I didn’t want to be at the damn party. Tired, and annoyed, I’m here because my girlfriend, Allison, wants me here. As Charlotte goes into her routine, I’m almost the one dozing into hypnotic slumber.

“You’re standing on a road,” Charlotte’s voice is calm, even. “Describe what it looks like.”

“It’s a dirt trail,” Barry says, not moving except for his relaxed breathing and the quiver of his lips as he whispers, “more like a deer path than anything else.”

“What do you see around you?”

“Trees…lots of trees. They’re very dense. It’s dark.”

“But there’s enough light to see?”

“Just enough.”

“All right,” Charlotte leans back, ensconced on a cushion and propped up on one elbow. “You’re walking down the path. Tell me how you feel and what you see or hear.”

“I hear birds,” Barry says quickly, “lots of birds, but it’s too dark to see any. I can’t see much, but it looks like there’s a clearing up ahead. I feel…I don’t know…expectant.”

“Expectant?”

“Yes, like something’s going to happen.”

“Okay,” she continues, “so you go on down the path. Before long, you find a key in the middle of the path. Can you describe it?”

“It’s golden, a key made in the old style, or an antique. It’s large, ornate, and shines.”

“Have you seen it before?”

“No.”

         “Then it isn’t yours?”

“No.”

“What do you do with it?”

“I put it in my pocket.”

“And go on?”

“Yes.”

“All right, you continue on. Next, on the path ahead of you, there’s a vessel. Please describe it.”

“A vessel?”

“A glass, a chalice, a cup…something like that.”

“Uh, I see. It’s…hmmm. It’s a grail, like in the knights of the round table.”

“You walk slowly toward the grail. How is it positioned?”

“It’s standing on its base in the middle of the trail.”

“You reach over and pick it up. Is there anything in it?”

“Yes. It has some wine in it.”

“How much?”

“It’s about half full.”

“What do you do with it?”

“I drink it down.”

“How does it taste?”

“It tastes very good.”

“Filling?”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“I go on.”

“Do you take the grail with you?”

“No. I put it back on the path.”

“Okay,” Charlotte says, almost indifferent; it’s her clinical mode. “You continue on down the path and before long you come to a wall. Describe the wall.”

“Well,” Barry looks thoughtful. “It’s huge. It looks really old, ancient even…like it’s been there forever, all covered with some kind of vines—maybe ivy. It stretches out as far as I can see, across and to either side of the path.”

“Is it high?”

“Yes, at least fifteen or twenty feet.”

“What’s it made from?”

“It looks like boulders…large stones of some kind, all piled on top of one another.”

“Precariously?”

“No. It looks very solid.”

“All right, now. Barry, I want you to think very carefully about this. It’s the last part. Set into the wall is a door. I want you to first describe the door, and then tell me what you do. Okay?”

“Yes.”

There’s a slight pause. Then Barry begins speaking again.

“The door is old and rusty and made of iron. It looks as old as the wall itself, like no one has used it in years. Set into the door, at eye height, is a barred window. I walk forward and look through the window, and on the other side is a beautiful garden. It has a bubbling brook and flowers of every kind—all the colors of the rainbow. I can hear the birds better now—they're louder—and I realize that all the sound is coming from the other side of the wall. I’ve been hearing them from there all along. There never were any birds in the forest. When I turn around and look back the way I came, the forest looks much darker than I thought it was, and forbidding. I’m suddenly afraid. Then I think that all I have to do is to take the key out of my pocket and open the door.”

“Do you?”

“I try. The lock is very rusty, but the key seems to fit.”

“What happens?”

There is a pregnant moment. Everyone in the room leans toward Barry, straining to hear him as if he were actually speaking. Then he does.

“The lock turns and the door opens. It makes a loud creaking sound when it swings, but I don’t care. I’m through the door into the garden.”

“That’s very good…very good.” Charlotte looks genuinely pleased. “Now I'm going to clap my hands three times. When I do, you will become completely alert. You will remember everything about the path and the forest and the garden. You will have good memories about them. You will feel rested and refreshed. Ready?”

“Yes.”

Clap—Clap—Clap!

“Terrence,” Charlotte asks. “Would you turn up the lights?”

“Sure.” he says, walking to the switch. The lights come up in the room as he turns the dimmer.

“Wait!” Barry says, blinking. “I thought we were going to do this thing with the road.”

“We already did, Bar,” Charlotte says, trying to keep the smile from her lips. “Remember?”

He looks puzzled for a moment, then says, “Oh yeah, I do remember. I don’t know why, but for a moment there, I didn’t.”

