by Brian Brahm
After an hour of deciphering the message by sorting through other culture’s writings, Mustapha sat and glared at his discovery with a perplexed and concerned look about him.
“Everything OK?”
“I could be wrong, Scott; I want you to know that. This is simply an educated guess on an unknown and archaic language.”
“It’s better than nothing. Honestly, I’ll take anything I can get at this point.”
“I believe it reads, ‘Black Prince,’ or possibly, ‘Dark Prince,’ which makes more sense. I can’t make out the other part, but if I had to guess, it reads, ‘I am.’
‘I am the Dark Prince’ is what I believe was etched in your door, Scott.”
“I don’t get it, who is the Dark Prince?”
“Satan. In most cultures, the Dark Lord, or the Prince of Darkness, or Angel of Darkness . . . they all mean the same thing: Satan.”
“But why would anyone write such a thing?”
“Either to scare you into believing it was actually him, or if you’re open to it, maybe it was actually him. Take your pick, but that’s all I can make of it.”
Scott paid Mustapha two hundred dollars for his time, and left with more questions than before.
What did he mean when he said, “If you’re open to it?” Either it was Satan, or it wasn’t. “Open to it? What does that have to do with anything?”
Despite the confusion, He believed Mustapha was correct in his assumption. It made sense considering the other messages he had received over the years, and other experiences he had encountered.
After returning home, Scott pulled all of his notes out of a cardboard box he kept them in, and began placing them together like a puzzle. A haunting puzzle missing several of its pieces—and with each piece—a more disturbing picture.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Floating weightlessly through silken flowers of fantastical colors, under a bluish-purple sky, speckled with soft, fluffy white clouds, Cody slept deeper than ever he had. His dream, one of which he wished to never wake from.
BAM! A thunderous boom echoed throughout his dream. Flowers wilted into faded, colorless, crumpled pieces of lifeless paper. The sky filled with black, ominous vapor that bled into swirling, dark funnels, threatening to touch down and rip the dream world apart. Puffy clouds were no more. Bright cheery colors were gone. Life; now engulfed by jaws of death. In the distance, a figure seemingly rose from the ground—too far away to make out any detailed features, but the blackened silhouette appeared to be a tall thin man wearing a hat.
Bam! Bam! Glass shattered and fell to the ground. The dream: over. “What the—?“ Cody sat up, listening intently. “Hello?” No answer. Bam! Again, the noise came from the front door. A few more pieces of glass bounced off the ground then settled, resting among other pieces of the glass graveyard—sounding a little like a wind-chime as they trickled down.
Rolling out of bed, Cody slid his tired feet into a pair of soft wool slippers, ran both hands through his hair in an attempt to look presentable, and walked to his front door.
The door was found as he had left it: closed and locked. Cody reached out, turned the dead bolt, grabbed the door-handle, and slowly pulled the door open. Glass fell at his feet; a slight wind parted the bottom of his robe and caused the screen door to slam against the frame.
Looking up, Cody noticed the entire panel of glass had shattered and fallen to the ground. A few shards remained in the upper and lower parts of the window frame, sticking out like razor sharp teeth in a gaping mouth. In an attempt to pull the shards of glass free, Cody’s index finger slipped, gliding over the glass edge, creating a surgically precise cut, as if from a scalpel, turning the transparent pane to crimson-red.
Looking at his now unsightly finger, unable to tell how deep the cut ran, Cody gazed down at the glistening red crystals; blood continuing to drip and pool at his feet.
Concerned, Cody ran to the bathroom, opened his cabinet, and fumbled through his stereotypical bachelor like mess, desperately seeking first-aid supplies.
Only able to locate the rubbing alcohol, Cody sloppily poured it over his wound as a stinging pain shot up his hand, wrist, arm, and then neck, causing his entire body to tense up as he let out a short but intense scream. The bleeding continued, so Cody placed gauze on his finger, and secured it with tape, hoping stitches would not be necessary.
