached by the self administered sutures, and violently ripped them off, exposing both afflicted eyeballs, now looking at Cody with a crazed and desperate stare.

"Like me now? Huh . . . Cody? No? I can do more." She then reached into her mouth, and one by one picked out rotted teeth, flicking them into his face. It was as if the demon inside not only wanted to torture Cody, but the possessed girl too.

Her breath—the demon's breath smelled of death, as if the inside of the female's body was rapidly decaying. He wanted to, and almost vomited, but held back.

Troubled at what would happen next, he watched as she dug her nails into the left side of her nose and pulled to the right, removing the last beautiful part of her face, exposing the cartilage of the skulls nasal cavity.

A horrible wheezing and slurping sound came from the now exposed, ventilated skull. "How about now? How do you like your little bitch now?"

The more demonic the female became in appearance, the more she sounded like one.

An acute jolt of pain came from Cody's neck. She had hold of his throat, and he didn't even see the strike unfold—telling that the demon possessed better than human speed and strength.

She came within an inch of his face, eye to eye, as she squeezed the life out of him. Just before he was about to pass out, she threw him across the room. He slid across the floor after landing, and skidded to a stop against the wall.

Unable to move, Cody watched as the possessed attacker ominously approached with death in its eyes. She stopped a foot away, and stared down at him—taking pride in a job well done.

The entire attack only took minutes from the time Cody called the police, but it might as well have been hours—the damage was done.

Police sirens bounced off the walls of homes throughout the neighborhood, a pounding on the front door got the attention of the incubus.

She grabbed Cody by the arm, and carelessly pulled him to the backyard. "Time's up. Death is imminent!"

The police forced their way through the front door, and a search began with officers going up the stairs, systematically checking every room in the house.

She grabbed the top of Cody's hair, pulled his head back, and grabbed his throat with the other hand. "In case you're wondering. Her real name was, Samantha," it said in a voice not likened to a human.

Cody stared into her eyes and barely found the strength to speak her name, "Samantha?"

Hoping she was somewhere inside, that he had somehow reached her, he locked into her eyes. She stared back, but with a cold emptiness that left Cody feeling completely hopeless. And with that, he accepted his fate as promised by the tall man who wore a top hat: death is imminent.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Scott's doorbell rang; he rolled over to check his alarm clock, it was 2:26 A.M. He grabbed the gun from under his pillow, and slowly walked to the front door. Peeking out the corner of the window, he saw two police cars. He ran back, placed the gun back under the pillow, and then answered the door immediately.

"Are you Scott Abrahamson?" One of the Officers questioned.

"Yes sir, how can I help you? Is there something wrong?"

"Do you know a, Cody Wells?"

"Yes . . . did something happen to him? Scott feared that the tall man had gotten to Cody already.

"That's what we're trying to figure out. When did you last speak with Cody?"

"Yesterday, at about 11:00 A.M."

"He called 911 last night, complaining of an intruder—he told the dispatcher that he had been stabbed—"

"Stabbed? Is he alright?"

"We're not sure, he's still missing. We searched his home, and when we got to the backyard, we found a dead woman. Her prints were on a knife found in Cody's room, and the knife had Cody's blood on it, so we're thinking she was the intruder."

"A woman? Who?"

"We had to go by her prints because her face had been badly injured. Have you heard of Samantha Jacobs?"

"No sir and I don't recall Cody speaking of a girlfriend."

"Here's a card . . . would you please contact us if you find out anything about his whereabouts?"

"Yes, and would you please let me know if you find out anything?"

"We have to alert family first, but I'm sure you'll be notified eventually. Thank you for your time."

After the police left, Scott called Ella out of fear she had met the same fate. Ella answered. A flood of relief washed through him, and hope was again restored.

"Ella, Cody was stabbed by some woman. They found the woman dead and Cody is missing."

"Oh my . . . I'm so sorry, Scott!"

"I know . . . I am too. I think it would be best if we all came together tonight. We've got to be better off together than separated."

"Agreed . . . I'll finish packing and head right over. How about Mustapha? Did you get in touch with him?"

"Not yet—I'll call in a few hours when he wakes up, and ask him to come over then. For now, you can come over and get settled in, and that should it make easier for when Mustapha arrives."

"OK, I'm really sorry, Scott. I know how close you and Cody were. ARE! I'll pray he's alright and contacts you soon."

"Thank you, Ella. I'll see you in a little bit."

Somehow, Ella's words made him feel as though everything would be fine, despite how chaotic everything seemed at the moment.

He worried about Cody, and found the story to be perplexing. Had Cody killed the woman? Was she possessed? Had he gotten away with minor injuries, or were they life threatening? If they were minor, why hadn't he contacted him? If they were life threatening, wouldn't he have gone to the emergency room? There were so many unanswered questions, but thinking about it was pointless. He would have to wait to hear from either the cops or Cody.

Ella packed with desperation and determination: desperate to be with Scott as soon as possible, and determined to live through the growing nightmare.

A door slammed. Ella ran out to the living room—the front door was closed. She checked it . . . it was still locked. She turned to check the other doors and ran face first into the tall man's chest. She looked up and saw the pointy nose and chin, but the eyes were still cloaked in darkness under the brim of the weathered hat.

"Going somewhere, Ella?" His voice contained intensity, but was calm and smooth. His mouth was wide with thin, tight, pale lips, and when he spoke she expected a long forked tongue to lash out at her, smelling her like a snake would a tiny field mouse.

