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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. You start to pray that your Oilers don’t start squeaking again – until you remember that you made a point of changing out of them into your footwraps. Simultaneously feeling pleased at your foresight and like a fraying idiot for somehow forgetting what you were wearing on your feet, you take up position in front of the door. Once ready, you set the battered tankard down carefully, well away from the door, 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, carefully noting where you are relative to all of the prints on the floor and the patches on the door and door 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 naturally settling, or it is from someone walking or pacing on the floors above – though you would guess that is building itself, as the sounds are too 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 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.