After grabbing a small trashcan, broom and dustpan, Cody made his way back to the front entrance where the mess of bloody glass awaited him. Cody pulled the main door back open. Startled, he dropped the broom and trashcan while simultaneously jumping backward—attempting to create distance from what he discovered. Blood had been smeared on the outside of the door, forming three words: death is imminent. This wasn’t some riddle written in ancient script, this was a threat written in plain English.
Cody glanced across the street, his eyes fixed on a man who appeared to be facing him, possibly looking at him. It was hard to tell with the black top hat concealing half the man’s face, but it gave Cody chills nonetheless. Cody noticed how gaunt the tall man appeared, and questioned his unusual attire: a long black coat, boots, and dusty gravedigger hat.
That wasn’t all: the man appeared to be covered in arid earth that dusted off of him each time a gust of wind brushed against his decaying garments.
Continuing to study the man, looking him up and down, Cody noticed something on the man’s right index finger: blood dripping from it, building a small puddle on the sidewalk beside him.
Now focusing on the man’s face, Cody noticed a crooked smile forming. Lifting his bloodied index finger to his mouth, the man inserted it inside, his lips forming a perfect seal around the finger. The man then slowly pulled his moist, boney finger out, seemingly enjoying the taste of Cody’s essence, much the way a child would enjoy a cherry Popsicle. Once dry pale lips; now wet with Cody’s blood.
The man grabbed the brim of his hat using his index finger and thumb, bowed his head, and turned just as a bus passed by. And like the wind and dust the bus had stirred up after passing, the man was gone. Speechless, Cody remained in the entryway, staring at where the man stood moments ago.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Entering her small but clean and well organized apartment, Ella kicked off her heels after a long day—careful not to track any germs her shoes might have picked up from the soiled asphalt in the city. The ten-year-old eggshell colored carpet appeared new, thanks to Ella’s strict policy that all visitors leave their shoes at the door. All who knew Ella, knew her ways, so like well trained four legged companions, they knew to keep her place spotless.
The last friend Ella made was three years ago: a sales representative named Emily, who worked for the same company. She hadn’t had a visitor for nearly a year—by choice—not because people didn’t enjoy her company.
There wasn’t much furniture or decorations occupying her space, which made it easier and quicker to clean. This is not to say Ella’s place was cold and sterile. Like Ella, the apartment had charm, warmth, personality—she simply had a thing for cleanliness. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, Ella could hear her mother saying the phrase as if she were standing five feet away; staring at her with those judgmental eyes, accompanied by her loving smile. Ella smiled at the thought, blew her bangs out of her eyes, and sauntered into the kitchen to cook up some steamed vegetables and rice.
Still in her work clothes, Ella finished her meal, cleared the dishes, rinsed them off, and placed them in the dishwasher. The dishes were so clean after Ella’s thorough rinsing, they hardly needed further cleaning; the dishwasher was used primarily to sanitize the already sparkling dishes and silverware.
Ella plopped down on the heavily cushioned sofa, propped her feet up on the arm, crossed her legs, and leaned back as she closed her eyes and exhaled. Seriously, am I so bad? Twenty-eight and single . . . what would my mother say? I know what she’d say: I’m waiting, Ella. Where are my grandchildren? I’m not going to be around forever! That’
s what she’d say. Bless her dear soul. Ella thought kindly of her sometimes overbearing but loving mother.
Ella’s mother had passed-on two years ago from ovarian cancer. Her mother was strong and had valiantly fought off the cancer for several years, but the defiant, putrid disease kept rearing its ugly head, refusing to relinquish, longing to destroy.