He leaned closer, sniffing her neck before pressing his nose against her cheek. He paused, touched the tip of his tongue to her soft porcelain like flesh, and then pressed harder, licking her while moaning with delight. "A virgin . . . I can taste it . . . smell it. So fresh and pure . . . I'll have fun inside you." He said as he chuckled to himself.

Ella didn't say a word. She held still instinctively, straining to keep her emotions contained. She had never felt fear like this before; it was overwhelming, and her heart felt as though it would explode any second.

He grabbed her throat, pushed her to her knees, and peered into her eyes. She stared back as his eyes rolled into the back of his elongated skull. Unable to stand the sight, she closed her eyes and began to pray. Praying was all she could do. Only God could help her now, and she believed with all her heart that if it were meant to be, he would somehow save her.

The whites of his eyes started to shake uncontrollably, veins began to pop out of his temples, his throat and mouth tensed up, causing tendons and muscle to line his neck like ropes, blood pooled from under his eyelids and overflowed onto his face. He let go and stumbled back, grabbing his face with both hands as he gasped for air.

Ella opened her eyes and observed the spectacle. She thought about running, but something kept her in her place. Perhaps she needed to see why the Wraith-like man appeared to be in distress.

He ripped his bloodied hands from his face; his eyes were now completely red as if every vein had erupted.

He looked at his hands and then looked at Ella. "You! You did this! You may not let me in now, my dear, but your precious boyfriend will. And when that happens, I'll be sure to pay you another visit."

He bowed and tipped his hat to her, in a gentlemanly but disturbing way, and sauntered out—leaving her on the floor, bewildered at what she had witnessed.

She had been saved somehow, and maybe she could do the same for Scott and Mustapha.

Ella called and explained everything to Scott before leaving for his house. She told him that if the man comes for him before she arrives, to pray that he would be protected and saved.

She kept her other concerns to herself—maybe she was saved because she had lived her entire life keeping God's ways and reading his word. Scott on the other hand, although a moral and good person, did not read God's word or pray daily. Would this be the difference between life and death when dancing with the Devil himself? Ella didn't know and that bothered her. After all, she loved Scott and didn't want to lose him before truly knowing him.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Mustapha finished his crystal chalice filled with century old red wine. He had opened it for the first time this evening, even though he had purchased it for a special occasion. Perhaps tonight was special . . . should the demon caller come for him this eve, he at least would have tasted the sweet nectar he had longed to experience since purchasing it ten years past.

He cleaned up the black granite kitchen counter that had turned to a mess when he cooked up one of his favorite Italian dishes. After bringing things back to order, he walked to open the back patio door for some fresh air and maybe stand in awe under the bespangled night sky.

He pulled on the door—it was stuck. A perfectly good evening may not see its perfect ending if he wasn't able to peer into the flickering starry night. He continued to pull, but nothing happened, it wouldn't budge.

Exasperated, Mustapha sighed out loud, shrugged his shoulders, and walked away utterly defeated.

It's possible he had a little too much wine, because he was reduced to a child when he didn't get his way.

A thought arose in his brilliant but pickled Egyptian brain: _what about the front door? I could stand in the front yard to see the sky before bed._ He walked over, grabbed the handle, turned it, and pulled. His semi-limp body, which fully expected the door to open, had been jerked forward when the stubborn door remained shut. "What now?" Mustapha griped. He continued to yank repeatedly; his now sweaty hair covered his eyes, making him look like a madman. "You've got to be kidding!" Frustrated, he stood back and stared at the door. He could always climb out the window, but that would wait till morning—looking at the stars wasn't that important. Still . . . both doors were stuck. Maybe the temperature fluctuated enough to flex the frame and seal the doors? Maybe, but not likely.

Mustapha walked to the bathroom and began his nightly routine of flossing, brushing, showering, and then relieving himself of his alcoholic beverage before lying down.

He pulled back the decorative maroon and gold bedspread and curled up underneath the covers to shield him from the chill emanating from outside.

His eyes closed and sleep found him quickly. A long day and half bottle of wine will do that.

Mustapha woke after only two hours of sleep; his bladder hadn't quite emptied, so a visit to the restroom was necessary before sleep could continue. _Time to get up,_ he thought as he prepared sit-up. His mind willed his body to move, but nothing happened. He was tired, sure, but not so much that he couldn't move. He made a second attempt, and again, no movement from his limbs. His mind worked—his eyes too—but nothing from his neck down seemed to function.

He felt a breeze like movement in the air. He looked down and his covers pulled off of him and landed on the floor. They had done so by themselves because he saw nobody in his room. He appeared to be alone.

He cried for help, but his voice could not be heard over the deafening silence. He tried again . . . his voice wasn't working. His cries would be heard by no one.

Surrounding the bed, eight floating orbs of red light appeared. They drew closer and into the faint shadow laced light; heads gradually formed around the crimson eyes, and then long fangs that glistened under salivating breath upon their mouth's opening. Unholy growls filled Mustapha's head. He was surrounded by four massive black hounds—no doubt from the depths of which Satan himself had spawned.

In a panicked state, Mustapha looked behind him at the wall above his headboard. On it was a large, metal, gothic cross, measuring approximately five-feet tall and three-feet wide. The cross needed wall reinforcements when hung due to its immense weight. He found himself staring at it, hoping that it would somehow bring the power of Christ into him room and save him from whatever invisible, evil entity that rendered him paralyzed.

A most wicked voice broke the deadened air, "Do you really believe such a pathetic idol of worship will protect you?"

Mustapha looked around, but still saw nothing. He tried again to speak, but couldn't.

"You've been misled, my friend. The only thing that cross will bear for you is death."

