The Door

The door was but a door. A door, a door, a door. It was nothing spectacular, painted white with a shiny but hardly attention grabbing brass knob. A door, a door, merely a door.
Yet this simple door instilled a sense of dread, a sense of foreboding, so deep in Samantha's heart, that she could hardly bear to be in the same room with it. Which, of course, was a problem, since the door was her own, and behind it was her closet. One could call it amusing, Samantha supposed, pulling the covers to her chin. She had examined the very closet countless times, with rather boring results. It was always the same- a wood-paneled walk in closet, with bins full of dusty, seldom-used toys, and numerous garments dangling on hangers, squeaking gently as she pushed past them. Yes, a closet, and nothing more.
Still...
Samantha sat up, pushing her covers back, and stared at the clock. She was oddly beautiful, her eyes shining in the moonlight with startling surrealism, her hair falling in pale blonde wisps almost silver about her shoulders. The clock read 3:09 AM. Five more hours until her Mother summoned her down to breakfast before school. Five more hours of being alone with The Door.
Samantha now gazed at it, unaware she was holding her breath until her body began to resist the stopped airflow, and she gasped. It seemed there was a pressure, building slowly in her room, or perhaps only her head. Either way, the sensation was terrifying, and she closed her eyes against it.
"Hail Mary, full of grace..."
The prayer seemed to ease the pressure. Slightly.
Samantha swung from the bed, graceful for a ten year old. She stood there, in her nightgown, shivering, suddenly cold. A branch, outside, gently tapped her window, and she shuddered. She took a step towards the door. The floorboards creaked under her as she slowly approached the door. She ran her hand over it, aware of her heavy breathing.
"I am not afraid of you."
She wondered who she was trying to convince.
She laughed at herself, suddenly.
How silly she was! Talking to a door! If only her friends could see her. She turned, laughing in a kind of scared, asthmatic way, and had reached her bed when a sudden ominous creaking reached her ears. Her laughter stopped, abruptly. Every muscle tensed, as the creaking grew in volume and urgency. She swallowed, afraid to turn around, and afraid not to.
The creaking stopped.
Samantha willed her muscles to turn.
The door was wide open, swaying on its hinges gently.
Samantha's mouth opened, in a silent "No."
The moon had disappeared behind a cloud, and as the cloud moved on, the moon outlined a shapeless figure standing in the doorway, illuminating two eyes staring from the darkness.
Samantha screamed...and screamed...until all conscious thought was gone and there were only the eyes.
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The sound of expensive heels clicking on the white marble floors of Yalesville Hospital filled Nurse Edith Hopkins ears, and she looked up, frowning.
"Not more.." she grumbled to the nurse sitting next to her, who snorted in disapproval.
A well-dressed man, followed by three equally well-dressed men and a woman, clicked and clacked towards Edith's desk.
The leader of the group cleared his throat.
"Ahem. We're with The Yalesville Trumpet and we have permission to speak to and analyze..." he paused, looking down at a small notepad he carried. "Samantha McCoy?"
Edith resisted the urge to roll her eyes and his pompous air.
"Samantha McCoy is not allowed to have unauthorized visitors at this time," Edith recited.
"Really now." The man studied Edith for the first time, his eyes not matching the warm smile he flashed her way. The eyes remained cold and distant. Ruthless, the color of iron.
"Yes, sir. We have a list of family and close friends that are, however, allowed to speak to her. We can phone the McCoys and confirm that you do have permission." Edith smiled back at the man. "And your name is...?"
"Forget it," the man said, breaking his front of pleasantry. He turned on his heel. "We'll be back, dont worry. We do have authorization."
Edith made a face. "Reporters," she said aloud in disgust.
A small buzzer went off on her desk, and she checked her watch. She grimaced. It was time to distribute lunch.
Normally, she wouldn't do the tedious job. But the staff assigned to do it had refused to go anywhere near Samantha McCoy's room. Not even to lock the door. The care of the child had fallen solely into Edith's hands. She didn't mind so much, she thought, pushing the cart of food ahead of her down the hall. She had no children of her own, and although Samantha was hardly hers, she felt responsible for the child's well being.
She waited patiently for the large steel doors to open, reading the silver letters as she always did.
PYSCH WARD.
She walked through the doors into, as usual, almost eery silence, broken only by the occasional cries or sobbing as she passed by the room.
She approached the heavy iron door and unlocked it, entering the room.
"Samantha?"
A small shape under a blanket crouched on the floor, breathing heavily.
"Lunchtime, Sam," Edith said, her voice loud in the small room.
The shape stirred slightly.
Edith tsk-ed and removed the blanket. "Samantha, you have to eat."
Samantha McCoy remained on the floor,staring down at her bare feet.
"You took your slippers off again, Sam?"
Samantha looked up.
Edith repressed a shudder of disgust. She had gotten used to the girls face, but to see it still filled her with fear.
The little girl's eyes, once beautiful according to her parents, were red orbs set into her skull. The veins had erupted in the eyes, blinding her, and oozed a thick bergundy secretion constantly. Her sunken face was framed by straggly, tangled hair. Her lips were twisted into a sort of permanent grimace.
Samantha made a whimpering noise.
"Oh, what happened to you, Samantha?" Edith asked the child."What happened?"
Samantha shook her head viciously, and Edith stepped back involuntarily. The child had, until this point, remained quite emotionless, every now and then sitting on the floor and muttering little inaudible things.
"Daddy says it's bad for you not to listen."