Eyes in the Doorway

By Richard Van Doren

A beleagured minister and his beautiful wife become targets of an ancient sacrificial cult operating in their community. An unstable parishioner leads them to this horrifying knowledge after he invades an eerie prehistoric structure, standing on the rim of a quarry, and from that moment on is terrorized by eyes in his bedroom doorway.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Richard Van Doren
• Release date: Nov 13, 2020
• ISBN: 9781736163931

Richard Van Doren

Richard Van Doren is an ordained minister in a mainline Protestant denomination. He has always been fascinated by the fringe element in American culture and the extreme events that test faith. All of his novels and short stories deal with the collision of spirituality and earthly crises, or the ongoing conflict between the forces of good and evil. He moonlights as a college composition instructor, and every semester he teaches his students the two most important rules of writing: 1) write on a subject about which you know something, and 2) write on a subject about which you feel strongly. Over the years he has read and heard about countless instances of dark invasions into every day, innocent living. Anyone who has ever experienced something very strange, or who believes that we live in a reality that extends far beyond this world of the five senses will find his novels and stories much to their liking. All of these works contain instances that Van Doren has either experienced in his career or was told about by friends, students, parishioners and family.

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Eyes in the Doorway

by Richard Van Doren

Eyes in the Doorway:

Van Doren, Richard

All rights reserved

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Part I: The Big Ugly

1

Not too long ago Route 518, linking Kendall Park, New Jersey to New Hope, Pennsylvania, was a seldom traveled route through sparsely populated terrain. Children of the '50s can well remember when miles of farmland separated the city of New Brunswick from the bureau of Princeton. But the '70s and '80s brought with them a drastic change in the complexion of the land. Countless businesses fled the burdensome taxes and crush of humanity that is New York City for the welcoming virgin woods of the Route 1 corridor, less than 40 miles south. What had long been one of the premier colleges in the country Princeton University now boasted the oft-disputed title of top academic center in the United States, thus attracting an added share of the most brilliant minds in the world. Graduates and pilgrims alike spilled their genius into the surrounding neighborhoods, making the region the most important think tank in the east. As one resident smugly noted, You have to be smart to pump gas in Princeton.

So it was that the price of land in central Jersey soared from less than $2000 dollars an acre in the '60s to over $40,000 in 1991. The invading hoards needed a place to live, and the closer they lived to their place of employment the more they were willing to pay. Farmers, who inherited their parcel of earth from ancestors, owned most of the land, but back-breaking labor, diminishing financial returns and sentimentality weighed little against the certainty of instant riches. The landscape soon exploded with single-family homes, townhouses and luxury condominiums, like weeds on a dung-heap, the cynics hissed. Slender country lanes that once cradled the laughter of children on Halloween hayrides now choked on a daily, belligerent commuter crush.

Virulent development left few pockets unexplored, but one has survived south of 518 between Kendall Park and Rocky Hill. As the traffic thickens on this winding, sharply-graded stretch like a cholesterol-clogged aorta, few passing motorists give a yawn to the man-made ridge that rises from the shoulder and parallels the highway for three down-hill miles. Old-timers know this tree-lined ridge camouflages a huge, gaping brown man-made crater called Glad Rock Quarry.

Once an ideal setting for such an industry, the quarry now seems out of place in a region so transformed by the influx of wealth. Quarry owners, the Applegate brothers, once prided themselves on progressive attention to the aesthetics of the region by shielding the sensitive eyes of residents and travelers from what is now considered a blight. But in spite of the expense invested in the ridge, a commitment that greedier, less community-conscious competitors branded foolhardy, Glad Rock still suffered from the vise-like squeeze of the population boom. Newly settled environmentalists denounced the quarry's existence. In the mountains of stone real estate speculators drooled over a residential diamond mine and hounded the Applegates daily with delectable offers—and the weekly blasting that once pummeled only a handful of locals now cracked foundations, rattled china and startled infants to the ire of scores of young mothers.

But a graver obstacle endangered Glad Rock's future. Homes and businesses had flourished around them to the point where they were now landlocked—except to the east, where an eerie and mystifying presence impeded expansion. Unless one of the impediments could be removed the Applegate's business was doomed.