Mustapha felt debris speckle his face and forehead—some went in his eyes, slightly hindering his vision. He blinked to clear the particles from his eyes and looked at the wall behind. The cross had broken away from the drywall and was leaning out. Popping sounds boomed from where the screws pulled from the studs, and more drywall came crashing down.

"Goodnight, Mustapha. I'll see you on the other side."

The cross broke free and slammed on top of Mustapha and the bed with greater force than expected, as if it had been sucked into a giant vacuum located under the mattress. The four legs of the bed buckled, slamming the frame to the ground. The cross covered his entire torso; only his limbs could be seen sticking out from under the now blood and brain covered piece of articulately molded steel.

The seized framework of the home relaxed after the restraints from evil had passed. The doors were no longer jammed, and Mustapha was now freed of his stagnant body.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

He waited for her, anticipating her arrival as he watched out the window, praying she would make it.

Ella pulled into Scott's driveway, he ran out to greet her and carry her luggage; both felt a level of comfort that had escaped them since they last shared company.

"Let's get you inside and settled so we can get a little sleep before calling Mustapha."

"Sleep sounds good," she said with a smile. The thought of sleep beckoned her now that she wouldn't have to be alone.

Although it might normally seem presumptuous, under the circumstances it only made sense for them to share a room. No words were exchanged, as it seemed to be forethought between both parties.

"I'll take the floor beside the bed, and you can have the bed. The sheets are clean."

Ella graciously accepted, and they went about making their beds. Once completed, Ella briefly shared her thoughts on what may have saved her.

"I prayed, and that's all it took . . . he backed away, bleeding in agony. He said something about, 'letting him in,' and that he would be able to with you—he's after you."

"He can try."

"Scott, I'm worried. I've read the Bible every day since I was ten, and I've prayed each day. I'm not saying I'm some, bible thumper, but I think my level of faith may be what saved me. I don't even belong to a particular religion, I just believe strongly."

"Where does that leave me?"

"I know we need sleep, but I think we should read and pray a little together. You're a good person, so maybe a little prayer and faith is all you need."

"Absolutely . . . I'll try anything at this point. I've always believed, and I've prayed from time to time, I'm just not good about reading. What do you suggest?"

"Just some prayers, maybe we can go through some Psalms?"

Ella and Scott read for an hour, and prayed for protection against whatever evil sought them. Afterwards, they went to sleep—their alarm set for two hours.

They woke to a loud, agonizing alarm. He slammed the off button with his palm, and laid back down, groaning, knowing he had to wake up and call Mustapha.

Ella closed her eyes while Scott called. A few extra minutes of sleep seemed as though it would make all the difference.

The phone rang ten times before the answering machine picked up, and Mustapha's Egyptian accented voice prompted the caller to leave a message. "Mustapha, this is Scott, if you're there please pick-up! Something has happened to Cody, and Ella is at my house. Call me back as soon as you can . . . we were hoping you would join us at my house . . . bye."

"No answer?" Ella asked in her groggy morning voice, which Scott found adorable.

"Unfortunately not. Maybe he's still sleeping and will call soon."

"Do you want to sleep some more?"

"Actually that's not a bad idea. I'll set the alarm for another hour."

They gained their third hour of sleep, and then woke. The extra hour did some good, but both were in need of more rest should the day allow for it.

He called Mustapha again—and again no answer.

Scott allowed Ella to use the restroom first, and then he got himself ready for the first adventure of the day: going to Mustapha's to check on him.

Their Middle Eastern buddy lived about thirty minutes away. Ella dozed off ten minutes into the trip, but Scott remained alert—as a protective dog would for their owner.

He glanced her way at every chance. She looked so serene and angelic in her sleep—so beautiful—so perfect. He smiled at her, enjoying every moment of the drive. Just her presence alone had left him feeling completely happy.

They pulled up in front of Mustapha's. Scott rang and knocked on the door while Ella still slept in the car. He checked the door; it was open from when Mustapha unlocked it to go outside—unsuccessfully. He pushed the door open; an unpleasant odor escaped the quiet home. Their friend was nowhere in sight.

He entered, slowly pacing his way toward the kitchen. He found the kitchen empty and made his way to the bedroom. The door was closed, and Scott was terrified to open it, afraid of what he would find. He opened it anyway. Grasping for his throat, as if about to choke on the death filled air, Scott backed up two paces. There was no way to identify the body considering its current marred condition, but he knew it was Mustapha.

Flies had found their way to the stench of decaying flesh. Blood and chunks of unidentifiable organs, that should have been inside his body, were now all over the wall, ceiling, bed, and the cross that ended his life so abruptly. The corpse's fingers and toes were outstretched, as if they froze in the position they found themselves in when the cross first made contact. It appeared that pieces of flesh had been torn off, as there were wounds on the legs that couldn't have come from the crushing blow. Meat from the cadaver lay scattered on the floor around the bed. It was as if animals had fed on the body, but there were no animals in the house.

He ran out, woke up Ella, and told her of his findings. He then gathered himself and called the police. They stood by, and when the police and investigators arrived, Scott filled out a written statement, answered a long series of questions, exchanged contact information with a detective, and then drove home.

The drive home seemed much longer . . . twice as long as the drive to. Both Ella and Scott were silent, and Scott would never be able to rid his mind of the image he just absorbed.