Despite her pain, Ella’s mother never stopped giving, caring, and loving. She gave even during her final moments, in which Ella sat by her side, holding her hand, not wanting to let go. Ever. Ella would often remember that day. In a soft comforting voice, her mother said to her, “My beautiful daughter, Ella. I pray . . . one day you will have a child of your own; so you can know the love I have for you. The love that only a mother can have for her child. You are my most precious gift, my dear Ella, and I will never stop loving you.” Tears filled with life, love, happiness, and sadness, gently glided down her mother’s face, as she took her final breath. Her eyes closed one last time, her soft delicate hand slowly relaxed in Ella’s. Unable to leave her mother’s side, Ella rested her head on her mother’s chest, and cried herself to sleep.
An angel died that day, Ella thought to herself. “God, I miss her.” Still lying on the sofa, Ella cried herself to sleep—just as she did the day she said her final goodbye—remembering how it felt to hold her mother’s hand.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
After shaking off the chilling events of the morning, Cody called for a window replacement while he gathered his thoughts. Once composed, he called Scott, explaining what had transpired. Before Cody could finish explaining, Scott had hung-up and drove directly to Cody's, pushing his '68 Plymouth to its limits in order to make good time.
A few minutes later, screeching tires and the abrupt closing of a heavy car door alerted Cody.
Scott walked with purpose up to the front entrance, staring intently at the bloody characters that had been written with an ossified finger. "This better not be a joke, Cody."
"Seriously? Look at me! Look at the screen door!"
"Alright, I'm sorry. I just—I can't believe you are experiencing the same things."
"Tell me about it," Cody said, as he pointed to his door. "I had the strangest dream. Nice at first, actually, but then—well—it got weird."
"What? What was weird about it?"
"The sky turned black, chaotic—it was creepy as Hell.
Flowers wilted, everything turned shades of grey. Then out of nowhere, a man stood in the distance, wearing a long coat and hat."
"A hat? What kind of hat? What did he look like?" Scott asked anxiously.
"I couldn't see his face, that's the problem. His hat—I believe it was—um—well—it looked like a top hat. Maybe. Like something out of the 1800's or something."
"Did he say anything? Do anything?"
"No. That's when I woke up to the door slamming."
Scott believed but didn't want to. The fact that Cody had seen the same man who haunted him, and also experienced written messages, which now were threatening, changed the dynamics. A new plan was needed. The more Scott investigated, it seemed, the more bizarre and frequent the events. Scott started to believe that he was endangering his friend by dragging him into his peculiar mess. "I don't want you to help anymore, Cody. Somehow, by assisting me, this thing has found you . . . it seeks you. It has threatened you for crying out loud!"
"My choice, Scott. You didn't make me—you may have manipulated a bit, but you didn't force me."
"It may be time to back off—both of us. This is something that can affect the physical world we live in, and now, according to you, our dream world. This means it can dig around our heads, physically harm us—it knows where we live, when and if we're home—do you see what this means? It's no longer about seeking something to satisfy my curiosity: it's now a matter of saving our own lives—trying to survive whatever this thing has intended for us."
"Yeah . . . I thought about that. It seems our only hope is to delve into the spiritual realm. I can't believe I'm admitting this but, how else can we fight—defeat this thing?"
"It's worth a shot. Turn on your computer and let's look up local retailers who specialize in spiritual, Biblical, and religious material."
Cody typed in a search that brought up three places within a ten-mile radius. The closest being a place called, Word of God. "They seem to have a large inventory—mail order mostly—but it reads that they have a catalog customers can look through. Maybe they'll have what we need already in stock."
"Let's hurry; maybe we can get some ideas before, IT returns.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Candles flickered, distorting moving shadows on the amber-lit walls of Mustapha’s home office. He thumbed through Scott’s documents and photos when a foreboding feeling washed over him.
A language specialist and interpreter, Mustapha had not been exposed to anything paranormal—it wasn’t his line of work. And yet he felt interested, even consumed with Scott’s case since their first meeting. Mustapha was determined to unearth who or what was behind the heinous acts perpetrated towards Scott.
An old fashioned ring chimed from Mustapha’s 1950’s phone, “Hello? This is Mustapha.”
Silence absorbed the night, turning the office into a seemingly unoccupied space.
