Between The Doors. Wes Peters
my world at ohl.” Andrew furrowed his brow at the odd pronunciation of such a familiar word.
“What do you mean?” Andrew asked.
“Well, for starters, there’s no guns in my world,” Nick said. “Or gunfighters, none of ‘em neither. We only tell stories of guns. They’re just legends, not the real thing.” Andrew eyed the boy curiously.
“How did you get here?”
At this question, Nick cast his eyes downward at his feet. Andrew stepped forward and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“What happened?” Andrew asked, his eyes burning with curiosity.
After a short moment of silence, Nickolas looked up, but not at Andrew. He peered into the deep darkness of the forest.
“I died. . .I think.”
VII
He had been sitting there for some time before the gunfighter entered the grove. Nick had begun to grow hungry, and that was strange—he didn’t think ghosts could eat. He had tried chewing on some grass, but it was bitter on his tongue and he spit it out. Grass tasted bad whether you were dead or not dead.
Nick, who had always been told he was slow by his parents (though they weren’t so smart neither, Nick thought—not book smart at least), couldn’t quite grasp what had happened, and what was going on in this grove. If he was dead, then why was he here? He pondered this for quite some time when he woke up in the grove that morning, and when he spotted the door his questions multiplied.
The door was locked, as Nick had discovered when he tried opening it earlier. What lies beyond it? The boy wondered as he sat in front of the door, feeling the grass under his hands and the hot still spring around him. Perhaps it was a door back to the living world, he figured. That would explain why it’s locked, he thought.
If that was true, then should he get up and leave the grove? Would that make this new world he had woken up in the afterlife? That scared Nick, and he quit thinking about it.
One thing, however, terrified the boy even worse than the concept that this new world was some kind of afterlife. As he paced around the grove that day, waiting to come up with an answer or for someone else to find out an answer for him, he was suddenly struck by a horrifying thought: what if the door led to the afterlife?
Can’t be, thought the boy. Nobody ever said you enter the next life through a door, that’s just silliness.
“But then again,” the boy reasoned out loud, “nobody knows what going to the next life is like cause once you go, you don’t come back.”
So it was a definite possibility. After all, he was dead. Or was he? He was sort of confused about that too. Sure, he had fallen, fallen a hundred feet or more, higher than the boy had ever climbed in his life. As the wind had whipped at his face on his death fall from the Clock Tower, he had not screamed nor wet his pants. He had simply awaited the end. The crack would sound as his neck snapped on the cobblestone street below and the numb feeling would rush through his body as his spine shattered. He would’ve screamed, would’ve wet his pants, but the view of the rising world around him was too incredible for young Nick to do anything but stare in amazement as he fell and the ground rose up to meet him. He didn’t think of the people he’d miss, or the fact that he’d never lain with a woman (he’d heard stories from the older boys, but could hardly believe that a man and a woman would do… that). All he could do was watch and wait for that final crack that would let him know that it was all over.
The crack never came, he reminded himself as he sat in the grove. Instead of hearing that crack, he’d woken up in this strange place. Though Nickolas had never been to school a day in his life, he knew that some things in life demanded proof. Especially, he decided, something as important as one’s death. If he wasn’t dead, that meant all bets were off. In that case, it wouldn’t make sense that this grove was the entrance to the afterlife, and the locked door the exit of his world; it also wouldn’t make sense that this grove was the exit of his world and this door the entrance to the next life. If he wasn’t dead, though, how’d he end up in this grove? None of it made much sense to Nickolas. So he took a seat in the grass, and waited patiently for someone to figure it out for him.
VIII
Andrew stood before Nick, listening to his story and trying to sort it all out. Andrew knew that Nick wasn’t telling it all. He could see, however, that Nick was traumatized from whatever had happened; whenever the boy began talking about ‘falling’ he would stutter and look away.
“Well Nick,” Andrew said when the boy finished talking, “you’re not dead. If you were a ghost, I couldn’t touch you right?” He put a hand on Nick’s shoulder, who tensed up at first, then relaxed. “See? You’re not dead. You probably just dreamed the fall.” Nick, however, shook his head.
“Alright, well maybe not. But one thing is for sure, Nick,” Andrew continued, and gestured at the stairs behind him. “This world is mine. Above this grove, we’re in the gracious state of New Jersey. Are you from New Jersey?”
Nick shook his head. “Never heard of it.”
Andrew reconsidered. “Delaware? Maine? Maryland?” Nick shook his head comically at each of these. Andrew tried a shot in the dark. “Texas?” No luck. Andrew gave up. “Where are you from?”
“Ever hear of Sunsetville, sir?” asked Nick. Now it was Andrew’s turn to shake his head. “I live outside, in the southern fields. My dad, Farmer Smith as most know him, owns a good plot of land northeast of Brymino.” Nick straightened as he said this. Andrew knew now why the boy seemed so simple: growing up on a farm, Nick must have never been to school a day in his life. Andrew suddenly felt guilty about the past few weeks.
There’s something bright about him though, thought Andrew, though he couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Well,” Andrew said, “let’s get you home, Nick. I bet Sunsetville’s right through this door.” He strode over to the oak door, reaching out for the handle.
“It’s locked though!” Nick called behind him. Andrew put his hand on the brass doorknob and a bolt of energy flew up his arm.
Andrew jumped, feeling his heart race in his chest. Suddenly, he was focused. Things that had bothered him all day, like the drought, his parents, and school ceased to matter in this moment. He felt a heightened attention on the present, and the gun in his left hand. It was a frightening perception of reality.
He turned the knob in his hand, and of course it turned. It opens to me, Andrew realized. He heard Nick’s breath draw slowly behind him in wonder. He heard the birds quit chirping in the canopy. In this moment of time, the world was standing still, and he could feel it. He opened the door and walked through.
“Wait up sir!” shouted Nickolas from close behind. Andrew heard him but didn’t turn. He stepped into the blinding light. Then he was floating. The world of New Jersey waned and faded behind him.
TWO
Affairs in Another World
chapter two
through the bowels
I
Andrew lurched forward and landed on his knees, reaching out his right hand to brace his fall. The world spun.
Nick landed beside him, and had less luck with his entrance, tumbling forward into darkness. Andrew had to cover his laugh with his hand, which he found still held the gun. That was good.
The smell hit him next. Andrew reeled in dizziness. From the darkness, Andrew heard Nick:
“Of all the places to end up, this shithole…”
They were in a sewer. Long stone corridors