December 21^st – 9:45 A.M

I have been exhausted lately, this morning I found myself standing at The Door, shaking its knob frantically, if I hadn’t boarded it up who knows where I may have ended. Perhaps it was just an odd case of sleepwalking, but the puddle of sweat on the ground and the dampness of my clothes seem to indicate that something scared me enough to try that door in my sleep. Strange, since, for my waking self, The Door itself is a source of constant fear and anxiety. I must try to get some sleep.

In the meantime, perhaps it may be a good idea to finally write about this door – it would seem I can’t quite ignore it fully and perhaps writing will get it out of my system. I have often found that talking about nightmares and such often devolve them into humorous jokes at best or at least make them approachable.

I suppose it is a strange notion to claim that one is scared of a door, after all there are only really two things that a door can do: be opened or be closed. If not about what’s on the other side, then it is usually when a particular door is in one state when it should be in another that the door becomes a cause for concern. Or, in my case when a door just seems to suddenly appear.

I do not live in a large place, most people don’t in this day and age. The city’s skyline is filled with a jungle of megacomplexes. People crammed together in trees of grey concrete and metal backdropped against a grey smog filled sky. Still, that means there’s not a whole lot of space for something to hide. My apartment is my sanctuary, and I know it like the back of my hand – I could navigate it in pitch black darkness. Yet, one day, after confusedly searching around my apartment to find the source of a faint knocking, I discovered that my spare bedroom had an extra door. I placed my hand on the knob and the knocking ceased.

There is no reason for a door to be there. I know, without a doubt, that no reason exists for a door to be there. Beyond the wall where the door has snuggled its way into is just a sheer drop off the side of the megacomplex for tens of floors – and I do not have a balcony. It makes no sense that in the 28 years I’ve spent in this apartment that I would have never seen it.

There is no reason that I should be afraid of a door. They are, unlike people, consistent and predictable. The simple function of a door is to be opened. And if you didn’t want it opened, a wall would suffice just as well. It follows then that the presence of a door indicates the intention for something to pass through – to come in. I am convinced that something is trying to force itself into my apartment, into my space – into my life. I do not think I’m ready.

I am terrified of the day I find that door open when I would rather it be closed.

Perhaps I just need sleep.

December 21^st, 2XXX – 4:55 P.M

I have managed to get some semblance of rest. More importantly I decided to empirically investigate The Door – I am a scientist after all. I need to remember to be aware, not afraid.

Upon observation of the wall that The Door has decided to situate itself into, nothing stands out. The wall, with its placement and spacing, is pleasing to the eye; however, things change when the wall is measured. I know from the schematics of my apartment that this wall is exactly 293.37 centimeters long. Further, I have measured and recorded this fact before – as I have measured the rest of my apartment to keep things in order. Today, I have measured the wall countless times and the wall undoubtedly measures at 384.81 centimeters – the difference of 91.44 centimeters encompassing the width of The Door. It’s almost as if the door itself has somehow squeezed its way into my wall pushing the existing material out of the way as it did so. My eye should be able to distinguish this difference, but it fails to do so. I have something forcing its way into my very walls and I cannot sense it. This is unsettling.

The Door itself seems to be of standard build from what I can tell. I have not worked up the courage to open The Door and so the boards I placed across its frame when I first found it remain. Yet, without opening and simply pushing a small piece of balsawood through the side I have found that the door measures at 203.2 centimeters high and 4.45 centimeters thick – a fairly standard set of measurements for a front door. This was checked against my apartment’s natural front – I haven’t the courage to measure the neighbors’.

As for its composition, my best guess is that The Door is made of ash sapwood. The grain itself is fairly straight and smooth. It seems to have been unstained which allows the scent of the wood through – which is most distinctly not oak. Being sapwood means that the wood is of a lighter beige color which irritatingly matches the paint scheme of my apartment quite nicely.

I may need to lie down; the thought of ash brings back memories. I remember my childhood home: a quaint two-story house in the country situated in a breezy meadow valley surrounded by towering hills and trees. We had a small creek that marked the border on one side of the land and a nice thick ash that my parents had decided to build a treehouse into. Before, well …

Before things went sour, my older brother and I used to sleep nights in that treehouse all the time, the smell of the trees and the babbling of the creek used to be so relaxing. Now they’re just distant memories.

I don’t think I can write anymore …