by Brian Brahm
He felt a breeze like movement in the air. He looked down and his covers pulled off of him and landed on the floor. They had done so by themselves because he saw nobody in his room. He appeared to be alone.
He cried for help, but his voice could not be heard over the deafening silence. He tried again . . . his voice wasn’t working. His cries would be heard by no one.
Surrounding the bed, eight floating orbs of red light appeared. They drew closer and into the faint shadow laced light; heads gradually formed around the crimson eyes, and then long fangs that glistened under salivating breath upon their mouth’s opening. Unholy growls filled Mustapha’s head. He was surrounded by four massive black hounds—no doubt from the depths of which Satan himself had spawned.
In a panicked state, Mustapha looked behind him at the wall above his headboard. On it was a large, metal, gothic cross, measuring approximately five-feet tall and three-feet wide. The cross needed wall reinforcements when hung due to its immense weight. He found himself staring at it, hoping that it would somehow bring the power of Christ into him room and save him from whatever invisible, evil entity that rendered him paralyzed.
A most wicked voice broke the deadened air, “Do you really believe such a pathetic idol of worship will protect you?”
Mustapha looked around, but still saw nothing. He tried again to speak, but couldn’t.
“You’ve been misled, my friend. The only thing that cross will bear for you is death.”
Mustapha felt debris speckle his face and forehead—some went in his eyes, slightly hindering his vision. He blinked to clear the particles from his eyes and looked at the wall behind. The cross had broken away from the drywall and was leaning out. Popping sounds boomed from where the screws pulled from the studs, and more drywall came crashing down.
“Goodnight, Mustapha. I’ll see you on the other side.”
The cross broke free and slammed on top of Mustapha and the bed with greater force than expected, as if it had been sucked into a giant vacuum located under the mattress. The four legs of the bed buckled, slamming the frame to the ground. The cross covered his entire torso; only his limbs could be seen sticking out from under the now blood and brain covered piece of articulately molded steel.
The seized framework of the home relaxed after the restraints from evil had passed. The doors were no longer jammed, and Mustapha was now freed of his stagnant body.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
He waited for her, anticipating her arrival as he watched out the window, praying she would make it.
Ella pulled into Scott’s driveway, he ran out to greet her and carry her luggage; both felt a level of comfort that had escaped them since they last shared company.
“Let’s get you inside and settled so we can get a little sleep before calling Mustapha.”
“Sleep sounds good,” she said with a smile. The thought of sleep beckoned her now that she wouldn’t have to be alone.
Although it might normally seem presumptuous, under the circumstances it only made sense for them to share a room. No words were exchanged, as it seemed to be forethought between both parties.
“I’ll take the floor beside the bed, and you can have the bed. The sheets are clean.”
Ella graciously accepted, and they went about making their beds. Once completed, Ella briefly shared her thoughts on what may have saved her.
“I prayed, and that’s all it took . . . he backed away, bleeding in agony. He said something about, ‘letting him in,’ and that he would be able to with you—he’s after you.”
“He can try.”
“Scott, I’m worried. I’ve read the Bible every day since I was ten, and I’ve prayed each day. I’m not saying I’m some, bible thumper, but I think my level of faith may be what saved me. I don’t even belong to a particular religion, I just believe strongly.”
“Where does that leave me?”
“I know we need sleep, but I think we should read and pray a little together. You’re a good person, so maybe a little prayer and faith is all you need.”
“Absolutely . . . I’ll try anything at this point. I’ve always believed, and I’ve prayed from time to time, I’m just not good about reading. What do you suggest?”
“Just some prayers, maybe we can go through some Psalms?”
Ella and Scott read for an hour, and prayed for protection against whatever evil sought them. Afterwards, they went to sleep—their alarm set for two hours.
They woke to a loud, agonizing alarm. He slammed the off button with his palm, and laid back down, groaning, knowing he had to wake up and call Mustapha.
Ella closed her eyes while Scott called. A few extra minutes of sleep seemed as though it would make all the difference.
The phone rang ten times before the answering machine picked up, and Mustapha’s Egyptian accented voice prompted the caller to leave a message. “Mustapha, this is Scott, if you’re there please pick-up! Something has happened to Cody, and Ella is at my house. Call me back as soon as you can . . . we were hoping you would join us at my house . . . bye.”
“No answer?” Ella asked in her groggy morning voice, which Scott found adorable.
“Unfortunately not. Maybe he’s still sleeping and will call soon.”
“Do you want to sleep some more?”
“Actually that’s not a bad idea. I’ll set the alarm for another hour.”
They gained their third hour of sleep, and then woke. The extra hour did some good, but both were in need of more rest should the day allow for it.
He called Mustapha again—and again no answer.
Scott allowed Ella to use the restroom first, and then he got himself ready for the first adventure of the day: going to Mustapha’s to check on him.
Their Middle Eastern buddy lived about thirty minutes away. Ella dozed off ten minutes into the trip, but Scott remained alert—as a protective dog would for their owner.
