I walk past the room again.

The wooden planked hallway creaks some, so I take it slowly. It is dirty. The cracks between the planks are caked and moldy. It smells musty. This place is ancient. 12 doors, on either side six. Mine is the last one on the right.

So slowly I walk, to not disturb the tenants, but more importantly to not announce my presence. The first doors are tightly shut. No light seeps from under them. But the second door on my right is slightly ajar.

I watch my step.
Stick to the right hand side of the hallway.

I glare at the door as I move closer. Lights on. Dim.

Approaching carefully, I forget how intently I am breathing. Gasping almost. As though I know.

Further down the hall now.

I am still gazing at the open door. I see a bed, neatly made, almost dusty look to it. Four posters. A pale blue-gray coloured fabric decorating it. Ruffled and quaint.

Halfway past now.

A shape. A shape lying on the bed. Asleep?

I steady myself walking more patiently. I see more of the shape, arm resting at its sides. My vision of it moves up to its shoulders, the frail neck, and then stops at the face.

Very, very old. Sunken and barely, if at all, breathing. It is grayer than the sheets. Dustier than the bed. More worn than the planks I stand on.

No eyes. But the spookiest of all is the face; it's staring right through me.

I run to my room and lock the door.