by Brian Brahm
The screen on the monitor was still black, but the scratching had been over for a few minutes. They began to breathe normal again—heart rates dropping—eyes still unable to blink—mouths so dry the white mucousy stuff formed into a thin crust.
What was seemingly an endless night, and most certainly sleepless, came to an end. Sunrise was upon them at last, and a new day brought hope. Hope that whatever was outside their door would be gone, never to bother them again.
Hope that they could leave the nightmarish world they found themselves in—behind.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
After only receiving a few hours of sleep during their highly stressful two-day stay, Scott and Cody were exhausted.
“It’s 7:30 in the A.M. Rise and shine!” Cody said sarcastically.
“Funny, but seriously, we need to get some sleep this afternoon, even if it means driving somewhere.” Driving somewhere sounded like a good option—actually. Driving . . . never looking back . . . never returning.
They again checked the monitor, which was still black as the night. “There’s no way that thing stood in front of the camera all night.” Cody said.
“I’m not sure we should open the door; is that what you’re implying?”
“I’ll open it quickly, and you cover me with your gun. We need to get out of here, and I’m curious about the camera. Besides, we need to try and recoup as much equipment as possible, or you’re going to have to pay for it.”
Cody made a good point, Scott couldn’t replace all of the equipment, and he too was curious as to why the camera went blank, and why the thing scratched the door.
Are there claw marks? How wide . . . how deep are they? Maybe there’s a new message etched in the wood, done by a grotesque, discolored fingernail—much the way the psycho, possessed lady had done. Scott desperately needed answers to the questions flooding his mind.
He moved the freezer away from the door while Cody mentally prepared himself for the unexpected. Scott stood by ready to raise the .45 and fire, while Cody gripped the cold steel of the door handle—pausing to look back at Scott. Scott gave him the nod to go ahead—Cody turned the handle and jerked the door open—jumping out of the way as fast as he could. Raising the gun after Cody cleared; he first focused down the hall where the camera was positioned. Cody peaked his head around the corner and out the door to see what Scott was looking at.
“Oh Lord!” Cody stuttered, nearly coughing up what little food remained in his stomach.
A blood-soaked, matted head of a black cat had been forced onto the camera lens. In no way was the job clean; someone or something had ripped the head off. Blood and bits of brain that had ran down the body of the camera were now a dried sticky ooze with flies all over it—laying eggs that, by midday would be maggots.
The left side of the cat’s head was distorted as if something had gripped it too hard and caused it to cave in. Its right eye was bulged out of its socket, and its jaw was barely attached, causing it to hang abnormally low and crooked.
Looking at the ground for bloody footprints or other signs, they noticed wood shavings at the base of the door. Slowly moving their eyes up the length of the door, they realized what all of the scratching had been. At about eye level was some type of intricate writing, but they were unable to make out what it said. The script was clearly in another language, and unlike anything they had ever seen before. Scott took pictures of the writing in hopes of showing them to experts that could shed light on the meaning and origin.
“We’re dealing with something that’s intelligent enough to write in some foreign language, and yet is barbaric and strong enough to rip a cats head off while crushing its skull. Great!”
“Let’s gather what we can, and pack it in my car. I’ve got enough to do some research, and if we ever come back here again, I now know to better prepare.”
“Next time? There’s no next time for me, brother!”
They safely and quickly gathered all of the equipment they could, and loaded the vehicle. They made sure to stay together and watch each other’s backs, and by 3:00 P.M. they were ready to leave.
As Scott started to drive away, a Sheriff’s car came around the corner and stopped in front of them. A deputy stepped out of his vehicle and approached them while his right hand rested on his holster—ready to draw. He was tall and lanky with a well trimmed mustache, mirrored aviator sunglasses, a neatly pressed uniform, polished boots, a badge that was rubbed to a mirror shine—blinding actually, and a face so serious it looked as though it would crack at any attempt to smile.
Rolling down his window as the deputy approached, Scott decided to be proactive and speak first. “Afternoon sir!”
Not in a mood for conversation, the deputy got right to the point, “Why are you parked in front of this home? His mannerism was stern, his voice cold, almost robotic—void of emotion.
“I used to live here, so we dropped by to check it out. Obviously we’re a little disappointed at the condition of the neighborhood. Do you have any idea what happened?”
“About ten years ago something polluted the water in this area rendering the drinking water and soil highly toxic. A few people got sick, one died, and everyone moved out.
The area was fenced in with signs posted, but that was all torn down about a year ago after the soil tested negative for toxins, and an investor bought the entire neighborhood for redevelopment.”
“What exactly polluted the water?”
“I was never told, so I can’t tell you that. You guys need to clear out of here; these structures are all condemned and deemed unsafe to enter.”
“Yes sir, and thank you for the information. Have a good day.”
The deputy gave no reply; he just stared, waiting for them to obey his orders as if they were family pets.
As they drove away, Scott and Cody watched the deputy and the house in the side mirrors until they faded away. The deputy stood still, like a cold lifeless mannequin, and watched them until they were out of site.
