At the end of the corridor, he looks up, as he hears a high-pitched, crunching something scrape and scrape and scrape inevitably closer, inside the room.
He reaches for the roundish door knob.
It sears his fingertips with a biting, shearing cold, peeling him, flaking off his skin and gluing itself to his flesh like the sleep of Ymir.
Without looking at his hand, he reaches for the doorknob again.
Gripping the icy metal.
Again, the crawl of dread blue-white frost threatens his fingers with frozen fire.
He turns the knob, and hears the quiet cry of a scrabbling, obstructed throat.