It is beaten and battered, the wood warped by weather and violence. Paint is peeling from the bottom, pieces falling, making their home between the fibres of the carpet.

I feel a shiver of fear as i see the keyhold. Cold. Empty.

There's nothing behind that door, not now, but a violent buzz of fear still hangs in the air.

I step towards it, my hand slowly wrapping around the cold metal of the handle.

I push down, allowing the door to creak open and take a shaky step into the empty room.

 

© Rebecca Crossan 2004