Each room is filled with a fear. An elemental fear something that deep down it's understood that it could happen at any moment. The hallway looks endless but only contains a few doors each its own variety and color. Some have engravings, pictures, and words. Others are plain, falling apart, or simple.
The handle of the first is a dull grey the color of ash. It’s rough like stone and crumbles slightly when touched. The door its self is old one of the oldest in the hall. It’s made from dark cherry wood and has the distinct smell of dirt still clinging to it. But if you touch it, it leaves behind a charcoal substance on your fingertips that smells metallic like blood. The grain is at an angle and gives you the feeling of falling away, moving away from the door. In places splinters of wood have come off and are resting on the colourless floor in front. When you grasp the hand it burns into your hand and the texture doesn’t fade until hours later.
When the door is opened you’re hit with swirling dust that bites at your eyes and makes you cough. But don’t cough too much or you will blow away what’s left inside the room. As the old door swings open on it ancient hinges it brings an acrid smell. Burnt flowers, cloth and the unmistakable smell of burnt meat.
This is a possibility, this is what has a chance of happening sometime in the future because of your fault or someone else’s.
You can see how the room looked before the fire. The walls were once covered in an ivory and jade stripped wall paper with minute flecks of silver in the stripes. Along the far wall was a bookcase made from pale oak with carving of animals on parade around the edges and shelves. Each shelf was packed with books in every language and every genre. Next to the bookshelf was a large window with drapes of a pale green that fell almost to the floor. Across from the bookshelf was a four poster bed made with silk sheets the color of dense foliage. Three pillows stacked neatly in crisp white cases. Under the bed extending out was a rug made of feathery white fluff that sunk between your toes when you walked on it. Along the walls were pictures of faraway places mountains, gullies, lakes, rivers. Trees forests, palaces, markets, each in its own oval frame. Near the door is a round white metal table with a vase of roses on it. Red, white, and pink ones that rest in the water. There is also a single white metal chair with fine white spirals on the back and curled legs.
That was before though. Now everything is all a dark grey, a fine white, and a deep black. The carpet of the floor is all burned to a crisp and crunches as you walk inside. The table that was white is now a dull grey with its paint peeling off of it. The chair is the same its paint resting on the seat. On the table the vase is blackened but not broken somehow and the roses; They are all a grey colour now. One of them, you think it was the white one, had lost all its petals and they have fallen on to the table in a soft heap. You touch it and it disintegrates on your hand as ash. The other two are still in the vase burned but still standing. You know that if you touch them they two will cease to exist.
Beyond the table all the books have fallen to pieces small scraps of paper untouched by the fire rest on the floor. The bookshelf is still standing but it is no longer a light brown colour it is now black like onyx. The animals have all but been lost under the thick layer of soot.
The window is broken, the glass in chunks on the floor. The drapes are only piles of ash on the floor small bits of green peak out but not much. The bed is almost the same all that’s left is the skeletal frame and bits of the pillows on the floor. The rug is undistinguishable from the carpet under the bed.
The pictures on the walls still hang there but you can’t see what was once in them. The walls are now pealing and you can see the white walls underneath now streaked with ask and shadows of the flames. This is a possibility it could happen. The door closes the flowers are still on your fingers the dust is still in your lungs. The door is locked now you know without trying you turn away towards where you came from and walk down the colourless hallway. Remember this is a possibility of the future.