The door of room 7 is open: cracked ajar so that the faint trickled of pale luminescence can seep out into the hallways, along with the pungent smell of death. The floor is wetted with a familiar, viscous red liquid, still warm with the beating freshness of life, fading out until cold.
Blood.
The lion knocker on the front is skewed, boasting a few small claw marks on the bottom of the door- an obvious sign of struggle. The carpet below my feet is scratched up, tufts of multi-coloured fluff sticking up and out, clawed into oblivion. Apprehensively, I grimace, not daring to breathe.
It is like a crime scene.