“We’re lucky he didn’t search us.” Cody said with a sigh of relief.
“At least we know why the neighborhood was abandoned, although I doubt he told us everything he knows.”
“Yep! He was definitely holding back something. But I do agree with him, we should never set foot in that house again.”
Cody was right, and Scott knew it, but he also knew the day may come when he would have to return in order to complete the puzzle.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Exhausted, Cody barely made it to his front door after Scott had dropped him off at his house. Dragging his feet, head down, walking like Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh, Cody looked pitiful—Scott couldn’t help but feel somewhat responsible. At least he would sleep well tonight.
There was still time to return the equipment he had rented, some of which he needed to pay for due to the damage it received by the wicked hands of the unknown.
After returning the equipment, which took some time due to the damage assessment, Scott headed home. Opening the front door, he sat his bags down and looked at the two stained indentations still present on the wood floor. Nearly two years had gone by since the possessed woman entered his home and nearly ruined his life. Neighbors had called the police when they heard the screaming and gunfire. When the police finally arrived, they immediately took Scott’s firearm and placed him in cuffs. He thought for sure he would spend life in prison for murder.
There was zero evidence that he did the damage to her knees, jaw, and neck, and the woman that the demon decided to possess had a long history of violent crimes, resulting in a few felonies and a warrant for her arrest, along with a history of mental illness. Demons sure know how to pick ’em!
Neighbor’s testimonies that overheard the horrible sounds filling his home that night, confirmed everything he had told the police. A search of the woman’s clothing resulted in dirty needles, a syringe, and a knife. After testing her blood, high doses of Methamphetamine and alcohol were found, which greatl
y helped his case.
The investigators chose to ignore the unexplainable strangeness, such as the awful smelling black bile and the word etched in his door, which by the way was written in Latin, and means, “Death.” It all added up to a psychotic woman on drugs entering Scott’s home and endangering his life.
He told no one of the unnatural events he had witnessed that night, for fear they would find him confused or insane, and dictate that he receive a series physiological evaluations, followed by months, or maybe years of counseling.
Lazily written off as, “justifiable self defense” by local law enforcement, Scott allowed for everyone in his life to believe as such. Although it was justifiable, he wanted for all to know the truth—that this was something supernatural. Some things however, are better kept inside, so inside is where it remained.
The moment that will forever haunt him had also enticed his curiosity and ignited a thorough investigation of his past. An investigation that had already produced more questions than answers.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The bottom of her three inch heel struck the top of a pebble just so, causing her fragile and perfectly formed ankle to bend slightly, throwing her off balance, just enough to make her look clumsy. Not dorky clumsy, cute clumsy, like a newborn fawn walking for the first time. That’s how Ella Marie Warren felt in heels, like a fawn, only dorky, not cute.
At five feet four inches, and just under a hundred and fifteen pounds, Ella was petite. Small boned, long slender legs, athletically built but not physically coordinated like her physique would suggest, long and wavy auburn hair down to the small of her back, bright-green almond shaped eyes with long lashes; lashes long enough to fan the flames of most men’s desires, rose-red lips concealing perfectly formed white teeth, and a kind, shy smile that was never intended to attract the opposite sex, but often did, much to Ella’s dismay.
Whoever invented heels should be shot! Well . . . maybe not shot, that’s harsh, but publicly humiliated at least! Ella fumed, as she walked from the parking lot to the building that held the job she so wanted to quit.
An office manager for a small business offering reading material, audio and video recordings, and other things Biblical in nature—this was a job Ella was good at—being a spiritual and morally sound person. But in her late twenties, she longed for her dream job: a stay at home mother to several beautiful children, and a wife to her dream man. “Domestic Diva,” was the name she gave her dream profession. Unfortunately, Mr. Right had eluded her all these years, and she began to think that maybe it wasn’t meant to be. She began to question her outer beauty and her inner beauty; her confidence shrunk with each passing year, and sadness seemingly conquered her once positive, outgoing spirit, eclipsing any trace of which she once was and wanted to again become. Her Bible was her best friend, her guide, her light in the darkness, and her beacon of hope.
It wasn’t that men weren’t attracted to Ella—they were, or that she didn’t receive offers—she did. Ella had a list she wrote when becoming a woman, at age eighteen. The list consisted of all the qualities her man would need before she would give herself to him, marry him, and most importantly, have children with him.
Not a single man from the time she became a woman—ten years ago—met her requirements.
Tall, strong and handsome. A protector.
A kind heart to be knitted to mine.
A lover of God, children, and all things good.
A man whose morals and ethics cannot be compromised.
A man who will always fight for what is right.
A man who will love our children and me unconditionally, forever.
Ella’s list remained in a small decorative box, covered in pastel colored Victorian flowers and lace. From time to time she would remove it, unfold it, careful not to tear the now fragile paper, and read the list, praying that her man would find her. Soon. Now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
After sleeping for ten straight hours, Scott awoke to a sunny day, feeling rested and healthy for the first time in days.