Once home, they went inside, locked all doors and windows, sat down on the sofa together, and read Torah. The evil they were encountering was something not of this realm or world, and no police force could protect them, and even if they were able, they wouldn't believe their story. They had each other and God, and although God is bigger than anything, and capable of anything, other good people had died horrifically, so the questions remained: would they be spared? Were they worthy of saving? Was it in the Divine's plan that they live? They would know soon enough. The entity that hungered for their souls, who craved death, had been busy and caused unspeakable carnage in a short time. It wouldn't be long before he would come for the prize it longed for: Scott Abrahamson.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

A single contorted tree stood alone atop a barren hill covered in dried grass, rock, and dirt. Its lifeless limbs writhed from its twisted trunk, its bark was grayish-black, and for fifty years it stood guard over a small town located in a valley.

Dusk had fallen over the sleepy-hollow; the tree became a shadow silhouetted against the brilliant orange and purple sky; a would-be masterpiece to the human-race had our creator been a mortal artist. Instead of admiring the great canvas, most people went about their business, hardly noticing the awe-inspiring scene unfolding before the quaint little town.

A sweet little girl named Abigail with long, soft, blonde hair, big blue eyes, and a smile that would melt the most hardened, stood before an orphanage, admiring the beautiful array of colors the night sky offered. Unlike most, she appreciated God's handiwork—she even liked rainbows—they were her favorite.

Well mannered and very mature for someone of only four years; she somehow—for reasons unknown to her—lived parentless at a large home containing many rooms, and filled with many children. She longed for parents who would love her unconditionally; she didn't necessarily know the meaning of the word, "unconditionally," but her heart knew what it wanted: a mother and father who would love her no matter what.

Abigail, in fact, had an idea of what her parents would be like: a tall, strong, handsome father who adored her and longed to spend time with her as much as she did with him. And a beautiful but strong mother who looked after her during moments of sickness, cooked the most amazing meals, and did her hair each morning. She could picture all three of them running through a park, feeding the ducks, and having a picnic beside a lake.

Four years seemed like a lifetime to little Abigail. She began to wonder if anyone would want her in such a way. Were there parents who would take her in and give her such a home? She never gave up hope, but with each passing year, hope dwindled.

The old tree on the hilltop had company this evening, and like the tree, this visitor was grey and black and every bit as twisted. The tall man stood by the tree and against the now darkened sky. Gusts of wind fluttered his long coat, and feathered his long, scraggly, white hair.

Looking down on the town, he fixed on a single structure: the orphanage. Staring. Studying. Looking at the front entrance as if trying to burn through the door with his piercing coal-black eyes. He spoke just over the breeze, "I'm taking you home tonight, little one. I'm taking you home."

Several hours passed, and the man still stood in the same spot, staring at the same building.

As if the witching-hour had struck, the man suddenly came to life and began walking down the steep grade—kicking up dirt and rock with his tall, heavily weathered, black boots.

Not a single soul was awake; the town seemed sparsely inhabited with only a few street lamps still illuminating small patches of dirt road. A few stray cats sensed something foul and dangerous, and fled under cars and other shadowy places where they wouldn't be found.

He reached the bottom of the hill and stopped fifty feet from the small staircase that led to the front door where he would find the bait he needed to capture his trophy soul.

He smirked with a crookedness that displayed the depths of his darkened soulless vessel, and began walking. With each step, he sensed he was closer to victory. This step would be easy—the final step would prove more difficult, but not impossible. He would succeed or lose his last opportunity at eternal life, affording him travel through endless realms. He needed a pure but unattached soul that beckoned a level of darkness, allowing it to be taken and used as a Talisman of sorts, for places of great evil. Such a soul is nearly impossible to find in the realm of earth, and his time was running out. It was Scott Abrahamson, or he would be no more.

He stood before the door, willing it to open ever so quietly. He stepped in, got a sense of the room and its inhabitants. Finding what he needed, he walked directly to her bedside and gazed upon her golden locks. "Abigail," he muttered softly. "It's time . . . tonight you will assist me in gaining immortality, my child."

He picked her up and cradled her in his long arms, then floated away into the night. She remained asleep in his motionless arms, as he seamlessly rode the night air towards his final destination before attaining what all demons desire: a place far from good. A place where only evil dwells, where it's always night, and all realms of darkness connect with one another, allowing souls to endlessly delight in acts of reprehensible gluttony that would shame the lowest in earth's realm.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

The doctrine of demonology will remain just that: a theory. Only those from the most raucous of realms will ever know the truth.

This is God's world, true. In fact, God created all. He's not the creator of evil however, for he is good. God foresaw the existence of evil, and in knowing this unfortunate fact; he created other realms for those who chose dark over light.

Free will gave souls a choice, and those too weak to stay on the righteous path of good would eventually turn evil, and evil had to be separated from good, for both could not exist in God's Heavenly realm. That's where Purgatory came in.

The most evil of souls who willingly turn away from good, sadden the Creator of life. Those who are unthankful for the ultimate gift: the gift of life, or who deny that it is a gift at all, must be met by the most severe of punishments. The rotten fruit of humanity are sent to other realms where the absence of good is eternal, and only evil dwells, writhing in its own filth.

The worst of the worst, those who took innocent life out of pure pleasure, or who sought to destroy, to bring about evil while living in their earthly human bodies, would become what we now refer to as, demons. It's safe to say that ruthless dictators such as, Hitler and the like are now demons serving their eternal sentence in Purgatory.

Some demons however, find a way to travel into other realms, and in some very rare cases, back to earth's realm.

Once in earth's realm, they often torment the living. They can't pick and chose; they must find those who have left their door open to them. People who have given up on life, who have been misled by false idols because they didn't pay close enough attention when reading God's instructions, people who are also evil and on their way to becoming demons themselves, or even good people who have yet to find God.

