Free The Ferryman Institute by Colin Gigl

hand is a key. It’s a very special key. This key will open a door for you and you alone that will take you to your afterlife. We say your afterlife because, frankly, we have no idea who, what, or where is on the other side. What we do know is that this door is unique to you. We’ve had some time to test that out, so trust me on it. Now, on the other side of that door could be Jesus, Buddha, L. Ron Hubbard, Gozer the Gozerian—honestly, we don’t know. Likewise, any or all of them could be sipping lemonade in heaven or Elysium or Avalon—it could be anywhere or anything. I’ve tried more than a few times to see for myself, but all I ever see is white light.”
    As he was speaking, Charlie’s fingers wrapped themselvesaround the gilded key. When he finished, he held it out in front of him, the large letters engraved on its side glinting in the fluorescent light. He pushed the key forward through the air, stopped, and twisted it dramatically to the right. A loud click echoed through the room. As the Ferryman Door opened a fraction, blades of light began cascading out. Charlie looked over at Jack Sanders, who, for the first time since dying, looked genuinely taken aback. “Really bright white light, I should add.”
    The room went silent as both men seemed to give the moment its due. The light that radiated in the air from the open door wavered ever so gently, like sunbeams viewed from underwater.
    When Jack spoke again, he had regained most of his former composure. “So you’re sayin’ . . . that I could be going to heaven, after all? Or I could be goin’ somewhere else . . .”
    There was no point sugarcoating with Jack Sanders, and Charlie knew it. “I’m sorry. I couldn’t even begin to tell you,” he replied.
    Jack seemed less than thrilled by the response. “What’s stoppin’ me from staying put, right here, then?” He held out his arms to indicate the room they both stood in, then seemed to think better of it. “Well, maybe not here in this room, exactly, but I’m sure you catch my drift.”
    With a slow cadence, Charlie marched across the off-white tiles and approached the spirit, stopping just within arm’s reach. “Nothing,” Charlie said. Then, with a burst of movement, Charlie lunged forward, as if to grab Jack’s wrist. However, the Ferryman’s hand passed clean through. As Charlie stood there, his hand sticking through the spirit’s arm like they were auditioning for a Casper the Friendly Ghost remake, he looked Jack directly in his eyes. Gone was Charlie’s Coltrane smile, replaced by a look of stern compassion.
    â€œI can’t force you, Jack. No one can. That’s why my job is so important. I have to convince you to make one of the hardest walks you’ll ever take based on nothing but my word and a door.”
    The spirit returned the look. “So why should I go, then?” he asked. Gone was the hint of bravado, but the stoicism in his voice remained.
    Charlie withdrew his hand and shrugged. “Why shouldn’t you?”
    â€œBecause I don’t know what’s waiting on the other side.”
    Charlie took a step backward toward the door. “Isn’t that why you should go?” He took another step.
    Jack hesitated. “I don’t think you understand, son.” The irony of being called son by Jack despite being nearly two hundred years his senior wasn’t lost on Charlie. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of . . . things I regret. What if I don’t like what I find on the other side?”
    It wasn’t hard to guess what things a World War II vet might have done in service to his country, but in the gleaming light of an unknown future, Charlie always imagined the deeds, no matter how justifiable they seemed during life, suddenly lost their sheen. Cartwright had taught him that with death came insight