The door opens, hinges complaining, cold air pushing in or the warmth of the room rushing out, it is darkness on the other side, voices in hushed conversation waft towards the door, like carrots tethered on a stick, enticing, daring, what are those words? The hallway is long, old wood creaky with dryness, is barely covered by a worn runner. Alternately cold and itchy, the texture of the carpet sometimes gives way to the wooden boards beneath, sucking the warmth from bare feet. Shadows hide shapes in corners and street light barely fights its way in through curtained and dusty windows. Passing the mirror in the hallway is always the greatest challenge, what will leer back, and as always the fear rises up and peering into that silver-backed glass nothing is reflected back. Nothing. Not even me.
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