On Monday morning, the day after Easter, Jerry Pitt and Billy Lewis climbed into a battered and dusty Ford pick-up loaded for blasting and steered toward the eastern rim. It was the wickedest of all Jersey days, mid-thirties, light rain falling and a relentless fifteen mile an hour wind that sliced its way through every layer of protection, every crevice around the neck and ankles. Minnesotans never knew a chill like this, Pitt thought. If it were twenty degrees colder it would seem like spring in comparison. Few besides Jerseyans understood.

Lewis, new to the job, fixed his stare on the peculiar, ugly structure jutting above the horizon. Pitt, an eight-year man and an old-timer by quarry standards, lowered his eyes to avoid that inexplicable surge of dread which always seized his heart whenever he let down his guard, a heart that was at any other time resolutely un-superstitious. He trained his gaze on the rock facade.

Don't say anything, kid, Pitt pleaded in silence. I don't want to talk about it.

What the hell is that? Lewis asked, as if on cue. I never knew that place was up there.

For an instant Pitt lifted his eyes to the approaching monstrosity and immediately regretted it. Every time I look at that damn place it takes hours to get it off my mind, he thought. Thanks, Kid.

Lewis glanced over at his partner. Am I talking to myself, or what, he thought. Twenty-two years old, with a rocky employment history, Billy Lewis was already wondering what he did wrong. He decided to try again.

Sure is ugly. I could design a better building than that and I flunked technical drawing...

When we get to where we're goin', Pitt interrupted, you'll need to watch me real careful, because today we got the most dangerous job in the quarry, which is settin' charges. You'll have to listen and concentrate, because there's no margin for error. One slip in procedure, one thing done out of order could be the last mistake you ever make.

Lewis nodded. Yeah, okay, he thought, you're on edge about the job. He leaned forward and squinted up at the ominous structure planted in the hillside above the quarry rim, missing his partner's nervous glance. Then he slumped back in his seat and decided to shut his yap.

The pick-up halted at the base of the barren rock wall directly beneath the house. Lewis wondered whether another charge in this direction might not bring the whole place a-crashing into the quarry.

Uh, I know it's none of my business, but aren't we gettin' awful close to that house up there? I mean, it seems to me one more blast...

You're right. It's none of your business, Pitt hissed. And it's none of my business. All I know is that the bosses want the charges set, you broken in and me to keep my mouth shut. You got a problem with that?

No. No problem, Billy answered coldly. He was going to add screw you, but thought better of it. No sense getting canned on the first day.

Immediately, Pitt regretted the snap. "The truth is, I suspect the Applegates are hoping that place does accidentally fall down. They've been trying to buy that property for twenty years, but they can't find the owners. They figure that house has got to be the only reason why, and if the house is gone the owners will change their minds."

Billy accepted the white flag. Doesn't somebody live there?

Nope, which burns the Applegates all the more, Pitt continued. In fact, nobody has ever lived in that place. Nobody's even seen so much as a flicker in the windows. Morbid curiosity once again drew his eyes as if to a bloody accident. The perverse, weather-stained, brownish-grey structure stood four stories high and was perfectly symmetrical. A thick, sticky-looking tar coating its slightly pitched, gutterless roof must have intimidated the local birds.

Each floor had eight windows, irrationally tall and narrow, making it look like a giant keyboard. They had no glass, but were shuttered from within with the same grainy, thick, stained timber used in the overall construction. If opened, they could admit only a trickle of light. At either end a narrow, windowless wing extended perpendicular to the middle section, which, if seen from above, would form a huge crushed H. A foundation of heavy, layered stone girdled the base, except where a portion had crumbled away at the northwest corner.

Pitt pictured the designer as a sneering misanthrope insulting his neighbors with the least artistic, most offensive block-busting construction possible. Yet he could not get it out of his mind that there seemed to be a purpose to it all. Indeed, that's what caused him sleepless nights and warned him to put it out of his mind as soon as possible.

