It tingled when she walked by; on grey days, it shone. Garish yellow in a black wall, it stood out against bracketing brownstones. In the sunshine, it was an ugly door, but boring.
In the rain, it moved, but only when she wasn’t looking: she’d glance away and hear hinges squeak, peek back and see it cracked open, look away only to see it closed when she looked back. It tingled; it piqued the curiosity.
She waited in the rain, pretending not to watch.
The doorknob turned. The door creaked open. She held her breath, peeked sidelong.
“Curiosity,” a voice slurked out of the oily shadows. “How rare. How strange.” It tingled, ached, prickled. She turned slowly to face the shadow in the doorway.
“How delicious.” She had no time, no breath, to scream. A gulp, and she was devoured.
The yellow door tingled, sometimes, in the rain. But the house behind it shone in the sun, and the doors inside were endless.
I started a new occasional thing on Thimbleful Thursday, since I got the prompts prescheduled through next September.
Tell-Me Tuesday asks a question: this week‘s prompt was “Who’s behind the door?”
165 words, just barely in the limit.
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That door, and probably the house, is going to get a reputation in a hurry. Or does the door itself pick up and move elsewhere, along with spontaneously (?) opening and closing?