The mold on the handle seems to have solidified it in position. It looks like it’s been growing for years, decades. In fact, the whole room feels … ancient. Undisturbed.
But the handle does turn, sheets of oozing mold sloughing off of it. You pull, then push, but the door doesn’t budge. There’s a slight, wet, shlooping noise, of mold being disturbed by you trying to open the door, but the resistance is too much for your first attempt.
Pain, excruciating.
Terror, all-encompassing.
You aren’t being bitten. The pain is deeper, more horrific, more inescapable. Whatever it is, the thing, it’s burning, burrowing-
It stops.
Your mental convulsions suddenly become physical, as you arm flies up and out to your neck and back.