Doorways

By David E. Anderson

Ten years ago, Johnny Chesler's parents were killed under mysterious circumstances. Today, Johnny and everyone he cares about are in terrible danger. Something has returned from beyond the grave, and it cannot be stopped. It knows who Johnny's friends are. It knows the girl Johnny is in love with.

And it wants Johnny himself to be the one to kill them.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David E. Anderson
• Release date: Sep 10, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466152243

David E. Anderson

I am 44 years old, happily married, with four daughters. I write many different types of fiction, including horror, thrillers, mysteries and comic crime. In September of 2011 I published my first novel, "Doorways", which is a horror novel. Please read the sample, and download the book if it seems like something you would enjoy. I will be publishing an action thriller, "Desperate", in November of 2011. It's about a man whose fiancée is kidnapped. And he knows that even if he pays the ransom, the kidnapper won't let her live. A sample of "Desperate" appears at the end of "Doorways". I am also at work on a non-fiction book called "Myth?", which addresses the arguments against the historicity of Jesus of Nazareth and looks at the evidence for his existence. I am also currently at work on a comic crime novel called "The Switch: A Wilbur Longdinger Novel" with W.A. Uphaus. I already have a sequel to "The Switch" written (titled "Escapegoats"), but will publish it after "The Switch", in order to keep the narrative in order. I have two other horror novels, "The Void" and "Bad Witch", which will likely be published some day. I may also publish a short story collection, though I will probably make that a free download.

Book preview

Doorways

David E. Anderson with W.A. Uphaus

Copyright 2011 David E. Anderson and W.A. Uphaus

Cover Art by Kevin Cantrell

Smashwords Edition

License Statement:

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

ISBN: 978-1-4661-5224-3

Dedicated to Nancy and Marnie

PROLOGUE

LONDON, ENGLAND

February 4, 1996

The stranger appeared in front of the sedan as if he'd drawn back the curtain of snow and stepped through. He stared through the windshield at Robert Chesler, leaning toward the car as if waiting to be struck and killed.

Karen Chesler screamed and reached for her husband's arm.

The man was dressed as though he'd just stepped in from a century earlier. He wore a black coat and vest, with white, wild hair and the most sinister eyes Karen had ever seen; so bloodshot they appeared almost cracked, they bulged out of their sockets.

Robert slammed on the brakes and spun the wheel, launching the car into an immediate spin on the icy road. Karen could see the man through her husband's window as the driver's side of the car rapidly slid towards him. He was bent forward, staring at her husband with a cold grin.

Robert battled with the wheel, but the tires had lost all traction.

Karen shut her eyes and waited for the fatal impact. She knew there was nothing - absolutely nothing - she could do to save the man's life.

Karen opened her eyes a moment later. The stranger was gone.

Her husband cursed loudly, struggling with the wheel as if trying to wrench it from the dashboard. She held her breath, seeing the parked sedan only moments before their Caprice slammed head-on into it.

Karen threw her hands up and shut her eyes again. The windshield burst, and she was thrown forward violently. The belt bit into her chest and waist, then flung her back into the seat.

The silence was sudden and absolute. She fought for breath, but realized she was mercifully unharmed. A hissing sound arose gradually, becoming almost as loud as her heart.

She turned to check on her husband.

He was gone.

She stared in confusion at the empty seat, then remembered with horror that he rarely wore seatbelts.

She slowly turned her head forward, her neck stiff from the impact, and peered through the shattered windshield. Her husband was lying on the hood of the other sedan, not moving.

No! she shrieked, unbuckling herself with trembling fingers. "Oh, God! No!"

She pulled at the door latch, but the door refused to open. Why won't it open? She threw her shoulder against the door, but it resisted.

The impact. The impact must have wedged it shut.

Giving up on the door, she grabbed the dashboard and pulled herself out onto the crumpled hood, sweeping broken glass out of her path with one gloved hand.

