As though the door is mocking you (although you got the feeling, on seeing the door, that it wasn’t going to be this easy), the door is locked. You push down hard on the handle, and ram your shoulder, painfully, against the wood, but the door doesn’t open.
You cry out, angrily, but figure that there must be a way. Perhaps the door is locked. But there isn’t any sign of a key anywhere. So…
You ponder for a second, and then your eyes alight on the knocker, gleaming in the orange light of the floating torch. It is more remarkable than the rest of the door, more remarkable than that of the handle, indeed.
Your eyes turn back to the long, dark, and narrow, corridor that is behind you. Your hands grip the torch.