I can't believe I never saw the place from the road before, Billy remarked. Then it occurred to him, from where the house stood, if he could see anything through the trees it would only be the roof, and that only if he sat high in the cab of an eighteen wheeler. Why on earth would somebody build the house there and not on the crest of the hill where you could get sunshine all day long, he wondered. In that location the house would be in shadows most of the day with only a few hours of sunlight in the afternoon.

Aren't the Applegates afraid they'll sue? he asked.

I guess they've got that all figured out, Pitt said. From what I've heard a lawsuit'll hurt, but they can survive it. And it'll all pay off if they can get that property and keep the business going.

Billy nodded. Let the rich folk work it out, he thought.

Well hey, we better get some work done, or it won't matter a hell of a lot to either of us what happens to this place. Yanking the drill off the pick-up bed, Pitt set to work. Help me hold her steady, Lewis. A straight shaft saves a lot of time. The drill whined as the eight-foot bit chipped at the stone. Once fully imbedded deep in the rock face they extracted the drill and Pitt ordered Billy to fetch the wire, a blasting cap and explosive. As long as there's no source of an electrical charge the danger is nil, Pit instructed as he connected the dangerous particulars. We'll place one charge every twenty-four feet for forty yards, then wait for the crane to bring up the shock absorber, which is that big blanket you saw outside the shed. Once that's in place over the blast site, we'll connect all of these wires to the main detonator, turn the dial and...

A fist of fire rocked him into space, scattering his body over a fifty-yard radius. Billy Lewis' squashed skull and crumpled shoulders punched a hole through the reinforced metal of the pick-up door. They would find flesh and bone in the quarry bed for years to come.

An hour later, the Applegate brothers and their crew looked on, shaken and silent, as the Rocky Hill Rescue Squad deposited the mangled, bloody pieces of what had been Jerry Pitt and Billy Lewis in reinforced plastic bags. The coroner devoted hours sorting the fragments for their respective coffins, but finally gave up.

Mute and ashen firemen sprayed a hose over the area in a vain attempt to remove the last tiny fragments.

While his brother Bennie wept, Cornelius Applegate trembled. His tears would flow later. The cold in his heart surpassed what he felt in the marshes hunting ducks, causing Cornelius to tremble involuntarily. As his anguished eyes sought sanctuary from the gruesome labor before him, they came to rest on the bed of the crumpled pick-up. There among the dust and stones lay the detonator—unattached.

The hypnotic, crimson flash of the rescue rig's warning light seemed to harbor a malevolent sneer.

2

For a moment her eyes sparkled again, eyes that so often burned in defiance of emotional injuries she never fully revealed. A teasing, knowing smile promised delights later on. How wonderful it was to bathe in her beauty, to revel, and not to think, he mused. But suddenly, the curse returned, the rude, persistent curse of awareness, of time and place, of things to be done. Self- consciousness smothered instinct and he abruptly sensed that the waitress was taking far too long to serve their drinks.

She saw it in his face and dropped her gaze. Soon her man would begin to shift in his chair and take the waitress' delay as a personal insult, an exasperatingly familiar ritual. Things always had to be done properly and in good order by others and himself, she thought. Workaholism and the need to be loved merely couched a heart that was wounded by low self-esteem, or so her counselor had told her. By now her husband was probably interpreting the waitress' tardiness as deliberate, a sign that she knew who he was, had no respect for him and was going to make him squirm—even though neither of them had ever seen her before. He simply could not accept the brief delay as a blessing, a rare extension of quality time.

Bob Millson lifted the napkin from his lap and placed it on the table. I'm going to find out what happened to our drinks, he said, straining to smile.

Yvonne leaned forward and caressed his hand. Honey, we're in no hurry. Why don't you just relax?

I'll be right back, he assured her, giving her shoulder a squeeze as he strode to the bar. Yvonne folded her hands beneath her chin and glanced vacantly at one of the old movie posters that lined the walls, The Three Faces of Eve, starring Joanne Woodward. How appropriate, she thought sadly, just like so many in Bob's profession: one face for the public that is bold and confident, a natural leader, patient, forgiving and stalwart; one face for the wife and kids, loving, but terribly human in all its fallibilities, dangerously vulnerable and prone to excesses of mood and bad habits—like alcohol and swearing; and one face for himself only, showing who knows what depths of rage, self pity and faith. Infuriating, addicting man, she thought. Love him, love him, love him anyway, she muttered, as if chanting. And she did.