Robert’s head was against the other car’s cracked windshield, his body spread-eagled.

Robert? she whispered, grabbing his leg and shaking it. "Robert!"

He would be all right. She just knew it. Perhaps a small fracture on his skull or a few broken bones maybe. He was unconscious; that's why he wasn't responding. Out cold, but he'd be back home in a couple days. Right? Right?

She crawled onto the hood of the other car so she could see him more clearly. His eyes were open, staring at her. Thank God! He’s not even unconscious! In a couple of seconds, he'd try to get up, and she would tell him to lie still while she went to the nearest house and called for an ambulance. She would insist on riding with him for support, telling him she was thankful he wasn't seriously hurt.

Then she realized his head was at an impossible angle, turned more than ninety degrees on his shoulders. Only one eye was looking at her. The other was focused on the sky.

Oh no, she whispered, putting one hand over her mouth and trying to hold back the nausea welling inside her.

He wasn't blinking. His neck! God, his head's turned the wrong way on his neck! Blood trickled from his mouth, pooling under his cheek.

Robert? she asked, praying her eyes were deceiving her and he would respond.

Dead. Robert's dead. My husband's dead. My husband of thirteen years is dead. Johnny's daddy is dead. Robert's dead.

She looked around for help. They were in a small business district, all of the stores closed for the night. The owner of the parked car they'd struck must be nearby, but she saw no lights on in the buildings.

Did the car belong to the man she'd seen? Where was he? With the snow hiding almost everything in sight, he could have been anywhere. What was he doing in road? It was as if he’d been trying to cause the accident. The grim reaper, though not merely out to collect, but to cause.

She slid herself backwards along the hood until she stumbled off and landed on her back on the cold, snow-covered pavement. She barely registered the impact or the chill of the snow on her legs.

She’d had so many concerns about the direction their lives were going, and it was all futile now. She’d been worrying for months, ever since their move from Chicago to London, about Johnny’s inability to make friends at school, about Robert’s career as a reporter, keeping him too busy to make time for her. She had to fight tooth-and-nail to get him to devote this one night to her, to take her to a play - and this was the result. Her husband dead in an inexplicable accident, caused by a man who was there, then not there. Months of worry, suddenly ending in the worst possible way.

I’m a widow now.

She just wanted to lay there, not move, ever again. Just fall asleep and let the paramedics carry her away, even if the only thing left was a frozen corpse.

Johnny was only ten, and already having so many problems she’d considered sending him to a therapist. How would he respond to his father’s death? If she laid here and froze to death, how would he respond to suddenly finding himself an orphan?

He was home, waiting. Waiting for his parents to return. Waiting for his mom and dad.

She watched the oncoming snow, which settled on her dress and in her hair, the flakes unaware that she was a living person and not part of the street. The steady falling of the snow had a soothing, almost hypnotic effect. She wasn’t sure how long she'd lain there, before she heard the voice.

Mommy?

She almost laughed. Johnny never called her 'mommy'. She was 'mom', even when he'd been in diapers.

It took her a moment to realize she hadn’t imagined the voice.

Johnny? She sat up and looked around. She could barely discern a small figure standing by the side of the road. A streetlamp between them caused the snow to glow, obscuring her vision. Baby?

The figure by the side of the road didn't respond. It faded completely out of sight for a moment due to a sudden shift in the snowfall, and then came back.

When he moved, she knew she wasn't seeing things. He turned away from her and disappeared into the wall of falling snow, as if through the same door from which the old man had magically appeared.

She took a deep breath and rose, holding the car for support. Breathing was painful, her ribs bruised from the accident.

She staggered after her son on trembling legs, her head reeling almost to the point of passing out. She stepped onto the curb and followed the sidewalk. The wind seemed to change direction. Now the snow was heading straight at her, whipping up her ankle-length dress to paralyze her legs. Unless she looked at the ground, she didn't appear to be moving at all. She could see nothing but the gauntlet of snow.

