Finger oil stained the doorknob to room 3-2. Warm to the touch. Cold, wooden door. A small keyhole.
Was this what it was like back in the day?

Perhaps.

Groaning. Moaning. Crying. Screaming.
Horrific, terrible, ear piercings screaming.

Behind the bars that locked the door, covering only a strip, but enough to keep the forward - swinging blockade just that: Unreachable.

More screaming. Now a child's cry. Banging. On the door.
Something.
Anything.
Moaning, groaning.
Sounds of bodies breaking.
A red stain on the doorknob.

Silence.