As Millson reached the bar his waitress emerged from the kitchen wearing a coat, looking pale and sickly. Immediately, he scolded himself for his damnable suspicions. As he turned to rejoin his wife he caught something out of the corner of his eye that made his heart fall. Sitting at the bar was Earl De Young, looking deeply under the weather himself.

Please, don't see me, he thought. Please! But their eyes met for an instant and Millson recognized all too well the hopeful expression that leapt to De Young's face. He and his wife would be having company in a minute. Maybe if he moved quickly and pretended not to see, De Young would stay planted in his seat.

Rushing to the table, Millson sat down and quickly took Yvonne's hands in his—but it was no use. Peaking toward the bar, he saw De Young weaving a path toward them. God dammit, he thought, this was one time he was not going out of his way to be civil.

Honey, what's wrong? Yvonne inquired.

I'm off duty, he thought, especially to you, De Young.

Reverend? De Young slurred. It was always Reverend when someone had a problem. When someone was feeling smugly superior, as this man usually did, the address was always Bob, sometimes even hey, you.

Yvonne watched his countenance fall before he yanked his gaze from hers. What is it, Earl? Only two years ago De Young sat on top of the world as one of the most successful real estate agents in the county, which was saying quite a lot, but now a broken, disheveled, timid man stood before him with a look in his eyes that could only be read as stone cold, debilitating fear. He was also drunk, or close to it.

Reverend, I need to talk to you. I need some help. I need some help fast.

Sure you do, Millson thought. Everybody needs help right now. He gave De Young a long, hard, unforgiving look. This was the same man who, only two years ago, stood up at the annual congregational meeting and argued vehemently against a raise for the minister, describing the parsonage and benefits that we pay for as exceedingly generous and far above what is deserved for the services rendered. Despite the BMW, Coupe de Ville and a home appraised at a million six, De Young never contributed more than three hundred a year to the church's operating budget. When Millson was called upon to marry De Young's daughter, Fiona, to a smartass lunkhead named Rusty Brunson after hours of premarital counseling and a nightmarish rehearsal for which all of the principles arrived high on coke, the minister received a ten dollar bill for his troubles—and was not invited to the reception. Besides, Millson did not like the fact that De Young had ignored his wife.

It's our anniversary, Earl. We'll have to talk some other time.

Yvonne stared at her plate. De Young shifted, seemingly stunned that the minister would rebuff him, but Millson soon realized that he had misread the silence. There was no arrogance left in this man, only a lost and broken little boy.

Please, Reverend, in Jesus' name help me, he whispered.

Yvonne's eyes met his, the surprise registering in both of them. Earl De Young uttering Jesus' name in a tone of respect?! This must be serious!

Curse you, you name dropper, Millson thought. Whether De Young believed in Jesus or not, he knew a minister could not ignore the invocation of his boss' name.

Millson shot a glance at his wife, expecting frustration, perhaps anger, but recognized the one reaction that hurt perhaps most of all—a nod, a look of fatigue, and a wave of the hand that said what are you waiting for? Go with him. This is your job. This is our life.

De Young grabbed him by the wrist as if he were leading a blind man and pulled him to an empty booth. Some of his confidence seemed to return as he ordered two Scotches on the rocks without consulting Millson. Leaning forward, the minister saw desperate anguish on his lapsed parishioner's face. De Young rocked back and forth in mute silence like a medium awaiting a disembodied spirit, and when his drink arrived he downed half of it in one gulp. His eyes darted from Millson to the glass and then out into space, telegraphing the fact that he did not know where to begin. Finally, he pushed his hands through his hair and cleared his throat.

Reverend. Bob. May I call you Bob?

Who are you trying to kid, Earl? Millson thought. Call me whatever you like, the minister said.

Reverend, I... I know this sounds insane, but... do you believe in ghosts?