She panted harshly as she arrived at the first intersection, gasping in icy air. She stopped, trying to catch her breath and spot her son. Did he turn? Go straight? She cursed herself for not having sufficient maternal instinct to know which way Johnny might have gone. Straight made more sense, as this was the way home.

Johnny? she called, the hoarseness of her voice shocking her.

She stumbled across the street, her lungs protested against the frozen air. She should slow down, she knew, but she needed to get home.

It was ridiculous. Johnny wouldn't have walked two-and-a-half blocks in the bitter cold. How could he have known about the accident? The sound couldn't have carried that far in the snowstorm.

He was probably snuggled up in bed, or had snuck downstairs to watch T.V.

She didn't believe it. She wanted to, but couldn't. She saw him.

Karen plodded on, the pain in her chest screaming, her dizziness worsening, her vision blurring.

-----

No response.

What?

She was on her hands and knees, panting like a sick dog, thinking 'no response'. No response to what?

The white surface beneath her was not snow, but tile. She looked around and found herself in the foyer of her home. She suddenly had a distant memory of calling out for her son, though she knew it had happened only a moment earlier.

She remembered nothing between running past the first intersection and ending up here.

Johnny! It's mommy! she cried out, her voice low and gruff. God, I’m probably scaring the kid to death! She tried to get up, but couldn’t find the strength. She settled for sitting up against the closed door and letting her hammering heart and wheezing breath settle for a moment. She believed Johnny was inside, had to believe he was inside.

But what if he isn't? What if he'd never found his way home in the snowstorm? Jesus, what if he was still out there? What if he was wearing nothing but his pajamas…no, he didn't wear pajamas to bed…his underwear, trying to find his way home?

She couldn't face going back out into the blizzard, but she had to! Johnny was out there, terrified, maybe freezing to death while his mother sat in the warm entranceway to their home.

Wait. Maybe I imagined the whole thing.

But I saw him!

No, it was just my imagination.

My husband's dead!

The intruding memory of his broken body shocked her. Only a few minutes, and she'd almost forgotten she was a widow.

She started weeping uncontrollably, the tears commingling with the melting snow on her face. She'd seen the man outside the car, but he couldn't have been real. She saw and heard Johnny outside, but that couldn't have been real, either. Maybe none of this is real! The thought gave her a strange comfort. If none of it had been real, then perhaps the accident and the run home hadn't been real, either. It implied she was insane, but there was something pleasant in the possibility that Johnny, and perhaps even her husband, were all right.

Should she call the police? Search the house? Go back outside? Deciding what to do next was difficult when she couldn't trust her own perceptions.

One thing had to be real. Johnny had to be home. He would never have gone outside in this blizzard. First she had to make sure she wasn't wrong about that.

She needed to find him, to settle her mind.

Karen waited only a few moments before she stood, fighting the pain, dizziness and nausea. There was a gassy smell in her nostrils that she couldn't explain and didn't try to. She hobbled up the stairs, clinging to the banister as if it were a lifeline. She got to the top of the stairs and staggered past the study, past her room, and to Johnny's. She knocked, then opened it.

The lights were out. She flipped them on, leaning against the doorjamb.

Johnny's bed was unmade, though she'd made it herself that morning. He'd been sleeping, but had gotten up.

The clock above his bed said it was past eleven. Where could he have gone? There was probably a logical explanation which, in her insanity, she couldn't see. Maybe it was eleven in the morning and he was at school. The sky outside appeared dark, but she knew she couldn't trust her perceptions.

She checked the other rooms on the floor; her bedroom, Robert's study, the bathroom, even the linen closet. All empty.

Okay. I know. He couldn't sleep, so he went to the den to watch television, and fell asleep there.

She headed back down the stairs, listening for the T.V., but unable to hear it. Instead she heard a steady hiss from somewhere on the main floor. The kitchen?

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, the gassy smell assaulted her nose again.