The one that Scott and Ella refer to as, the Tall Man—is the worst kind of demon. He committed unspeakable acts when in human form, and during his nearly two hundred years in spirit form, he's finally found his way back to earth's realm.

Entering back into earth's realm is considered the vilest of infractions. If viewed as a parallel, it's the equivalent of a murderer breaking out of prison to commit more crime.

While in earth's realm, demon's have a limited amount of time before being cast out, never to return. They're like a fugitive on the run, and if caught, they are placed in a high security prison, most likely in solitary confinement. However, if they can do the impossible, and find a good but lost soul to attach themselves to, they can travel into other realms on the back of their new vessel. Never the realm of Heaven of course, that door remains eternally closed to the damned.

Some demons join forces with other evil entities along the way. This gives the illusion they have more power than they actually do. They can work together to speak in different languages, temporarily split up and possess bodies, etc.

In the case of the Tall Man, he entered the world with several other demons, and in order to walk about in human form, he found a body that suited him, one that resembled him before dieing and being cast into Purgatory.

They have limited time to spend in possession of other bodies before having to regroup in their original vessel—most likely because the host eventually kicks them out. Maybe that's why they seek the suicidal and atheists; they can stay in longer, or in rare cases the body will die from weakness and both the host and guest move on.

There is much that is unknown to demons who travel to earth's realm. They enter with certain beliefs derived from myth.

When the Tall Man took Mustapha's life, he scared him into believing his soul would be damned, but that was a mere hope for the Tall Man. For the most part, he said it for effect, to fill his victim with fear. In reality, demons have no say where one's soul goes. In Mustapha's case, although a little confused and misled, he was a good man who believed in God in one form or another, so he could have very well been accepted into the realm of Heaven.

The reason for the Tall Man seeking Scott Abrahamson is due to his soul being lost for so long. He was good, he did many good deeds, he dabbled in the Bible during his early years, but doubt still clouded him, largely due to the numerous religions that existed. Not a single one made complete sense to him, and in his experience, people always thought their religion to be the only true one.

This couldn't be true, and Scott knew it. So, for many years he became confused and doubtful, and the demon sensed this. He gambled that this was the soul he needed.

Tall Man needed Scott to remain in his confused state, so anyone attempting to help him clarify, or to bring him closer to understanding God—must be removed from the equation.

Ella was trouble. She was a true, pure soul who believed and understood the true God. She knew to follow the original Torah, and not some man-made, feel-good religion. Religions designed for convenience, personal gain, or a group's agenda, would never be pleasing to God, and would lead people down the wrong path. Ella had seen it and wanted no part of it.

For these and many more reasons, she proved to be a greater threat to the demon than he anticipated. She was protected, and although he wanted her to believe he could destroy her, he never could. He would have to do what evil does best: manipulate, lie, and deceive. He would have to disguise himself, become something they would never dream of hurting or saying no to. He would have to become something Scott and Ella would literally die for. And this is where Abigail became such an important pawn in Tall Man's game.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

The disappearance of Cody Wells, the dead woman in his backyard, and the death of Benjamin Mustapha still mystified police. To them, the crimes were not related but equally odd.

Scott and Ella were the only two in the entire world who knew the truth. Maybe not privy to all of the facts, but they knew what was behind the senseless and gruesome acts.

Cody's situation still baffled them; he was missing, but the most disconcerting was that Cody neglected to contact Scott.

After returning to Scott's house, Ella and he discussed searching for Cody, but they had no idea where to start, and the police were already working with other agencies to perform a statewide hunt.

Instead, Scott prepared a meal for her and they shared each other's company over dinner—trying not to think of what Mustapha must have gone through.

Afterwards, she introduced more Torah to Scott and entered into in depth conversations. She knew an understanding was needed, as was a good deal of prayer.

Although this was new territory for Scott, he was fully aware that he was up against the supernatural, therefore accepting the fact that strengthening himself spiritually would be the only way to defeat the evil that hunted him.

For the first time in his life, he had an intense interest in God's word. And for the first time, he had a sincere interest in spending the rest of his life with a woman; the only woman he had met that showed an inherent decency, a conviction to put others before herself, and a trustworthiness that until now, had eluded him.

She showed him that good still existed, and that there was someone out there for everyone, including him. He felt truly blessed to have met this woman, and accepted the irony of fate. Had he not been tormented these years and sought help, they would have never met. It's amazing to ponder what any number of inconceivable events has to take place in order for certain things to happen. More proof that there is something bigger than them out there, that they're all part of a plan larger than they could ever imagine.

The entire night wasn't spent on discussing their situation; they learned much about one another: tastes in music, art, culinary delights, dream homes, politics, current affairs, movies, and future plans.

They agreed on most, and what little they disagreed on was negligible. They were able to peacefully understand each other's views, and then find a common ground on whatever topics they explored.

Both enjoyed the moments of that evening to such an extent, they didn't want it to end. They yearned for more, and with each second spent together, the strength to beat all odds in order to secure a future grew immensely.

Once time entered the early morning hours, both Scott and Ella became exhausted.

The candlelight that danced upon her perfect face, accompanied by the vanilla aroma the candle relinquished, placed him in a hypnotic trance that nearly lulled him to sleep.

"Looks like it's about time to hit the sheets, sleepy-head." She said with an adoring admiration.

He snapped out of his coma and replied, "I believe you're right. I don't suppose there's a chance of you picking me up and carrying me?" They both shared a tired but sincere laugh, and then moved to the bedroom.

Ella was first to prepare for bed, and when she exited the restroom she wore a long, modest nightgown. Although it covered her from neck to ankle, it draped over her petite athletic figure in the most flattering of ways. It caught Scott's attention, although he dare not show it.