He glanced her way at every chance. She looked so serene and angelic in her sleep—so beautiful—so perfect. He smiled at her, enjoying every moment of the drive. Just her presence alone had left him feeling completely happy.
They pulled up in front of Mustapha’s. Scott rang and knocked on the door while Ella still slept in the car. He checked the door; it was open from when Mustapha unlocked it to go outside—unsuccessfully. He pushed the door open; an unpleasant odor escaped the quiet home. Their friend was nowhere in sight.
He entered, slowly pacing his way toward the kitchen. He found the kitchen empty and made his way to the bedroom. The door was closed, and Scott was terrified to open it, afraid of what he would find. He opened it anyway. Grasping for his throat, as if about to choke on the death filled air, Scott backed up two paces. There was no way to identify the body considering its current marred condition, but he knew it was Mustapha.
Flies had found their way to the stench of decaying flesh. Blood and chunks of unidentifiable organs, that should have been inside his body, were now all over the wall, ceiling, bed, and the cross that ended his life so abruptly. The corpse’s fingers and toes were outstretched, as if they froze in the position they found themselves in when the cross first made contact. It appeared that pieces of flesh had been torn off, as there were wounds on the legs that couldn’t have come from the crushing blow. Meat from the cadaver lay scattered on the floor around the bed. It was as if animals had fed on the body, but there were no animals in the house.
He ran out, woke up Ella, and told her of his findings. He then gathered himself and called the police. They stood by, and when the police and investigators arrived, Scott filled out a written statement, answered a long series of questions, exchanged contact information with a detective, and then drove home.
The drive home seemed much longer . . . twice as long as the drive to. Both Ella and Scott were silent, and Scott would never be able to rid his mind of the image he just absorbed.
Once home, they went inside, locked all doors and windows, sat down on the sofa together, and read Torah.
The evil they were encountering was something not of this realm or world, and no police force could protect them, and even if they were able, they wouldn’t believe their story. They had each other and God, and although God is bigger than anything, and capable of anything, other good people had died horrifically, so the questions remained: would they be spared? Were they worthy of saving? Was it in the Divine’s plan that they live? They would know soon enough. The entity that hungered for their souls, who craved death, had been busy and caused unspeakable carnage in a short time. It wouldn’t be long before he would come for the prize it longed for: Scott Abrahamson.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
A single contorted tree stood alone atop a barren hill covered in dried grass, rock, and dirt. Its lifeless limbs writhed from its twisted trunk, its bark was grayish-black, and for fifty years it stood guard over a small town located in a valley.
Dusk had fallen over the sleepy-hollow; the tree became a shadow silhouetted against the brilliant orange and purple sky; a would-be masterpiece to the human-race had our creator been a mortal artist. Instead of admiring the great canvas, most people went about their business, hardly noticing the awe-inspiring scene unfolding before the quaint little town.
A sweet little girl named Abigail with long, soft, blonde hair, big blue eyes, and a smile that would melt the most hardened, stood before an orphanage, admiring the beautiful array of colors the night sky offered. Unlike most, she appreciated God’s handiwork—she even liked rainbows—they were her favorite.
Well mannered and very mature for someone of only four years; she somehow—for reasons unknown to her—lived parentless at a large home containing many rooms, and filled with many children. She longed for parents who would love her unconditionally; she didn’t necessarily know the meaning of the word, “unconditionally,” but her heart knew what it wanted: a mother and father who would love her no matter what.
Abigail, in fact, had an idea of what her parents would be like: a tall, strong, handsome father who adored her and longed to spend time with her as much as she did with him. And a beautiful but strong mother who looked after her during moments of sickness, cooked the most amazing meals, and did her hair each morning. She could picture all three of them running through a park, feeding the ducks, and having a picnic beside a lake.
Four years seemed like a lifetime to little Abigail. She began to wonder if anyone would want her in such a way. Were there parents who would take her in and give her such a home? She never gave up hope, but with each passing year, hope dwindled.
The old tree on the hilltop had company this evening, and like the tree, this visitor was grey and black and every bit as twisted. The tall man stood by the tree and against the now darkened sky. Gusts of wind fluttered his long coat, and feathered his long, scraggly, white hair.
Looking down on the town, he fixed on a single structure: the orphanage. Staring. Studying. Looking at the front entrance as if trying to burn through the door with his piercing coal-black eyes. He spoke just over the breeze, “I’m taking you home tonight, little one. I’m taking you home.”
Several hours passed, and the man still stood in the same spot, staring at the same building.
As if the witching-hour had struck, the man suddenly came to life and began walking down the steep grade—kicking up dirt and rock with his tall, heavily weathered, black boots.
Not a single soul was awake; the town seemed sparsely inhabited with only a few street lamps still illuminating small patches of dirt road. A few stray cats sensed something foul and dangerous, and fled under cars and other shadowy places where they wouldn’t be found.