Hiss. Gas.

Oh, Jesus!

She burst into the kitchen. The smell overpowered her, and she quickly backed out and slammed the door, gagging, and fell to her hands and knees.

Before backing out, she'd seen the oven pushed away from the wall and the back door standing open. Somebody must have broken in, disconnected the stove, and turned on the gas.

She pictured the dark figure she'd seen on the road, the one who had caused the accident. She imagined him pulling the stove away from the wall and removing the hoses, laughing like some villain from a Dickens novel. She saw him turn and grin at her, revealing rotten yellow teeth.

But, wait. That made no sense. He did this much earlier, so why would he be smiling then at where she was now? She suspected he knew she would later be standing at the doorway to kitchen, imagining him grinning at her.

Okay, clearly I'm not entirely sane.

But Karen had to stop the outflow of gas. She took a deep breath, then entered the kitchen, heading quickly to the stove. The hose connecting the valve to the stove was completely severed, and the shut-off knob had been removed. Gardening shears, her gardening shears, lay partially under the stove.

Seeing no way to shut off the gas, she backed out from behind the stove. She turned to the back door, preparing to flee the house.

Johnny stood at the door in his underwear, one hand behind his back. Snow was settling on his light brown hair and thin shoulders, but he stood straight as if not feeling the cold.

Thank God! She suddenly understood what had happened. He'd woken, smelled the gas, and had gone next door.

She suddenly realized Johnny had a cigarette between his lips.

She opened her mouth long enough to shout, No!

Relax, Mommy, said Johnny, the cigarette bouncing between his lips. It ain't lit.

I haven't gone insane. He has. Johnny... She was running out of breath, but was frozen in place by what she was seeing.

Johnny brought his hand from behind his back. He was clutching a lighter.

Stop! Gas! She waved her hands frantically. She needed to breathe, but the air around her was deadly.

Johnny took no notice of her plight.

This isn't him! This isn't my little Johnny!

It's been nice being your son, he said casually. Dad's been a son of a bitch, but you've been okay.

Karen's lungs spasmed, drawing in what they thought would be air. She collapsed, retching, drawing in more gas.

She watched as Johnny spun the wheel on the lighter, cupping it with one hand as if he'd been smoking for years. It caught, and she waited to die.

Nothing happened.

Of course. He was outside. The gas wasn't sufficiently concentrated at the doorway to ignite.

All little birdies gotta leave the nest someday, he said, sucking pleasantly at the cigarette.

She watched the tip glow bright red, redder. Hell fire.

Johnny pulled it from his mouth, smiling. Gotta fly, Ma. He tossed the cigarette onto the kitchen floor, then slammed the door.

Karen stared at the cigarette rolling across the floor. The haze of the cooking gas made everything blurry, like a show on an old color television.

This isn't real, she decided. It's a show on an old color television. The world exploded around her. She gasped in shock, inhaling flames that set fire to the gas inside her lungs. Fire filled her eyes.

A show on an old...

Chapter One

Alton, Michigan

February 3, 2006

(Ten Years Later)

"You got so much passion, but you ain't got no desire!

"Your heart is cold as hell, but your body's on fire!

"You love 'em and you leave 'em, and to you it's all a game!

"One man takes the torture and another takes the blame!"

The basement was packed, the crowd focused on the corner where the band, Imago, performed. The crowd smiled euphorically, saving their applause for between songs, not wanting to miss a beat.

Johnny Chesler, wearing faded blue jeans, a white ruffled dress shirt, and a black, snake-thin silk tie, screamed the rap-like lyrics into the microphone. His Telecaster guitar dangled from his shoulders, while the rest of the band pumped out the music behind him. Scott O'Ryan took lead guitar on this number, delivering a rhythm which resembled speed metal. Phil Richardson was attacking the drums, playing slightly too fast for the song's rhythm, trying to accelerate the tempo. Norm Seeger, a joint between his lips and wide, slitted sunglasses over his eyes, hopped in place, keeping rhythm on his bass guitar.

