Short story in progress

I'm working on a short story. A really short story. And I'm just going at it paragraph by paragraph, so I figured I might as well see how it's going so far. Thanks for any critiques! :icon_bigg


Picture, if you will, a door. A plain door, made of simple oak and ordained in nothing more than brass trim. A handle, also made of brass, on one side and three similarly made hinges on the opposite side. No lock. No chain. No bolt. Now picture the house. An old two-story, Victorian style manor with bay window on facing forward. And the blood. Oh the blood! Sprayed upon the inside of the window, for behind that door lay a family of 12, murdered in cold blood by the 13th of the family...who died 7 years prier, killed in an act of frivolity. And with them a fire, started by the 13th, burning the bodies, the house, and everything within to nothing but ashes. Everything that is, but the door.

Years pass and an architect, taking a break for the day, finds a simple oak door ordained only in brass sitting in the corner of an antique shop. Despite warning from the owner of the shop, the architect still buys the door, thinking it a perfect fit for the rustic style of the house he is building to start his family in.
Months pass, and the house is finished. Crossing the threshold he walks to the center of the entrance room, admiring his work, family beginning to bring their possessions inside. Turning to help them carry things in he notices a black hand print on the door. Thinking it one of his kid's dirty hand print, the size fit after-all, he brushed it off and helped his family carry in the rest of their possession. Once the family had gone to sleep, and small light could be seen illuminating from the front, bay window...and smoke could be smelt in the warm, summer air...

Despite the odd light illuminating from the bay window and the smell of smoke in the air, no one came outside to see what was causing it and no passerbys stopped to stare questioningly at the strange occurrences. That could have been because all the neighbors were asleep, just like the architect and his family. Or it could be because the architect had decided to build his house in an undeveloped area, surrounded by nothing but hills and forests, devoid even of farmland.

Alone in a valley lies a cozy, rustic house. Standing, ever waiting, on the front of the house is a plain oak door, ordained only in brass, still devoid of a lock or even a chain, despite the day and age. But what would there be to worry about so far from society, surrounded by wilderness. Next to the door, looking into a large room, where the glowing is getting brighter, and the smoke is increasing, now visibly coming from beneath the glow where the floor is starting to burn. Brighter and brighter, light filling the room, and bursting through the windows...! Then gone. Light, gone. Fire, gone. Smoke, gone. All the remains is a circle burned lightly into the floor, set perfectly in between two small, childlike hand prints. The air in the house now feels heavier somehow, giving off an ominous feeling, a feeling made stronger by the soft, but heavy click from the door. A door still devoid of a lock, chain, or bolt...

 

There could be some grammatical mistakes, as I wasn't really paying attention to that when I wrote it hahah. And I'll definitely send you more as I write it, though this is just something I've written when bored.