The Open Door Page 3

  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. Thi
s 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?”