“Well,” Charlotte intones, looking pleased with herself. “What do you think?”

“That was pretty neat,” Terrence says.

“What about you?” she asks. She’s looking right at me.

“I don’t know how meaningful it is,” I say, “especially since I have no way of knowing if you and Barry set it up ahead of time.”

“Sheesh,” Charlotte exclaims, looking put out. “I want another snifter of brandy.”

“Me, too,” says Heidi, sounding disinterested. “I’ll get us both one.”

“Oh, come on,” Allison, says to me. “You don’t really think they faked it…do you?”

“Well,” I say, “I don’t know, but that’s not the point. Even if it’s all legit, how do we know if it means anything?”

Charlotte is rolling brandy around in the bottom of a snifter. “It can’t mean anything except the meaning the subject gives it. That’s the beauty of the thing. You make it what it is. You give it meaning.”

“How so?” Allison asks.

“Well,” Charlotte replies. “Take Barry’s journey down the road. I think I can draw some conclusions about it because I know him.” She stares lasers at him. “Tell me if I’m wrong.”

“Okay, Doctor. It’d be fun to burst your bubble,” Barry smiles.

“The path, obviously, represents your life. Yours is small and ill traveled, used by deer more than people. The forest around you is dark and foreboding, but you hold up pretty well anyway, not giving in to fear. That’s why it looks darker when you look backward.”

“What’s the key?” Heidi asks.

“The important thing about the key,” Charlotte answers, “is more related to what you do with it. Notice that Barry picks it up and takes it with him. This indicates a certain optimism, a capability of dealing with the world. He recognizes it’s not part of the forest he’s in, and might be useful, so takes it with him.”

“The way the key looks makes no difference?”

“It has some significance. Barry’s key was like the key to the city, or the golden key from a fairy tale. It shows a certain romanticism in his approach to everything. So does the appearance of the vessel. The vessel is your primary relationship.”

“Oh great,” says Heidi. She wore a puzzled pout.

“I can see I should never do this,” Terrence chimes in.

“Oh, shut up, Terrence!” Charlotte’s voice is harsh, but there’s a smile on her lips.

“Really, Charlotte. If you’re right, then it doesn’t sound like Barry likes me very much,” Heidi complains.

She nods. “It’s a mixed symbol. On one hand, he likes the wine, says it tastes good, drinks it down and says it’s filling. On the other hand, the grail, a highly romanticized vessel I might add, is only half full, and once he’s done, he leaves it behind on the path.”

“We have to talk,” Heidi says, frowning and elbowing Barry in the ribs.

“Don’t take it too seriously,” Charlotte cautioned. It’s only an exercise to help us get in touch with ourselves. It reveals things we think and feel that sometimes even we aren’t consciously aware of. It’s more revealing with some than with others.”

I hear Heidi whisper fiercely in Barry’s ear, “We still have to talk.”

“What about the wall?” Allison asks.

“The wall is a little complicated,” Charlotte says. “It sort of depends. It can be many things at once. Generally speaking, it represents the future, and the stumbling blocks we all have to face as we plod along in life. What matters most is how we deal with the wall. If Barry had not carried the key with him, he might never have gotten into the garden. For getting into the garden, read: achieved, or found happiness. Some people don’t take the key and are stuck forever on the path. For some, the door stands open when they reach the wall. You see, it all depends. Sometimes people don’t even know what’s on the other side, or it isn’t as pretty as Barry’s garden”

“Still sounds like so much hornswoggle to me,” I proclaim with a certain amount of false bravado.

“Maybe you should do it?” Allison says.

“I actually feel better,” Barry says, sneering. “Why don’t you try it?”

“Yeah,” Heidi’s getting into it now. “It’d be fun.”

“Aw, no!” I say. “You’re not going to hypnotize me. No way!”

“Don’t think of it as hypnosis,” Charlotte says, pouring herself another snifter of the brandy. “Think of it as a technique to help you relax...”

“Once he makes up his mind, he has an iron will,” Allison tells her.

“I don’t want to,” I repeat.

As if sensing my weakness, Allison homes in on me with laser-guided precision. “Aw come on, baby. I really want to know what your vessel looks like.” There’s something suggestive about her tone.

“No,” I insist, “it doesn’t really mean anything.”

“Then you’ve nothing to lose,” Terrence chides.

“You’re the most stubborn ass I ever met,” says Allison. “Give in this time. I really want you to, and there’s no reason to be stubborn about this.”

“All right, all right! I give up.” I say finally, hands thrown in the air.

