Door 00

What could i write about?


I could write about a woman i really like.

I could write about my iPhone.

I could write about my job and how much i hate it.

I could write about movies or TV shows.

I could write a short story about a young girl with orange eyes dying of cancer.

I could write a 119 page screenplay about trust and betrayal.




I could write about whatever happens to escape from that room at the end of the corridor in the dark and depraved part of my subconscious.


It happens to be a long dark, dank corridor that looks like it has been sitting at the bottom of a dirty lake for the past thirty years, a victim of a flood, with flickering lights and many doors running down both sides. The doors are all numbered in different materials, the first, starting with double zero is a clean polished brass and at the end of the corridor, the one door that is facing me, with a number scared into the wooden surface, a deep crimson paint can still be seen where the door hasn’t been charred by want ever foulness embodies that room, behind door forty-seven, that part of my subconscious even the insects are to afraid to go near. Oddly enough, the bottom of the door, which is the only place you can still see a good portion of the crimson paint work, and the thirty-seven year old oak floor that is still pristine, as if nobody has ever touched it, even the polish still shines in the dim flickering lights. Insects have defecated every other inch of the surrounding corridor, not a nook or cranky is untouched by the little creepy fuckers, a green slime which resembles pond scum is sitting where the skirting board should be, reaching along the floor, up the walls in the corners and back across the ceiling like a coving. There is a damp musky smell, and an air of death.


This is not a place you’d like to visit.


All the doors are held shut by a single lock which is represented by a doorknob, again each a different material, but they match the numbers above them, in this case, brass. You can not open these doors with a key, for there are no key holes, if you are meant to open a door, it will open for you, you simply turn the doorknob and the lock will open, but beware, these doors do not open from the inside and they are not portals to a simple room beyond, carpeted with a small window in back. No, these rooms are part of my subconscious, the dark side if you will, the place where anger, hate, malice, pride, jealousy, and wrath reside. All the bad emotions dwell here, that voice, that paranoid voice in the back of your mind, the one that makes you second guess people you trust, or think you trust. It’s an illogical and irrational and unreasoning place, that cartoon devil that sits on your shoulder whispering into your ear.


The old oak floor has because so damp that it feels soft under foot. Door double zero, the polished brass reflecting your visage and the lines on your palm. The door is dark blue in colour made from a standard pine frame. You reach for the brass doorknob, your hand gravitates to it, like two magnets, it feels weird at first, like a mild electrical current running into your hand, it doesn’t hurt, on the contrary it feels almost soothing, you turn the doorknob slowly, anti-clockwise, you hear the lock click back, it doesn’t sound very strong, just a low click, almost beneath your hearing, and like a magnet flipping its polarity your hand is pushed away from the doorknob and at the same time the door opens a few inches. A subtle click.


Darkness. Black as pitch.


You reach forward and slowly push open the door the pine feel rough and cold under your hand, you’re careful not to step into the unknown. As the door reveals more of the room, you notice that there is nothing in there, it’s a dark space, almost like a black hole consumed the room, or a dream where nothing is tangible, you stand in the open door way, do you step in or do you close this door and try another one. The old oak floor beneath your feet swells moisture like a damp carpet, you lift your left foot and hold onto the door frame to support yourself because you are moving so slowly, you lower your left foot to where the floor of the room should be. Touchdown, a tangible hard surface in the nothingness, as your foot makes contact with the floor of the room, a light that doesn’t seem to have a source grows from where your foot touched the floor, slowly revealing the room in its concentric circles like you stepped into a puddle, it ripples outward, the room has a carpet, a rug, furniture like in some old victorian costume drama, big heavy curtains hang flanking the huge bay window, and the ceiling, ornate mouldings swirl to a candelabra. It looks nice, it looks inviting, the candles spark to life one by one as the ripple effect of your step is reaching each in turn. A china tea set sits at the back of the room on a small table by the only wingback chair. Again the room seems to be inviting you in, an almost moving light made by the candles above, make everything move back and forth, back and forth, gives everything a kind of life. A living thing in this dead place.




The dampness from the old oak floor still adhered to my shoe, i move forward, shifting my weight on to my left foot, the right starts to lift, the damp that is on my left shoe starts to slowly infect the room, the once flawless carpet now has a tar black stain, i hadn’t noticed, i step again, and another tar like footprint is left by my right shoe, the tar starts to crawl, slowly reaching out with a life unknown to me, across the carpet growing as it moves, the two spots join together and slowly, behind me they start to grow, faster and faster, encompassing the room out of my sight, but i can feel it pulling on my mind, tugging my brain, reaching for that subconscious aspect, that forty-seventh aspect, that part of myself i dare not show you. Not yet. It pulls as if the room was flesh being torn away from behind my eyes. I’m looking at the china set, the hot pot of tea, steam slowly rising, and the delicious cakes beside it, typically British. The light over head starts to fade, not enough to get my attention, i reach for the china when, the candles over head blowout as the tar infects the wax, consuming the light. I snap to, shaking my head, was i out, unconscious? I’m wondering what i’m doing, i look at the china set again, now i notice that the light has dropped, but a flickering shaft of light casts a soft shadow on the wall in front of me, i look back to the door behind me, again i wonder what has just happened, how did i get into the room, one minute i’m standing in the corridor looking onto a void and the next minute i’m standing in Jane Austen’s tea room. The door starts to close slowly, to prolong the terror, my feet are stuck to the floor by the tar, i can’t move. The tar is slowly crawling up my legs tiring into my flesh, i scream a silent scream. It rips flesh from muscle, muscle from bone. The decor starts to fade away faster than it appeared, i can’t help but keep my eyes on the door as it closes, a false hope that somebody might appear and save me from this nightmare. It’s hard to breath, the tar has reached my gut, constricting it, there doesn’t seem to be any air in the room but a last desperate effort to suck in enough air to let out a scream burns my lungs as i realise that i’ve been screaming this whole time and my throat and lungs are raw with stress. Just as the door closes i reach out with the one arm not trapped in bondage by the tar, a stifled rasp emits from my  dry lips.




No, not darkness.




Darkness would imply an absence of light, this is different. Light isn’t welcome here. Light is afraid to venture here. Light leaves this place. Time leaves this place. I dwell here, with nothing but my inner mind. A void in consciousness.


The dark blue colour barely visible in the flickering light of the corridor, the brass number double zero glistens with every flicker looking back at me. I take my hands away from my face and open my eyes, i’m looking at the brass double zero. I’m outside the room again standing in front of the door in the same place i stood when i opened it. Confusion fills my mind, i back away but can’t take my eyes off the door, then with haste i leave the corridor behind me, leaving my subconscious mind.


This is why i don’t like that corridor, i try to avoid it as much as i can, but sometimes I’m drawn to it, and i open one of those doors and something escapes never to be replaced or trapped back behind the door it came from, and when something escapes, a part of me forever remains, trapped in purgatory. And apart of whatever was in that room, remains with me. Trapped behind my eyes.


48 doors. All are different. All hold some form of my disturbed subconscious.

Best Regards,

The man behind door 47…

The Corridor of my Subconscious – Door 00

One Comment on “Door 00

  1. Pingback: My New Type Write. | Head Trip Chronicles

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