Johnny balanced the microphone stand on his shoulder like a baseball bat, keeping the microphone close to his mouth.

"You're comin' and you're goin'.

"And their love is overflowin',

"But your heart belongs to no one,

"So you shoot 'em down a-gaaaaaain!

"Your love is for the taking,

"And their hearts are for the breaking,

"It ain't really love you're making,

"But you like 'em now and then!"

Johnny swung the stand over the heads of the people in front, then twirled it and slammed the base onto the floor.

He stepped back, giving Scott the crowd's attention for a searing guitar solo. Johnny passed Norm, who was still hopping in place quite obliviously, and stepped alongside Ruby and Greg, who watched from the side.

Ruby leaned towards Johnny and for a moment he thought she was going to kiss him, or perhaps only wished she was going to kiss him. Instead, she whispered in his ear. Beautiful. Her breath caused Johnny to tingle. He wanted to plant a kiss on her. Maybe he could blame it on the heat of the moment. But no, he couldn't kiss her. Not in front of Greg. Greg might get pissed and not want to go to Cedarbend. They had to go to Cedarbend.

Ruby wore a red, sleeveless dress under a gray University of Southern Michigan jacket. Her brown hair, which flowed past her shoulders, had been braided tightly, drawing attention to her narrow face and dark green eyes. She had almond-shaped eyes which never failed to display her emotions. Looking into them, Johnny could see that the smile on her face was legitimate. She was really digging his music.

He loved her.

He couldn't help it.

God, he wanted her back.

As if sensing Johnny's feelings, Greg snaked one arm protectively around Ruby’s waist. He gave Johnny a thumbs-up and a wink.

Johnny winked back and started playing his Telecaster, echoing Scott's melody. We on for Cedarbend? he shouted above the music.

"On for what?" asked Ruby.

Yeah, said Greg.

Ruby shrugged.

Johnny realized the instrumental break was ending and sped to the microphone, arriving a second too late and forgetting to take a breath, thus flustering the first line.

"...heart to you...(gasp)...my affection.

"I didn't know my heart would be one more for your collection!

"You've heard it all befo-ore, you're such a sexy girl!

"You believe that breaking hearts is your purpose in this world!

"You're a psychopathic lover, yeah! The cold-blooded kind!

"You stab 'em through the hearts, but 'cha know that they don't mind!

"They'll be back for more, if you'll only be their friend!

"They'll be back for more so you can shoot 'em down a-gaaain!"

The band finished with a repeat of the chorus and a synchronized wind-up followed by simultaneous power chords from Johnny and Scott.

The crowd's applause drowned out the ringing in Johnny's ears. This was going to be the greatest night of his life. He could feel it. Everything was right. They'd never played that song, or any song, so well. Even Phil's accelerated tempo and the lousy acoustics off the concrete walls somehow enhanced it.

Imaaa-go! Imaaa-go! chanted a beefy jock with a crew cut, shaking a fist in the air while being careful not to spill the cup of beer in his other hand.

The whole crowd began chanting.

Johnny closed his eyes and dropped to his knees, letting the chanting of the crowd fill his head. He couldn't remember what song they were supposed to follow with. He hoped he wasn't supposed to lead.

Imaaa-go! Imaaa-go!

The drum intro started. Mellow, steady. Oh yes. 'Distant Thunder'. Wrong song to follow with, but too late now. He wanted to follow a rocker with a slow song, giving his voice a rest. But following a song about shitty love with a song about the inevitability of death wasn't the right way to start a show. Aw, hell.

The crowd was quiet, transfixed, and ready to listen to whatever Johnny and Imago had to offer. Maybe it was the right song, after all.

-----

You shouldn't be so concerned, said Reverend Simon Pettingild. He and Reverend Jason Sheehan sat facing one-another at a rectangular table in the dining room of Saint Michael's Lutheran Church, sipping coffee. The only light shined through the open doorway to the kitchen behind Pettingild. None of us have ever come to harm.

