The Open Door (16 page)

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.  

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.

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. 

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.