Essay On The Door

Seeing as there was nowhere else to go, you shuffled over to the opening and frowned. It was dark and you could just barely make out a doorway to what was most likely another room. What really threw you off guard was how nicely the doorway was carved. An intricate pattern wove itself around the exit. Did that mean… someone else was here? At the thought of possibly being able to get out of here with the help of another person made you scurry over to the patterned doorway with little hesitation. The sleeves of your two-sizes-too-big sweater fell down to wrap loosely around your forearms when you reach over and grabbed the wall to peak around into the next area.

The blazing light was shining in my face and a slight breeze blew through the arched windows. I spotted an open chest in the attic, whilst spring cleaning. The outside rim of the box was covered in dust and cobbled webs; the hinge was rusty, making a creak noise against the ghost-quiet room. Rummaging my hand around the chest there was a scratchy-substance digging against my fingers. As the sun faded from my sight I lifted up the mysterious object. It was an old rustic book; I flipped through the delicate pages, every touch made a crinkling

The mouldy, rotting, brown house stood in front of Emily, only fear keeping her feet planted to the ground. Moaning and creaking noises being projected from the house. The grass was damp from the evening fog and every time she took a step the mud squelched. The bottom step squeaked as she applied pressure with her foot, she let out a sigh of relief as the old structure hadn’t swallowed her up. The door, slightly off colour from the rest of the house, loomed over her like a giant as he reached for the brass door handle. A shiver ran through her body like an electric current, the musty smell of a house that had been long abandoned filled Emily’s nose. It was dim and uninviting. The furniture dusty and old, looking as if it would crumble to dust if she was to touch it. Mould ate away at

The library was the crown jewel of the house. It was at the center, and occupied both floors with a cherry wood spiral staircase connecting both the floors. It also had a great balcony off the second floor that overlooked the whole estate, and her parents hosted a multitude of social gatherings with “important, respectable people” whose names Essily couldn’t be bothered to remember. Every wall of the library was covered with bookshelves that were either filled with books, or various souvenirs her parents had acquired through the years, such as a large globe or a painting of some idyllic city. It was all lit by an enormous chandelier.Waiting at one of the tables in the center of the library was her tutor, Mr. Smith, and her

“The Door” written by Alex Finn takes readers through a story about a teenager struggling to go outside after being bullied. Cameron has agoraphobia and can’t face the fact of going outside, and is too afraid to admit it. His parent have to take a trip and are gone for many days. While they are gone, he is brought face to face with his fear. He teaches us through his journey that fear of judgement can make you afraid to advocate for yourself.

My legs are shaking with pain, but I need to know where I am and what strange things lie outside of that door way. Slowly I am making my way there, I hear people having a conversation just outside. I haven’t a clue what they are saying, it seems to be in some odd language. Finally I’m at the door. Terrified, I grab the knob and start to open it. It squeaks when I swing it open. In the hall I see no one, just white walls with white tile. “What the,” I say to out loud. I could have sworn I heard someone. My eye catches my room number, 387, it has my name on it. I look right and left, but see nothing expect florescent lighting and shut doors. I go to the door across from mine and try to open it. Locked, that’s odd. I try the next one, locked once again. I keep going, now at room 365 I give the knob a turn and it actually comes open. I hesitantly wander into the area. It looks the same as mine, minus the painting on one of the walls. It is an extremely abnormal painting. It depicts an out of the ordinary creature. “Why would this be in a hospital?” I whisper to myself.

The room was filled with a deep, deafening unbroken silence for many minutes after, nobody moved, or even dared to utter a single noise. We heard the crashing noise of many supports and other structures falling from their support and as I moved towards the entrance, trying to open the door, it wouldn’t move an inch, clearly having been blocked by a pillar of wood and stone.

At the front gate, there were weeds all over what used to be a garden. The door suddenly swung on its creaky hinges. Pitch black. You couldn’t see a thing in the cabin. Every couple of minutes shingles would fall off the roof. I was scared. Terrified. Then I heard creaking floorboards.

the connection from contact and voter turnout may be misleading. Also, the sample size was small for the study, leading to question the unreliability and perhaps overstating the outcome of the mobilization campaigns. This study did find that for competitive races the likelihood of voter turnout increased 5% and those voters were likely to contribute money. They also determined that those running the campaigns were most likely to target those who had resources, or were affiliated with parties, and had strong social networks. They concluded that those with certain associations were easier to be mobilized to vote.

I looked around. "Yeah, maybe." She threw out her cigarette and nodded to me before walking back into her room. I stood outside, just watching room five. *What the hell could be in there?* I leaned against the door, put my ear to it and I listened. It was silent for a short while, but I heard a muffled knock come from inside. I continued to listen. Another knock. Then another knock. And then, complete silence. I kept my ear at the door, just listening, waiting. Another knock, but this time, it was against the door. I jumped back, shocked by what had just happened. I knew there was somebody or something in there and the fact that I didn't know who or what it was, had me completely horrified. I just wanted to get far away from that motel.

SLOWLY DESPARATLY SLOWLY THE REMAINS OF PASSAGE DEBRIS THAT ENCUMBERED THE LOWER PART OF THE DOORWAY WAS REMOVED WITH TREMBLING HANDS I MADE A TINY BREACH IN THE UPPER LEFT HAND CORNER AND THEN WIDENING THE HOLE A LITTLE I INSERTED THE CANDLE AND PEERED IN THE HOT AIR ESCAPING FROM THE CHAMBER CAUSED THE FLAME TO FLICKER BUT PRESENTLY DETAILS OF THE ROOM WITHIN EMERGED FROM THE MIST X CAN YOU SEE ANYTHING Q ?

The escalation of the unknown sounds grew to be too distressing for John and Margaret when one night they were jarred awake by an unseen force. They felt the floorboards moving beneath their feet, along with unknown knocking sounds. The noises persisted until they finally fell asleep from exhaustion. Fatigued from these disturbances, they woke the next morning wanting answers.

I snapped back into reality and opened my door. I stepped out into the narrow hallway, and I rested my hand on the door knob. The door was almost closed when I had a sudden urge to sneak one last glance at my room. Not being able to let go of my room, I cracked the door open again. My eyes rested on the skeleton of the room, and I gently closed the door.

Bewildered, she found herself not in the kitchen, but in the attic. For as long as she could remember, her parents had expressly forbidden her from entering the mysterious room. Now she understood why; At the far end of the room, among all of the clutter and jumble, was a door. In the light of day, Avery would not have given it a second glance, but in the half-light that emanated from her feeble candle, the door seemed different; Somehow eerie and sinister. Despite its great craftsmanship, years of wear had nevertheless taken their toll on the once delicate frame, and scratches etched their way across the old wooden panelling. Strings of whispers surrounded her, guiding her to towards the door. Slowly, she reached out one trembling hand, knowing that despite her fears, she must open it. What horrors, what wonders, lay on the other side? Avery pushed open the door and stepped

"The Woman Who Walked Into Doors" is a novel written by Roddy Doyle, set in Ireland in the early 1990s. This story combines love and violence and shows how the two can go together in one marriage.