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You go back and forth on what you should do here for a few moments, until it occurs to you that you might try listening at the lock. If this room is anything like yours, it is small, small enough that you figure you should be able to hear if anyone is inside … unless they are staying stock still, of course. As subtly as you possibly can, you look over both of your shoulders to check to make sure that no one is coming down the hall, or out of their rooms. Then, you peer around the corner, to make sure that no one is coming from the stairs. Praying that your Oilers don’t start squeaking again until you are done here, you pull back your hood, set the battered tankard down carefully, then very deliberately, you get down on your knees – thankful for the cushiony protection of your apron.
Your chief concern here is that if you move too fast, something is going to make a noise – either your boots or the floor underneath you – and it would give the game away to anyone listening inside. That is on top of the risk that someone inside heard your footfalls as you moved through the hall and noticed how they stopped right in front of their door. But that is not something that you can address at this point. Committing yourself, you settle into position slowly, noting where you are relative to the prints on the floor and the patches on the door and its frame. Those patches – as well as the small one off to the side on the floor – could be in a communicable state, though they are not showing any signs of spreading.
Once you get your ear up to the lock, the first thing that you hear is the creaking and groaning of the floors above you. You are not sure if that is from the building settling, or it is from someone walking or pacing on the floors above – though you would guess that is building, as the sounds are irregular. On this floor, you can hear your clothes rustle as you lean in, as well as your own breathing. Beyond that, you can hear vague noises from the kitchen and the dining room below. But nothing from the other side of this door. You hold your breath and strain, listening harder than you have ever listened before – but there is nothing. And when you press your ear straight up against the lock, the only new sound that you can hear is the warm rustling of blood through your ear. Nothing from inside the room. No moving, and certainly no talking.
You then get the idea to look through the lock, to see if you can see anyone or anything, but the cut of the keyway is against you. The only thing that you can make out is a portion of the wall on the far side of the room, no matter how far left or right you strafe and shift. Taking another tack, you straighten up a little, trying to look down at the floor – but all you end up seeing is the inside of the lock’s mechanism. On a silly whim, you do the opposite – scrunching down and trying to look up at the ceiling – but again, you cannot make anything out but the tumblers in the keyway.