“Just sit over there, where Barry was, in front of my cushion,” Charlotte points with her snifter.

I get up and take Barry’s place. I’m not happy about it. Something whispers to me that this is a mistake.

“Terrence,” Charlotte orders, “get the lights again.”

“It’ll never work on me,” I mouth, half-confident and wishful.

“We’ll see,” says Charlotte, her sly smile unnerving me.

Holding her crystal pendant in front of a candle, Charlotte goes through the same ritual she’d used on Barry. She tells me I’m floating in a sea of Jell-O in the dark, and that the light I see is the light of the people coming to take me away. I have to watch the light, or it might disappear. I’m relaxed and completely at peace as long as I can see the light. She suggests they might arrive more quickly if I start to count, and they might come even faster if I count backwards, because then I can only count until I reach zero.

I count: “One hundred—ninety-nine—ninety‑eight—ninety-seven…”

At some point, I completely lose track of the fact that I’m counting and stop, but I don’t know when.

I float, completely at ease, suspended in silky, textured darkness. Sparks of consciousness flash all around me, but never touch me as I levitate in the middle of the comfortable void; a sea of Jell-O.

Then I hear a voice.

“Can you hear me?” the voice asks. It sounds vaguely familiar, and floats along with me.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Are you comfortable?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know where you are?” the voice asks.

It’s curious, but I don’t. “No,” I say, feeling a slight crease furrow my brow.

“You’re standing on a road, aren’t you?”

I look down, surprised to see that indeed I am on a path of sorts. “Yes,” I tell the voice.

“Tell me about the road.”

I look down at where I’m standing. “It’s dark…wood, maybe. It looks almost like a pier, maybe four feet wide. There are breaks and cracks in the wood, and it’s old and wet. There’s something moving on it.”

“What?”

“Looks like some kind of worms,” I say, then, “no…my God! It’s maggots—fat white maggots—millions of them.

There is hesitation in the voice “Don’t look at the maggots. What’s around you? Look to the sides of the road.”

I looked around, puzzled. “There are things,” I say, “moving things in the distance.”

“What kind of…things?” the voice asks.

“I can’t describe them exactly. It’s like it’s dark, except it isn’t. It’s like I can’t see anything, only I can. They’re shadows, and they’re whispering”

“Can you try to describe them?”

“There are...” I fall silent, frowning again. “It’s...no...I can’t. And the smell is terrible, like something rotting.”

There’s another pause, and when the voice speaks again, it sounds different, troubled. “All right,” it says. “You’re walking down the road. I want you to tell me as soon as you see something you recognize. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“You’re walking?”

“Yes.”

I walk and walk. I walk so far that I think my feet will melt away from the friction. It’s an infinite stretch of rotting wood—night on the endless pier. I begin to wonder if I can ever stop walking, or if I will walk on forever in the stinking dark. Then I began to wonder if I will ever hear the voice again.

After an unending, nameless time, the voice returns. “You’re still walking?”

“Yes,” I answer.

“All right,” the voice says. “On the road ahead of you, you see a key. Describe the key to me.”

I looked down, and, sure enough, there’s a key lying in the center of the wooden path. “It’s a door key, just an ordinary house key, but you know, the old kind—a skeleton key.”

“Is it brass?” the voice asks.

I lean over and pick it up. “No, it’s funny. It’s something white, like bone, only slimy.”

“What do you do with it?”

“I try to throw it down.”

“Try?”

“Yes, I can’t seem to release it. No matter which way I turn my fingers, I can’t get it to let go. It keeps hanging on.”

“What happens next?”

“I hold it in my hand and go on. There’s nothing else I can do. I can’t get rid of it, but I close my fist so it can’t see me.”

“See you?”

“The head of the key is like a face now. It stares.”

“Oh,” the voice responds tentatively, “okay.”

Another long silence intrudes. I keep walking because the voice doesn’t tell me to stop. The moving things seem closer when the voice finally returns, but I still can’t see what they are.

“There’s a vessel on the road ahead of you. Can you see it?”

“Yes.”

“What is it like?”

“It looks like a skull?”

“A what?” The voice sounds shocked. I recoil, afraid of offending the voice.

“No, no. It’s okay. Just tell me what you see.”

“It’s a skull, a tiny human skull like a child’s, but... ”

“But what?”

“It’s been worked…shaped into a cup. It’s flat on the bottom and the crown is hollowed out.”

“What do you do?”

“I pick it up and look inside.”

“Is there anything in it?”

“Blood,” I say.

“Blood?”