Scott was next to get ready and he wore shorts and a t-shirt. It was also modest and very simple, but Ella still took notice to parts of his physique not normally on display.

Now both were in bed, he with a firearm under his pillow for security, and she next to her protector who slept between her and the door.

Once again they shared a late night on little sleep, only to wake early.

A part of them hoped for Tall Man so they get it over with and go about their lives—another part dreaded the thought of the unavoidable encounter.

### CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

In earth's realm he became known as, Tall Man. In his realm he went by the name, Voker. Either way he was one and the same, but his appearance was vastly different. He couldn't very well walk on earth among humans in his traditional form. The human form he chose was freakish enough, but imagine a nearly seven foot subhuman form with pale transparent skin, revealing every vein in its body, a skull shaped more like a bat's than a human's, webbing that connected from the elbows to the waist—almost like bat wings, uneven rows of fangs, and blacked out eyes that reflected unholy images of Hell.

Bodies must be left behind when leaping realms, but back where Tall Mall called home; he had been given a body to suit his true nature. It was part of the punishment . . . to have the appearance reflect the soul it concealed—the uglier the soul, the uglier the demon. Compared to demons that spawned from souls of certain ruthless, Middle-Eastern leaders and terrorists, or other murderous and suppressive dictators, Tall Man would appear pleasing to the eye. But to the average person he would appear hideous.

Using what little abilities he had, Tall Man kept Abigail sedated until the time he would need her.

He hid in an underground pipeline he accessed through a manhole cover on a quiet street just ten blocks from Scott's home.

Drips of water echoed throughout the cavernous cement walls that lined the sewers. An eerie green light reflected off the still waters and damp walls. Rats and insects scurried on select dry paths in search of food and shelter.

Tall Man crouched with his elbows resting on his knees. Almost completely submerged in shadows, with his long black coat, and his nose being the only facial feature to capture light, he resembled a vulture waiting for his prey to breathe its last so he could feast on the still warm flesh.

Abigail lay beside him in a fetal position, her thumb in her mouth as she dreamt of having a family.

He had no desire to harm her; she was a mere tool, an object he cared less about and gave no thought to. He would use her to achieve his goal, and whatever happens, happens. Harm may come to her, but it wouldn't be intentional, nor would it be an obstacle.

Sure, her innocence and beauty disgusted him, as it would any demon, but she was not a target. She simply offered a convenient way to reach the intended target; therefore time and energy wouldn't be wasted on destroying her.

### CHAPTER FOURTY

Each woke to the sound of the alarm and looked at one another to be sure they were OK.

For whatever reason, Tall Man hadn't come for them that night. It's possible he would come in the day for a surprise attack, but not likely. His last two victims that Scott knew of had been brought down in the late evening or early morning hours.

Sitting at the table eating breakfast that consisted of eggs, hash browns, and orange juice, Scott and Ella discussed their day.

It was the weekend, and Ella didn't have to go in to work. Good thing too, because she would have had to call off. Scott being self employed, would take however much time he needed.

Typical of two people in mortal danger, they talked about survival. More studying and prayer was on their agenda, as was a plan for physical defense. They may have to ward off violent attacks, and with Scott's background along with his firearm, they had something to at least buy some time.

They had both hoped that by praying, the evil would be dealt with prior to coming after them, and they would never have to deal with it. This was unlikely, as history showed that people were often put through great tests of courage, strength, endurance, and faith before good won over evil. God working through Moses to free the Israelites from slavery in Egypt was brought to mind, but there are many examples.

The one thing that brought peace to both Scott and Ella was that they had done all they could to prepare. Even if failure should occur, they could both go out knowing they did their best. This did nothing to suppress the fear, but it brought a shred of hope nonetheless.

A barely audible knock came from the door. They looked at each other, both sets of eyes registering concern. "Do you want to answer it," Ella whispered.

"I don't know. Wait here while I look out the window."

Scott peeked and at first saw nothing. Then another knock came, indicating there was someone at the door. He looked down, and standing at doorknob height was an adorable little girl. "It's a child . . . a little girl."

"What? Really?"

Scott answered the door, "Hello, sweetheart . . . can I help you?"

She looked up at him with her big blue eyes, and in a little voice she answered, "Hello, Mister. I'm lost and I can't find my home." Tears glossed over her eyes, and the slightest sniffle escaped her tiny nose.

"Oh, sweetie, don't cry. Come on inside and we'll help you. OK?"

He guided her in by placing his hand on top of her head, and then sat her on the couch. Ella came rushing over and sat by the little girl. "What's your name?"

"I'm Abigail," the girl responded. "I'm lost . . . I don't know where I am or how to get home."

"Abigail, that's a beautiful name," Ella said in an attempt to calm the girl. "What's your last name?"

"Abigail," she replied.

"That's your first name. Do you have another name?"

"I don't know, I can't remember." Abigail became more upset and it was clear that she was in duress and needed time to process her feelings.

"Don't worry about it. You can stay here until you remember, and we'll help you find your home." Scott decided not to ask any questions until she was ready. Instead, making her comfortable was paramount. "How about something to eat and drink? We were just eating and have plenty left over, just for you."

Ella smiled at Scott in approval. She grabbed the girl's hand and walked her to the table where Scott dished her up a plate. "You know . . . Scott here is widely known as the best scrambled egg maker in this state," Ella told Abigail. "If you finish all of them, we may be able to buy you an ice-cream cone later."

Abigail smiled, nodded her head and said, "mmmm . . . hmmm!"

