Sensory+Paragraph

I stepped into the room and looked around. It had a deathly chill that screamed of the evident sound of nothing. The yellow paint was peeling off the walls in strips and bubbles exposing the grayish wall beneath. The battered, deep brown wood floors, which creaked with each agonizing step, were stained in several places with rust-colored smears. They looked like old blood. This thought propelled a sudden recognition to the stale air that filled my nose; accompanied by the treacherous resemblance to a morgue. I then clenched my jaw as I thought about the taste of my own blood that I tasted mere hours earlier. Dust webs floated in the air, attached to the ceiling and fixtures somewhere in the shadows above my head. There was another door on the other side of the room, cracked open a few inches, but I couldn’t see what was beyond it. As I inched closer towards it, I slowly pulled the fragile, splintered wood back to deliver a horrid sight which relives in my mind each ghastly night.