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  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 lo
gical 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 dine
r 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.