Millson' jaw dropped. His thoughts flashed to Yvonne and the promise of the night, a feeling that so rarely surfaced in recent years, one that went far beyond duty to pure aggressive enjoyment. He was actually planning to disconnect the phone! And this drunken prick was fuckin' it up. No attempted suicide in the family, no diagnosis of cancer, no sudden death of a loved one that left a bewildered cry for the meaning of life—this pompous jackass was asking him if he believed in ghosts.

No, Earl, I do not, Millson answered through gritted teeth.

The answer struck De Young like an unprovoked slap in the face. He slumped against the seat. You don't?! he exclaimed. Astonishment, uncertainty and an overwhelming wave of loneliness washed over the man's features. He did not know how or whether to continue. "Then I must be going out of my mind," he whispered.

Millson rose to leave. Yeah, well let me know when you get to where you're goin', Earl...

De Young lunged desperately for his arm. "Reverend, please! I know I've been an asshole and you've got no good reason to help me, but I've got nowhere else to go except to a psychiatrist and then maybe to a mental hospital. And I know I'm not crazy. I know I saw what I saw."

Humility softened him. Millson slid slowly back into his seat, nearing despair. First, a funeral for an obliterated twenty-four year old boy, and now this. All right, Earl. Why don't you tell me about it.

3

He cast a desperate, agonized look at Yvonne, whose fearful expression after a furtive glance at De Young gave him leave to remain. The white satin dress clung to her shape like a stocking, yearning to be peeled.

"Go on, Earl, Millson said through clenched teeth. Let's have the short version, all right?"

De Young gripped his glass with both hands and bowed his head as if in prayer. The balding stocky man exuded the classic symptoms of a drunk on a binge, his thin hair unkempt, his face unshaven, his loosened tie hanging crookedly, and the god-awful stench of alcohol and sweat and—was that urine? His fingers trembled as he gasped for breath.

Millson took some comfort in the proximity of Carrier Clinic, the nationally famous institute for psychiatric care. Once De Young finished his story he could whisk him down Highway 206 and have him checked into the drying out wing in less than an hour.

Finally, his former nemesis sucked in a belly-full of air and lifted his eyes.

Reverend, he said, do you believe in ghosts?

You asked me that, already, Earl. And my answer is only one—the Holy Ghost, Millson answered flatly.

Yeah, that's what I thought, too, De Young nodded vacantly, tears filling his eyes. Until two days ago I probably wouldn't have given too much thought to that one either.

Confession is a good way to start, Ed, Millson thought. It confirmed what he had known in his heart all along, that all of this man's public piety was a sham.

Well I've seen six of them. Millson sobered and drilled his eyes to De Young. He had heard bizarre testimonies before, fantastic stories of visions and life-like dreams from witnesses ranging from the schizophrenic to the stone-cold rational, and he had always listened intently with an open mind. After all, to mock visions and dreams was to mock the very foundation of scriptural revelation. If he shook it off as the trickery of an unstable mind or a temporary, fanciful departure from the realm of reality, he belonged in another profession. This is, according to believers, the way God speaks to us. Rarely, however, did such discourses wander beyond copycat experiences of biblical incidents or vague feelings that only the seer could appreciate. What seized Millson's attention was the unique and specific number of De Young's ghosts.

He checked his watch, then glanced at Yvonne. His expression read that he might be awhile. Why don't you start at the beginning.

Relief and urgent gratitude filled De Young's face. Millson entertained the fleeting, discomfiting sight of the man opposite, flat on the floor, grasping his ankles and bawling repeated thank yous. Suddenly, De Young stiffened and donned a look of intense sobriety.

Unbeknownst to Millson, Yvonne paid the check and rose to leave.

I guess you know I've fallen on hard times in the last few months. Real estate is no longer the booming business it was a few years ago. The area is over-developed and money is short and speculation has burned the late-comers. Property values have leveled off at best, and are dropping at worst. So many families that invested in a home in hopes of making a quick twenty grand profit on resale suddenly found themselves over their heads in a buyers' market. Banks are foreclosing on dozens of places because the tenants can't meet the mortgage payments and we've got brand new neighborhoods becoming ghost towns. De Young snorted at the imagery. "Hot