After eating and having a chance to settle in, Ella again attempted to find out a last name, "So . . . Abigail, any memories pop into your head? I know eating helps me sometimes."

"No. I'm sorry, I don't remember."

"Do you remember your address, phone number, family?"

With a worried look on her doll like face, she said, "I'm scared. I don't remember anything."

They could see the child had been through some sort of trauma recently, so they decided to take care of her and try again tomorrow. Pushing only seemed to clam her up.

"Do you like cartoons?" Scott offered.

"Yes, I think I do."

"I have Monsters Inc. Have you seen that one?"

"No, I'm scared of monsters."

"These aren't the scary kind, but let me see what else I have. How about Finding Nemo?"

"The fish one?"

"Yeah, the fish one." He couldn't help but smile when she answered. She had an endearing way about her.

After the movie, they put Abigail down for a nap. With no idea of how long or how far she had wandered, they played it safe and focused their attention on giving her rest.

While she slept, they continued going over their plans for each conceivable scenario. Not allowing the Tall Man to get close enough to touch them, using the gun if needed, and retaining enough focus for prayer, were all contained within their plans.

The little girl added to their fear; she was now someone they would need to protect should the demon come for them before returning Abigail to her rightful home. Without knowing the girl's full name, they were at a dead end until she could remember.

Calling the police was an option, but they couldn't bring themselves to place her in government custody. They knew they would be able to provide more comfortable surroundings until her family could be located. Besides, they now felt a responsibility for her. It was as if an angel had clipped her wing and fell into their front yard, and they needed to care for her during her time of healing before sending her home.

### CHAPTER FOURTY-ONE

Uninhabited, the Tall Man's body still remained crouched in the sewer, awaiting its spirit and helpers to return. He had to be present for the final task, and to be sure the other Demons wouldn't steal the soul he was after. That was the one negative thing about bringing others to assist: they couldn't be trusted. How could they? They were pure evil.

At Scott's house, Abigail had long since woken from her nap, and during that time, she, Scott and Ella played games and spoke of many things. Topics of conversation ranged from butterflies, flowers and ice cream, to unicorns, princesses and magical kingdoms.

Although her sweetness and innocence shined through, they sensed something was wrong with Abigail but couldn't put their finger on it. They wrote it off as trauma of some kind. Regardless, their hearts quickly became attached to hers.

Evening was upon them, and it was time for Abigail to go to bed. They brushed her perfectly formed rows of teeth, cleaned her up, and found a t-shirt and shorts she could use as makeshift pajamas. The shorts fit like baggy pants, and the shirt went nearly to her ankles.

They made up a fairy tale story to lull her to sleep, and just before dozing off, Abigail said, "Thank you Mr. Abrahamson." Moments later, she was asleep, and sleep made her face so angelic, so perfectly radiant, that both Scott and Ella had to kiss her on the cheek.

They left the room and got themselves ready for bed. Once ready, Ella stopped with a furrowed brow as if in deep thought.

"What is it? Everything OK?" Scott asked.

"Yes—no—it's just that I don't remember you or I telling her your last name. We only mentioned our first names."

They both paused to think back. Maybe she saw the name written somewhere, or maybe they said it in conversation and forgot about it. Neither of them could remember saying the name, and after looking around the house, his name wasn't written on anything.

Puzzled but not overly concerned, they both went to their separate beds and closed their eyes.

Two hours had gone by, and the house stood painfully quiet. Like the calm before the storm, there was something sensed, even in an unconscious state. Most likely it was because of a built-up paranoia over waiting for Tall Man to turn their lives upside down. Regardless, it made both Scott and Ella restless.

The sound of little feet scampering across a bare wood floor caught Scott's attention. Being a light sleeper on high alert, he woke up and tried to hone in on the direction of the noise. His senses were acute, almost inhuman. Survival instincts kicked in and his heart went from a resting rate to that of someone who just sprinted a hundred yards.

Again, little bare feet scurried about in the direction of the bathroom. _Abigail,_ he thought. Assuming she was just going to use the potty, he lay back down and closed his eyes; his heart rate quickly lowering to a normal rate.

Reticence became him as silence again filled the air. It didn't take long before Scott once again entered into sleep.

He dreamt of Abigail holding his hand while walking through a field laden with violet wild flowers. She whispered to him softly, but he wasn't able to understand what she said. He felt a comfort, a warm sensation, as if she was an angel guiding him through Heaven's gates. He felt as if he were floating, no longer grounded by the confining body he once lived.

"Scott!" Ella yelled.

His eyes were only able to open part way, as if he were half asleep. He saw Abigail holding his hand, like in the dream, and Ella standing behind her screaming out his name. He looked again at Abigail; her eyes were rolled into the back of her head and she was shaking.

"Scott!" The scream from Ella broke through this time. It was clear, and he was again alert.

He pulled his hand away from Abigail's and sat up staring at her in disbelief.

"Scott, she was doing something to you! He's with her! He has to be!"

He pulled his gun from under his pillow. She snapped out of her induced trance and grinned at him. "I almost had you, but as I should have expected, the little whore got in the way." It was a vile man's voice, no longer the endearing, beautiful song of a little girl's innocent charm shining through.

Scott pointed the gun at her, shaking furiously. "I can't—I can't do it!"

Ella stood silenced by her own tongue. It seemed to swell the size of a large potato, rendering her speechless. She remembered their plans, closed her eyes, and began praying.

"Get back! Leave!" Scott screamed. Then he realized that the little girl must be somewhere still inside. "Abigail? Sweetheart? It's me, Scott. I know you're probably scared, but everything will be OK."

"The Hell it will!" It said from within the pure form. "She's dead unless you give yourself to me!"

