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  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 tangl
ed 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.