As I strolled through the streets, I glanced at the stoned-shut door, pondering why the door of centuries was always locked and who locked it. I stepped up to the front of the door and skimmed around it. Indents scattered around it along with the three squares vertically in the middle. The knob was a shimmering golden metal, the knob had a circular outline, the knob was locked, for sure. I was surprised that no homeless people wandered around this door, it looked rugged and was by a dumpster where the valuable scraps hid for them to find. None were spotted. I’d pass this door every day from work, try it; it was locked from day-to-day, and leave to my other destination.
I had devised a plan if one day the door suddenly unfastened from its latch. I would always carry a knife, sharp as a needle, with me for safety so in case behind the wooden door was an invitation to death, I was somewhat prepared. I checked if the knob would turn more than just a flick of a wrist. I had my eyes fixed on the time, though. I watched the seconds tick by on my watch as my other wrist turned the door knob. To my surprise, the door opened and the latch clicked. I tilted my head to the direction of the lock. The door had unlocked. I slowly opened it and its ancient hinges creaked with a moaning that only can come from decades of grease and dirt being built up on the latches...
My heart dropped. I closed it. I was panting ferociously as my eyes focused on what the room was hiding behind the door. I took slow breaths, about four or so to calm down, and positioned my hand on the knob once more. I jerked out my blade with the other, positioning it to where I could stab anything that comes popping out. I unlatched the door from its lock and stepped inside the chamber of doom. I closed it and was shocked at what my eyes were seeing. There stood a bed with rose petals placed in a heart shape, followed by vividly scarlet blood. I scanned around the room. It was small but the surroundings were deadly enough to cut through all that passed in its way. I whispered under my breath, “Steady, steady, be ready,” flailing the pocketknife to get the grip right. After all, a murderer would rather target a woman over a man any day. There were two other doors on the opposite ends of the bed. The velvety red trail led to the left door. Big red flag not to go in there…at least, if there is a murderer in there. Chills raced down my body to no end for the whole experience. The bed of roses didn’t look too old or too new, just normal. Dressers neighboring the bed were an ashy gray, complementing the matching, wooden, creaky floor. Papers lay on the top of the right dresser. Slowly lumbering towards it, I looked left and right frantically.
I finally reached the wanted destination and picked up the papers, which were actually photos, quietly. What I saw gave me so many butterflies I felt like I was going to faint and never recover.  They were pictures of the Snow White scene where Snow White is in the “grave” or capsule; whichever one, I haven’t seen the movie, and another showing the corpse on the same bed besides me, reenacting the scene. My eyes widened and felt everything get “numb”. The murderer, most likely a man, was reenacting the scene from Snow White with the victim, a girl. I searched under the bed sheets slowly and found drugs, from the looks of it, it was prescription drugs. I took a sample and stood up. Obviously I’m in a hidden crime scene. This evidence leads to multiple cases. The most logical explanation is that the man drugged the woman, set her up for the scene, and carried it on until there was a “supposed” knife involved, then stabbed with joy. I heard a creak behind me. Frantically looking back, I saw nothing. I alertly checked my surroundings and staggered to the right door.
I couldn’t make any conclusions yet unless I investigated, even though I felt susceptible about the capacity after the creaking of the dusty, worn out wood of the floor. I apprehensively rotated my hand and opened the door. It was a closet, with costumes inside. Snow White’s dress hung on the bar along with a medieval prince looking garment. It was set in a nice arrangement along the pole with specks of blood flicked here and there. I pushed the closet closed and crept stealthily to the left door. The sharp blade ready in hand, ready for murderers, ready for rapists, ready for death. I revolved the knob and gazed in the room beyond the portal entrance. Chilled air slapped my face with a wispy breeze. It hit me. I was in a meat locker. Roaming through the slabs of meat, I discovered a limb or two. I analyzed the unknown piece and made a few guesses. The hanging segment of the substance was about the height of the girl in the photo, which seemed to give off that she was around 19-21, and the slices of the maroon colored meat resembled human examples from other cases on the news. There were shelves with a silver lining with boxes and crates vaccinating them. I didn’t even want to know what was in there. Many possibilities flew throughout my head, and none of them were “happily ever after”. I struggled my phone out of my jean pocket, opened the crates and boxes, and snapped some pictures. I saw what no one would ever want to see, even as gory as being impaled in the heart, well somewhat, it was cataclysmic at the least. There in the belonging storage containers sat decapitated women. All the same hair color and eyes. Footsteps were arousing. I shifted my head, feeling a sensation from the pale, alpine white heads, and distinguished a knife on the bed that had not appeared to be there at any time beforehand.
My skin dropped to an albino white, a knot tied and stuck in my throat. I gazed at the room holding the bed and dressers. I scurried out of the freezing destruction and hastened over to the door revealing the natural world. As soon as I grasped the handle, I heard another door open and before I knew it, a knife was positioned and pierced straight in my spine. Death had shot through my brain as I glimpsed at the vermillion blood spilling from my back. I could perceive the warm blood flowing down my flesh. I immediately swiveled the doorknob and slammed the door behind me. The delayed pain had weakened me, triggering me to stumble on the stairs of the concrete. I finally halted and then dialed the police.
The cops arrived at little time to spare, just in time before Erin, the woman who had decided to investigate the door, had lost too much blood. The investigators never found the accused man who sliced and gushed the scarlet blood from Erin’s back. They’re still working on this case to this day. Erin still visits the aged door, staring at the creaky, splintery wood. She fantasizes about what lays behind the door behind the police tape.