"Don't do it, Scott! Don't listen!"

A dresser slid violently across the floor, pinning Ella to the wall. "You're next!" The voice erupting from the precious little girl was grossly in contrast with her appearance.

From within Abigail, Tall Man turned to Scott. He had his eyes closed and had sat the gun beside him. Ella too closed her eyes to gain focus, and together they prayed.

Tall Man grabbed Scott's wrist, and even though he was using a hand half the size of his, the strength was still present. Scott could feel the intense grasp of the tiny hand, but maintained focus.

In the background, Scott and Ella could hear the room fill with growling. Thoughts of Mustapha's mutilated body popped into Scott's head, forcing him to break away from his connection with God. The beasts that ripped Mustapha apart were in the room with them, he was sure of it.

He felt light again, like in the dream.

Ella could feel something pressing against her neck. It felt like a cold, wet nose. If the beasts were that tall, they would be able to rip the head off a human in one bite. Ella quickly got that thought out of her mind, tuned out the hell-hounds, kept her eyes shut, and continued praying. It worked before so maybe it would again.

Terrified, Scott opened his eyes, afraid he would slip away if he didn't. It was a mistake, because in the room were giant black dogs with glowing red eyes. From ground to shoulder they looked to be five feet tall. Most of them surrounded him, as if awaiting orders from the demon. One of them smelled Ella, probing her neck like it could taste the blood still in her pulsing veins.

He continued to drift away even though he was alert. The room and all its contents began to fade. He remembered what Ella said, and closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as tightly as he could. He began praying again.

In the background, he could hear the hounds become increasingly agitated as they thrashed around, gnashing their teeth. He focused as much as he could to shut them out. The only thing audible was the sound of his own voice in his head.

Time ceased to exist—at least in Scott's mind. All he knew was that he was becoming exhausted, and it had become nearly impossible to retain focus—to shut out the evil that surrounded him—allowing for only good thoughts. Each time he would drift back in to the room where the demon continued its efforts to enter his body, he could feel the hot breath of Hell's hounds upon his exposed skin. They were waiting close by his body—ready to pounce should the Tall Man succeed in stealing Scott's soul and exit his body to leave for the realms he longed for. The very thought of his lifeless body being torn to shreds by the giant beasts was enough to give him the will and focus to resist any temptation to fall out of his place of prayer.

Another block of time had passed—he could still feel his body—and he was alone within it. He had not heard Ella scream out in pain and horror, so he had hoped she was still OK. His focus must have been superhuman, because he heard nothing and felt nothing: no bloodthirsty hounds, no demon voices, not even the grasp on his wrist. Was it safe to open his eyes—to focus on the room once again? Or was it a trick to bring him out into a moment of weakness?

A sobbing broke the silence. It was Ella. He opened his eyes. The hounds were gone as was Abigail. "Where is she? Where's Abbie?" He asked.

Ella looked to the ground behind the foot of the bed. Scott leaned and saw her tiny hand sticking out. He ran to her, picked her up and held her. Tall Man and the beasts were gone, but so was Abigail. Emotionally drained, they broke down and cried uncontrollably. He placed one hand on the back of her head, the other on the middle of her back, and he pulled her in tight as he cried on her shoulder.

His eyes were closed and tearing when he felt a hand pat his back. It had to be Ella. He opened his eyes and Ella was still standing on the other side of the room, only now she wasn't crying. She stared in disbelief and then started laughing. He pulled away from Abigail and looked into her now open eyes. A life radiated from her, and from a faint smile, he knew she would be OK.

Ella ran over and joined the embrace. They celebrated not only victory, but also life.

### CHAPTER FOURTY-TWO

In the aftermath, everything was sorted out, and order replaced chaos.

Abigail regained her memory.

Scott and Ella took the necessary steps to adopt her. After the adoption was complete, they got married, and their sweet Abigail walked them down the aisle and stood by their side throughout the ceremony.

In a few months, they moved into a new home where they would be able to start over and build a lifetime of memories.

When the timing was right, they asked their daughter about the events of that horrible evening. She remembered being frightened. She told them that something ugly was inside her, and that she prayed to God, and asked him to make the scary monster go away. Then she woke up in Scott's arms, wondering why he was crying. She vaguely remembered playing games with them, and how much she wished they were her parents. And then in the sweetest of voices, she said, "Wishes really do come true."

In time, city workers found the body of a tall older man—crouched down in the sewer. He was never claimed, and the city paid to have him buried the cheapest way.

A year went by, and the Abrahamson's enjoyed leading a normal and exceptionally happy life together. No strange sightings, no dead animals coming to life, no possession obsessed demons, and no death. The door to evil had been permanently sealed.

On a night like any other, they all sat to share a dinner prepared by Ella and her little kitchen helper, Abigail. While enjoying the tasty meal and the loving company, the phone rang. Scott decided to let it go, as spending time with his family was most important. The phone rang again, "It's OK. You can go ahead and answer it. We'll wait for you," Ella said.

Scott picked up the phone, "Hello?"

"Spookster?" It sounded like, Cody.

### About the author

Brian Braham was born, Friday, February 13, 1970, in Denver Colorado. He and his wife, Candra, currently reside in northern Colorado with their five beautiful children, and have been happily married for eleven years. "The Open Door" is Brian's first novel, and he is currently working on his second, which is titled, "Death by Design." Aside from writing, Brian also plays guitar, composes music, paints and draws, and he's been studying and competing in martial arts since 1986.

For more information on Brian Brahm and his upcoming projects, please visit: <http://brianbrahm.wordpress.com/>
