The Open Door Read Free Page B

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