You realize that there must be some significance to the different doors to the various rooms, but you're not fond of superstition.
You decide to just reach out and take a door. If it isn't locked, you'll spend the night in that room. It seems as good a system as any.
Closing your eyes, you spin yourself about, and blindly reach out for a doorknob. Your hand clasps an old battered knob, and you open your eyes.
You smirk as you see the door before you. It was the rough-hewn clawmarked door. It figures, you choose randomly and end up at the Lon Chaney Hilton. At this
thought, you repress a giggle as you open the door.
Night has, apparently, fallen. Light from the bright full moon streams in a window framed in rotted timbers and cracked, dusty glass. The room is equally
disheveled. There is a mirror upon a vanity, evidently smashed by a fierce blow. Torn clothes are strewn about, and on a random splintered timber, you see what
looks to be a tuft of dog hair, shedded as the splinters caught it.
At least the bed looks serviceable. It's a four-poster, and though the lace canopy hangs in tatters about it, the mattress and sheets seem relatively intact.
All in all, it looks like this is a woman's room (was a woman's room, you correct yourself). The furnishings, the bed, even the torn clothing all seem to have
belonged to a single woman. You idly wonder what happened to her, and if you should have picked this room...