“Anyone there? Hello?”
A hissing sound coming through white noise now filled his ear. He listened intently, if nothing else, out of pure curiosity.
“This is Mustapha. I can’t hear you. Please call back.” He hung up after figuring there was nothing to be heard but noise providing nothing more than annoyance.
The phone rang again.
“Hello?”
One, two, three, four . . . After counting to ten, he would hang up. There was no time for prank calls. Five, six, seven, eight, nine—a voice spoke something in Arabic. Then Swahili, Russian, Latin. All of a sudden, they were all speaking at once, but in a whispering tone, like thousands of snakes hissing into the receiver.
Mustapha listened closely as cold shivers ran the length of his short body. He was able to make out the Arabic; after all, that was his native language, but he could only understand bits and pieces of the other languages that spewed out. What he was able to decipher left him feeling hollow, cold, almost in shock.
He wrote what he could remember on paper, filling in the blanks to form complete sentences: You and your new friends are all damned to spend eternity with me, in Hell. You have been chosen, and all who help the tall one. There were many vile words said as well, but Mustapha chose to leave them out—they were obviously added for effect and held little to no relevance.
After some needed research, he would have to call Scott to arrange a meeting. Mustapha was aware that Scott’s friend, Cody had already helped him; he had to get to Scott before anyone else was involved. Including him, there were now three, although Mustapha wasn’t certain if Cody had any contact with what he presumed to be, demons.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Scott and Cody pulled into the near empty parking lot. The building, which once housed a department store, was now a plain looking brown-brick enclosure with the only window being the entrance door. There was no signage displaying the name of the company, just what was printed on the door; a sure sign the business was a modest one.
Scott and Cody approached the front door; Scott pulled it open, causing the tiny bells to ring that dangled from the top—surely the bells were to alert the few workers that someone had entered.
Cody sat in the lounge sifting through the assorted magazines. Scott stood—too anxious to sit—and in too much a hurry to waste time reading magazines containing cars he couldn’t afford or movie stars he could care less about.
Footsteps from the hall became louder—Scott stared at the hall’s entryway. Heels . . . it must be a woman. The footsteps sound light—she’s a small woman. The walk is crisp and energetic—maybe a younger woman? Scott’s intuitiveness proved highly accurate; in walked a pretty but wholesome female
, well dressed, beautiful, long full hair, amazing eyes, and the warmest smile Scott had ever seen.
“Hi, I’m Ella, how may I help you?”
Add amazing voice to the list, Scott thought. “Hi! Yes! I would like to see your catalog; I’m looking to purchase a few books today, and I would like to see what you have in stock.”
Ella reached behind the desk and pulled out a small catalog for Scott to look through. “Anything in particular?” Ella asked, with a kind smile.
“Well—it’s difficult for me to explain. To be honest, I don’t know much about this stuff. It’s really for research.”
“What type of research? Maybe I can help—I know our inventory and would be happy to recommend something for you.”
Scott was afraid to mention anything that might frighten Ella or make her think he was crazy, so he was careful to answer. “It’s research for someone who would like to bring some good into their lives. You know—out with the bad, in with the good? They’ve had some negative experiences and would like to—uh—pray—and possibly find a way to be rid of the negative experiences. You know?” Scott had embarrassed himself, but Ella smiled sweetly and responded in a way to not further embarrass Scott.
“I believe I have just the thing. I would start with the Old Testament and a Strong’s, which will help to figure out the true meaning of the words and verses in the Bible. By simply knowing and understanding the Bible, many believe it nourishes the soul and brings more positive things into their lives. Maybe it’ll be a good starting point?”
“Sounds perfect, I’ll take both.” Scott felt a little uncomfortable, as if the conversation became overly personal, even though it didn’t.
He watched as Ella walked away to retrieve the books, and then turned to look at Cody, whom he had forgotten was sitting behind him the entire time. Cody stared at Scott with a sly grin.