There is a room, perhaps a sitting or living room. Comfortable overstuffed furniture. hardwood floors, windows letting in warm sunlight. Bookshelves against the walls, cabinets with fine china and display pieces. There is also a girl. She sits on a chair holding a book, all her attention soaking into it's pages. There is only one door, a large oaken thing in the wall behind the girl. It is solid in a way that speaks beyond construction, it's elderly finish scratched and worn.
If you were standing in the room trying to entertain yourself, you would most likely find your gaze wandering the shelves, or perhaps settling on the sole human occupant. She is quiet and still, not only her attention claimed but seemingly her entire awareness. You look past her at the door. It is in fact still a door. Shut tight, old, solid. You gain the impression that it is locked. Your eyes drift away again. Why are you here? Are you waiting for some appointment? Is there really nothing better you should be doing? You attempt to look for a book, perhaps something as enrapturing as the girl's, but your eye glazes over the collection, the titles indistinct.
You look to the girl wondering if she will ever even move enough to turn a page. Maybe she is just a slow reader. The door, you noticed, is slightly larger than normal. Both wider and taller than one would expect. You pull your eyes away to once more attempt to see if anything remotely interesting is near you, but you wind up staring at the door. It is truly huge, the top of the frame meets the ceiling. Why would anyone make such a large door? It looks inches think and must weigh a ton. You contemplate trying to open it, but an uncomfortable squirmy feeling rises in your gut. An old door like that no doubt makes an awful racket, and you don't like the idea of disturbing the stillness.
You take a look at the girl. Her face isn't so much blank as it is focused, intensely focused. Which is odd for someone who hasn't made any progress in her novel. You also realize her eyes aren't moving. She is just sitting stone still and staring at the page. Startled by this, you look around the room searching for the cause of her odd behavior. There are books on shelves, the chair and the girl, and the door. The floor is cold and bare, the sun must have been hidden by clouds. You are hit with a sudden creeping unease. Weren't there cabinets? Another loveseat, or perhaps an end table? No, there are only bookshelves. You shoot your eyes back to the door, wondering if it has changed. It is the same. You feel it has always been that way, and it always will be. And yet... it seems taller than you recall. And maybe slightly closer to the girl? You stare at the door, boredom replaced with an itching suspicion. Why is it locked? You are certain it is. Why does it feel.... insistent? It exudes a feeling of having been closed and ignored, forgotten for so long now. But it is a door, a thing designed to allow passage from one space to another. Why would it exist, if it was not meant to open? At the thought of it opening your innards clench with dread. You do not know how you know this but there is indeed something behind that door. And it is angry.
The girl is on the bare floor now, you have no idea where the chair has gotten to. She still clutches her book, desperately staring through it into nothingness. The though makes you sick but you know that she could open the door is she wanted to.
The shelves are gone, the walls empty. There is a door and a girl, but the girl is almost frantically pretending that the door does not exist. You, however, are all too aware of the damn thing. Whatever it keeps away is tired of being confined. It is tired of being ignored. It is tired of watching the world happily ignore it. It doesn't just want out though, it wants you in.
The room is cold, floor bare, walls empty. The girl is on the floor staring at a wall three inches from her face. You get the sense that the girl has been here as long as the door, however many countless ages that might be.
You feel the precarious balance in the now tiny room, and you are terrified. The oonly thing you can do is close your eyes, and then open them. Nothing changes except the girl is now staring directly at you.
And in that instant of eye contact (or after? before?) the room is different. The sunlight coming on the windows is warm, the girl back in her comfy chair reading a book, bookshelves and cabinets decorate the room. The door is just a door, no more ominous or notable than anything else here.