That's not true, Sheehan thought. One way or another, we've all come to harm. He was twenty years younger than Pettingild, but felt as if he was rapidly aging and would soon surpass the man across the table. Since last summer, Sheehan's dark hair had begun to gray, crow’s feet had appeared around his eyes, and he'd lost nearly twenty pounds. The greenish-brown suit he wore appeared much too big on him. The sleeves were wide enough to accommodate two wrists each. "It's not me I'm concerned about, he replied. I'm concerned for Johnny Chesler." He couldn't even say the name without his heart palpitating.

Still? I thought we'd discussed this with Davis two weeks ago.

We did, Sheehan said bitterly. Davis refused to listen to me, dismissed every argument I had. You went right along with him, simply because he's put himself in charge since Reverend Gelder died.

Reverend Davis had been sent on behalf of the Triad to Seattle, Washington to watch over a man he thought might be a target.

Yes...well, it has been tradition for the senior member to head the Triad. Pettingild sipped at the stale, watery coffee, left over from a meeting of the Board of Elders that afternoon. He noticed that Sheehan hadn't touched his cup since the initial sip, and couldn't blame the man. Besides, I still agree with Davis; Chesler doesn't fit the profile. Maybe in ten years, and if you want the assignment then, I'm sure…

Look, interrupted Sheehan. If Johnny isn't the target, then there'll be no harm in watching over him. If I'm right and he is...

He isn't, insisted Reverend Pettingild. He couldn't be. First of all, he's not married...

I know the arguments. Davis spelled them out for me one by one. But patterns have been broken in the past. 1956, for example.

"Yes, one pattern was broken, but what you're suggesting would mean violating two, and that's never been done before. There are reasons for what is happening, and the rea-sons de-cide the pat-terns." He accentuated his words by tapping the table, as if Sheehan didn’t comprehend simple logic.

"Reverend Pettingild, you should know, as a man of God, that you can't make all of your decisions based on patterns. What if, when God sent Ananias to find Saul, Ananias refused because Saul had a pattern of persecuting Christians?"

Please, Reverend. Pettingild held up his liver-spotted hands in a calming gesture. Your part in the Triad has had a great affect upon you. Too great, if you ask me. Perhaps you simply can't handle the pressure.

"I can't handle the pressure? You and Davis have resigned yourselves to hopelessness. Do you really think God wants us just to sit back and count the corpses? I'm the only one of us who is still trying to accomplish something. I'm the only one of us who still carries the spirit of the original Triad."

The way Davis and I see it, you're the only one who refuses to look at things objectively. Everything you're attempting has been attempted before. You've lost your focus, Sheehan, while doubling your efforts, and this could be dangerous to yourself, and to the Triad.

Are you suggesting...

Yes, said Pettingild. Look at what's become of you. When was the last time you ate properly, Reverend? When was the last time you had a good night's sleep?

The sorrowful look on Sheehan's face suggested the same answer to both questions. Too long. You can't turn me away. I won't stand for it.

I'm simply suggesting you take it upon yourself to retire from the Triad, for your sake as well as ours. You wouldn't be the first.

Sheehan had considered doing just that, but he knew he couldn't. He would be admitting defeat, abandoning people who might need him later on. Even if it destroyed him, he had to push on for the cause. He couldn't leave it to people like Pettingild and Davis. They would only go through the motions.

At least pray on it, Sheehan. Do you really think the Lord wants you to go through all of this?

I have prayed on it, replied Sheehan. We're supposed to be working together, but I feel like you and Davis have become my enemies. I know it's not supposed to be like that, and by no means do I put the blame entirely on the shoulders of the two of you.

We're not trying to betray you, said Pettingild.

"We? You talk as if you and Reverend Davis have already discussed this."

Pettingild picked up his