I take two steps back. It still feels…wrong. Closing the door is difficult. The malaise that causes horror of closed in spaces, the one the doctors call claustrophobia, has always troubled me. The door must be slightly open, but not so much? I adjust it, nudging the book with my foot. This feels better, but still, I’m on edge so it can’t be right. I put my hand back to the door. It creaks, louder than a door should when moved only a fraction of an inch. I rest my hand against the wood, too long because the feelings that seep into me are not my own. Dissatisfaction is ever the mood of the house.
It wants me to open the door. To put the books back on the bureau, to straighten the rug.
But completely open doors are as terrifying as being closed in with…whatever might find its way into my room. There are things, living and dead, creeping through these halls, and I’d rather they creep past than linger beside me while I sleep.