After eating a hearty breakfast, he wrote out his agenda for the day, which consisted of finding the meaning and origin of what had been etched into his bedroom door at the old Cape Way house, and seeing if there was any correlation between the word/symbol, and what the possessed woman said to him using the defunct language of Latin. He also wanted to review the video footage captured at the Cape Way house to see if there was anything revealing. Before all that—first things first: hesitant to do so, he called an exhausted and emotionally stripped Cody for his assistance.
“Hello?” Cody still sounded half asleep.
“In the mood for some research? I could use another set of eyes when reviewing the footage.”
“You’re playing me, right? This is a joke.”
“Sorry man, I’m just a little anxious.”
“Can I join you tomorrow? Seriously Scott, the visit to your humble abode wiped me out.”
“No problem. Get some rest, and call me tomorrow.”
Starting off with the ancient looking symbol that was scratched into his door was daunting, but it had Scott curious and seemed like a good starting point. Surely something was trying to communicate with him, or why would it leave such curious messages? To execrate him? To torment him—just for fun? Why? For fear that very simple question would continue to haunt him, and that the answers would forever elude him, he worked feverishly to seek answers—to find an ending to this chapter in his life.
Searches for dead languages on the Internet only left Scott more confused than before, and the library had come up short as well. Sure there were history pieces for the nerdy and obsessed, but nothing that revealed the true meaning of what he witnessed. If only there was a translator who could simply read it to him, explain the meaning. That’s it!
Desperate and defiant, and now with a light bulb burning bright above his head like a halo of ideas circling his brow, he knew just what he needed to do. Scott looked up local language specialists using the net, and found one that claimed to have resources on all ancient and dead languages. Too good to be true? Maybe, but worth a shot!
Benjamin Mustapha had a small office near downtown in an old residential neighborhood. The structure that housed a variety of families for generations was now an office building where Mr. Mustapha held his highly specific practice.
Wasting no time, Scott arranged a meeting with Mr. Mustapha at his earliest convenience, which just happened to be that very afternoon: 1:00 P.M. to be exact.
As he pulled up in front of Mr. Mustapha’s place of business, he was relieved to find parking just at the end of his walkway—right on the street.
Walking up the cement path he noticed many things, things that caught his eye—a glimpse into the world of Benjamin Mustapha. Not a blade of grass dared cross the perfectly edged line that ran on either side of the walkway. The lawn was plush, green, perfectly manicured, much like a putting green at a golf course. Kentucky bluegrass was used. He could tell because it was so soft, so thick, it resembled something from the Shire; he fully expected a Hobbit to answer the door at that point. As he approached the entrance, he cleared three steps, and then found himself standing on a mat that simply read, “Welcome.” Looking up at the entwined white vines of iron, which made up the outer screen door, he felt exactly that: welcome.
Reaching out to press the doorbell, sure that he would hear the theme to Nutcracker Suite in place of a standard doorbell, the boring kind they install in most homes; the inner door was pulled open—depriving him the opportunity to hear the jingle. Staring in through the mesh like screen, he at first saw nobody, and then a voice rang out in a thick accent—an Egyptian accent. “Mr. Abrahamson, I presume?”
Looking down at the exceptionally short, thin man, Scott studied him as he peered up at him through bushy eyebrows, like individual nests resting atop his eye sockets. He had dark, wild hair with large L-shaped sideburns slapped on each side of his face like a couple or pork chops, a small
ish mouth, and big brown eyes. He looked more like a Muppet character than a man.
“Yes, I’m Scott, I’m here for the one ‘o’clock appointment.”
“Ah . . . yes, do please come in, Mr. Abrahamson.”
“Thank you sir.”
“Call me Mustapha, it’s what all my friends call me. Even the ones I don’t like.” He giggled to himself.
“I appreciate you seeing me on such short notice.”
“No problem at all, kind sir. I had a cancellation, and your case intrigued me. It’s not often I hear of such strange and unexplainable happenings.
But—I will—when I’m through helping you—bring full explanation. I will shed light on all that is now dark.”
Not fully comprehending what he just said, and feeling as if he was meeting with a short green philosopher named Yoda, Scott was grateful nonetheless.
“That’s very reassuring, Mr. Mustapha.”
“Just, Mustapha, if you please. Not so formal.”
“Absolutely. I apologize. And please, call me Scott. I’m not all that formal myself.”
“As you wish, Scott. Now, let’s see the photos.”
Handing Mustapha a manila envelope containing all his photographic evidence, he quickly pulled out the photos, thumbing through them, and then stopping—abruptly. “Here it is . . . the message you spoke of. Very disconcerting indeed, Mr. Abraham—“ He stopped himself. “Scott, I apologize. I’ve only seen markings like this one other time; about ten years ago in Cairo.”
“Do you know the origins?”
“I was never able to trace the origins. It’s definitely dead and without a lot of history. It is similar to other ancient scripts, so I can take an educated guess at the meaning.”