“It’s filled with blood—overflowing. I pour it on the ground.”

“What happens next?”

“When I turn it back over, it’s full again. I put it back on the path and begin to walk on, but I turn and look back. When I do, it crumbles, crumbles to powder like it’s old and rotten, and the blood starts to pour out of what’s left of it, running along behind me and following me up the strip of worm-eaten wood. I run!”

I can hear the voice speaking, but it’s not addressing me. “I don’t like this,” it’s saying. “maybe we should stop.”

“I can’t stop, or the blood will catch up with me,” I say, moving faster up the rotting path, “besides, they’re getting closer.”

“The moving things?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” says the voice. “This is the last part. Let’s get it over with. You’re approaching a wall.”

“Yes.”

“What does it look like?”

“Dear God,” is all I can say.

“Tell me what it looks like?” the voice is more insistent.

“It’s a wall of dead bodies—decomposing bodies piled on top of one another. God, the smell. They’re decaying while I watch, sloughing off skin. The maggots on the wood are coming from the wall of bodies.”

“It stretches out on both sides of the road?”

“Yes, but the…the things are there too.”

“The moving shadows?”

“Yes, the things—they’re some kind of people, or they used to be.”

“What are they doing?”

“They’re just standing there staring at me. They’re horrible.”

“Horrible how?”

“They have white, white faces: fleshy, drawn and lineless. Their eyes are solid black globes in their heads, like giant pupils with no whites at all, or all the white has leeched into the skin of their faces. Their mouths are open, like they’re screaming, but they’re not making any sound. And they’re pointing.”

“At what?”

“At me. They’re gathered at the wall of bodies on both sides of the road. I’m afraid…they want to hurt me.”

“Do you see a door in the wall?”

“Yes.”

“Can you go through the door?”

“I can try,” I say. I look at the key in my hand. It’s dissolving, or is it my hand?

“Try,” says the voice, sounding more worried than ever.

I start to run down the road of rotten wooden, past the gauntlet of open mouths, staring eyes, and desiccated, pointing fingers. Now I’m really scared. Things lining the road begin to scrabble at me as I run, pulling at my clothes and hair, tearing at my arms and legs and the skin underneath.

I run faster.

“The door?” the voice asks urgently, “What about the door.”

I reach the door. It’s made of skin, and eyes stare out at me, hundreds of eyes bulging from the door, but I can’t open it. The things around me, the wraiths, are ripping at my face, rupturing my skin with their nails and trying to tear me apart, but none of them will step onto the soggy wood.

“It’s not real,” I scream at the voice. “It’s staring at me.” I realize it was never meant to open, and isn’t really a door at all.”

“Listen to me now,” the voice says. “You’re going to wake up when I clap my hands three…”

“No!” I scream. “No time!” I leave the wooden road. My legs sink into deep muck, and stench invades my nostrils. I gag. I start tearing at the pile of corpses, digging through the bodies to try and breach the wall. My attackers rip at me and I feel my skin tearing away from the bone. Tongues loll and black eyes glint in the twilight. I try to respond to the voice, but all I can do is scream. The pursuing river of blood has caught up to me, but I suddenly understand it as not just blood, but the viscera of thousands that I’m floating in. The level of gore rises until I’m suspended in it, like the sea of Jell-O.

I can’t hear the voice anymore, just music in the distance. The road is gone. The Jell-O is gone. The rotting flesh is gone. Then I open my eyes.

The room hangs below me as I stare down from the ceiling. I am insubstantial.

Below me, Charlotte is screaming, but I hear no sound, only singing somewhere far away. The others are there. Allison is staring openmouthed. Barry and Heidi are hanging onto one another in the way flesh has of clinging to flesh. Terrence has his eyes closed and is shaking so hard he looks like he’s vibrating.

I’m there too, but not the real me. The real me isn’t flesh anymore. What used to be me is there, but just like on the road, the flesh is sliding from my body. Blood is pooling below me, fed from widening rents as my skin sloughs off. My eyes are sunken.

I’m dead, and have been for a long time. Allison was right. I’m just stubborn. But I guess stubborn can only trump dead for so long, then dead wins out.

I love Allison, really I do…did. Maybe that’s why I hung on so long. I should never have let Charlotte tell me to follow the light. I give Allison a last look as I float across the living room ceiling, blowing her a final kiss as I go.

I have to get moving. Something is calling me, and I have to figure out what happens next. The apartment door is before me now with some kind of light shining right through the wood. Before I go through the door, I wonder, though.

What’s on the other side? 

The End