I volunteer at the local graveyard. Usually, I clean a couple of graves, have some small talk with the locals visiting their loved ones, and move on with my day. Today, however, as I was scrubbing an old grave, my attention got drawn towards a man sitting on a bench behind me. There was nothing particular about this man that alerted me. I just didn’t like the way he was staring at me. There was something eerie about him. He felt misplaced in a way that is hard to explain. One could compare it with a library book placed on the wrong shelf.
I could feel his gaze burn into my back as I scrubbed the old tombstone. And indeed, every time I looked behind my back, our eyes met. After a while, I decided to take a break. I would come back and finish my work in an hour. By then, the man surely would have left.
As I returned to work, I was relieved to see that the man had indeed left the graveyard. On the bench where he was sitting earlier lay a small notebook. It is not the first time someone forgets a book or other belongings when visiting the graveyard. Often, people would use the restroom or soak up the sun and forget about the stuff they were carrying. You would be surprised by the number of phones one could score when spending a week at this place. Usually, I would bring these items to the lost and found box at the front desk. As for the notebook, I decided to keep it.
Do you want to know why?
On the front of the dirty cover, something was written in shaky handwriting:
‘For Jonathan’
Yes, I know. There are millions of Jonathans on this planet. But you are not telling me that this man supposedly forgot his notebook after staring at me for over an hour. If my name was not Jonathan, perhaps I might have believed you.
What I am about to share with you are the contents of this journal. Please read them at your own discretion. I will not be held accountable for any consequences it might have.
-–
Entry #1
I believe it is rooted deep inside human nature to ignore this primal instinct that tells us when something is deemed impossible. It is a safeguard implemented into our brains to prevent us from losing our minds. Just as a single gaze at certain cosmic beings could drive us insane, this system protects us from the madness that accompanies the unknown. And yet, there is something about the chasm of insanity which arouses the explorer within us.
Today, I found a trapdoor. I go on this hike at least once a week, but I had never seen it before. I found it only a few feet away from the path close to the old oak tree. The passing of time had afflicted the wood, which has once been a deep dark brown. Moss has settled within its cracks, making it impossible to peek through. And, yet I still fail to shake the feeling that this large, wooden trapdoor had not been there when I last visited this path. Standing in front of this wooden hatchway filled me with uncomfortable familiarity. It felt like the remnants of a nightmare lingering in my head.
When I glanced back at the wooden trapdoor, it was gone. No sign of it ever being there. The forest was left in the same state as I had remembered. This, I believe, might very well be the first crack into the mental shell that shields me from insanity.
Entry #2
I had a vision today. A vision in which I walked through a forest of unprecedented beauty. This isn’t a mere dream, no. It is a revelation. If God does exist, He has bestowed upon me the gift of looking into the Garden of Eden.
As my projection followed the forest trail, I could not help but notice the immense feeling of joy which overwhelmed me. Fear, sadness and pain do not exist in this place. However, do not be fooled. It is both a blessing and a curse. For now, I have to live life on Earth whilst being aware of the existence of paradise.
Entry #3
What if I told you there is life after death? What if I told you that Heaven exists. And all the hardship in your life is removed as soon as you die. Would you choose to live in a world in which you are constantly tormented by your own mind, or do you prefer liberation in death? You do not have to answer that question, for I am aware of the response.
Entry #4
I went looking for the trapdoor. I spent days lurking around the woods, for I was not in doubt this trapdoor would provide passage into my very own Garden of Eden. A world solely created to remove the suffering we as humans endure. A refuge for those among us of whom the mental strain and passing of time has inflicted damage beyond repair.
When I finally found the hatchway, it was sealed.
I am denied access into paradise. This fact must insinuate that life on Earth is, in fact, Hell. I am left tormented by the knowledge of revelation being within my grasp. A key, all I need is a key. Every door has a key, and it is part of human nature to force open the doors without one.
Entry #5
It was not until my fifth vision that I found the key, or rather my perception of the key. I stood before the trapdoor as the wood started to creak and distort. A face could be distinguished on the surface of the wooden trapdoor. And in that vision, it spoke to me. It mesmerized me with tales of previous endeavors to open the passage. And at the end of its tale, it uttered the following sentence:
“It is the blood that makes atonement for one’s life. So it is the blood that shall open the gates to Heaven.”
Entry #6
My mental shell has shattered and left my mind fully exposed to wickedness. It started small, with just some minor cuts, but this proved useless. The gate would not open, as this was not a full-fledged key but rather an imitation. So I stole some pigs from Stanley’s farm and slit their throats so their blood would saturate the old wooden door. As I went to bed that night, I dreamt again. And in this dream, as I walked the damp forest floor, I found three little pigs crying for help. It finally made sense to me. Our blood is the key. It allows passage into paradise. Those of which the life is taken above the trapdoor are granted refuge. As their blood seeps through the cracks, so does their soul.
Maybe now you understand why I have to do it. There is no price high enough if the thing you are buying is salvation. Now that I have shared with you this knowledge, you too shall be attracted by the gate’s beckoning. I shall become the ferryman of this world. I will guide all lost souls towards the trapdoor, where I shall transport them to paradise. In doing so, I shall repent for my sins.
-–
What’s the big deal, right? A disturbed, old man wrote a stupid story and left it on that bench to scare me. At least, that’s what I want to believe. For the last couple of days, I kept seeing the man. Not like he is physically there. More like I see someone in the corner of my eye. But when I glance over, no one is there.
I know it is him. I know it is the old man from the graveyard because even though I can barely see him, he still carries this sense of uneasiness with him. I tried returning the journal to the bench in the graveyard, but even after weeks, it still lays there.
As I was preparing to leave for the cemetery, I noticed something in my backyard. Now I do not care if you call me crazy or a liar, but I could see an old wooden trapdoor in the corner of my garden. A trapdoor that had not been there before. I made a mistake. Instead of listening to my instincts, I let curiosity get the best of me. So I put on some shoes and went outside. The trapdoor was really there. It was stained a crimson red. If the events depicted in the journal happened, I don’t have to explain why.
The trapdoor is nothing compared to the journal. It is stained with scratches, and I swear I can hear the squealing of pigs coming from whatever is underneath. I ran back inside as fast as I could. Upon closing the door, I noticed that the trapdoor had opened, and the pale, bald head of an emaciated man started emerging from the depths of the trapdoor. It has been standing in my garden for hours now. Slowly making its way closer towards the door. It seems to enjoy this slow form of torture. As its smile seems to grow wider the closer it gets, exposing a long row of sharp teeth.
I tried calling the police, but the line died. It took me a while to notice, but my house is no longer on Wallberry Street. Instead, it stands in the middle of a forest, with my garden leading towards a big oak tree. The man and the trapdoor are still there. He is about to reach the door in a couple of minutes.
I doubt my message will reach anyone, but if it does, please, if you find a journal left by an old man. Don’t read it.
I don’t think the trapdoor leads to paradise.