He reached the bottom of the hill and stopped fifty feet from the small staircase that led to the front door where he would find the bait he needed to capture his trophy soul.
He smirked with a crookedness that displayed the depths of his darkened soulless vessel, and began walking. With each step, he sensed he was closer to victory. This step would be easy—the final step would prove more difficult, but not impossible. He would succeed or lose his last opportunity at eternal life, affording him travel through endless realms. He needed a pure but unattached soul that beckoned a level of darkness, allowing it to be taken and used as a Talisman of sorts, for places of great evil. Such a soul is nearly impossible to find in the realm of earth, and his time was running out. It was Scott Abrahamson, or he would be no more.
He stood before the door, willing it to open ever so quietly. He stepped in, got a sense of the room and its inhabitants. Finding what he needed, he walked directly to her bedside and gazed upon her golden locks. “Abigail,” he muttered softly. “It’s time . . . tonight you will assist me in gaining immortality, my child.”
He picked her up and cradled her in his long arms, then floated away into the night. She remained asleep in his motionless arms, as he seamlessly rode the night air towards his final destination before attaining what all demons desire: a place far from good. A place where only evil dwells, where it’s always night, and all realms of darkness connect with one another, allowing souls to endlessly delight in acts of reprehensible gluttony that would shame the lowest in earth’s realm.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The doctrine of demonology will remain just that: a theory. Only those from the most raucous of realms will ever know the truth.
This is God’s world, true. In fact, God created all. He’s not the creator of evil however, for he is good. God foresaw the existence of evil, and in knowing this unfortunate fact; he created other realms for those who chose dark over light.
Free will gave souls a choice, and those too weak to stay on the righteous path of good would eventually turn evil, and evil had to be separated from good, for both could not exist in God’s Heavenly realm. That’s where Purgatory came in.
The most evil of souls who willingly turn away from good, sadden the Creator of life. Those who are unthankful for the ultimate gift: the gift of life, or who deny that it is a gift at all, must be met by the most severe of punishments. The rotten fruit of humanity are sent to other realms where the absence of good is eternal, and only evil dwells, writhing in its own filth.
The worst of the worst, those who took innocent life out of pure pleasure, or who sought to destroy, to bring about evil while living in their earthly human bodies, would become what we now refer to as, demons. It’s safe to say that ruthless dictators such as, Hitler and the like are now demons serving their eternal sentence in Purgatory.
Some demons however, find a way to travel into other realms, and in some very rare cases, back to earth’s realm.
Once in earth’s realm, they often torment the living. They can’t pick and chose; they must find those who have left their door open to them. People who have given up on life, who have been misled by false idols because they didn’t pay close enough attention when reading God’s instructions, people who are also evil and on their way to becoming demons themselves, or even good people who have yet to find God.
The one that Scott and Ella refer to as, the Tall Man—is the worst kind of demon. He committed unspeakable acts when in human form, and during his nearly two hundred years in spirit form, he’s finally found his way back to earth’s realm.
Entering back into earth’s realm is considered the vilest of infractions. If viewed as a parallel, it’s the equivalent of a murderer breaking out of prison to commit more crime.
While in earth’s realm, demon’s have a limited amount of time before being cast out, never to return. They’re like a fugitive on the run, and if caught, they are placed in a high security prison, most likely in solitary confinement. However, if they can do the impossible, and find a good but lost soul to attach themselves to, they can travel into other realms on the back of their new vessel. Never the realm of Heaven of course, that door remains eternally closed to the damned.
Some demons join forces with other evil entities along the way. This gives the illusion they have more power than they actually do. They can work together to speak in
different languages, temporarily split up and possess bodies, etc.
In the case of the Tall Man, he entered the world with several other demons, and in order to walk about in human form, he found a body that suited him, one that resembled him before dieing and being cast into Purgatory.
They have limited time to spend in possession of other bodies before having to regroup in their original vessel—most likely because the host eventually kicks them out. Maybe that’s why they seek the suicidal and atheists; they can stay in longer, or in rare cases the body will die from weakness and both the host and guest move on.
There is much that is unknown to demons who travel to earth’s realm. They enter with certain beliefs derived from myth.
When the Tall Man took Mustapha’s life, he scared him into believing his soul would be damned, but that was a mere hope for the Tall Man. For the most part, he said it for effect, to fill his victim with fear. In reality, demons have no say where one’s soul goes. In Mustapha’s case, although a little confused and misled, he was a good man who believed in God in one form or another, so he could have very well been accepted into the realm of Heaven.
The reason for the Tall Man seeking Scott Abrahamson is due to his soul being lost for so long. He was good, he did many good deeds, he dabbled in the Bible during his early years, but doubt still clouded him, largely due to the numerous religions that existed. Not a single one made complete sense to him, and in his experience, people always thought their religion to be the only true one.
This couldn’t be true, and Scott knew it. So, for many years he became confused and doubtful, and the demon sensed this. He gambled that this was the soul he needed.