Door and Knob

In the office there is a room Alice has never entered. It has a doorknob and hinges, and Alice walks by it on her way to the copy room. If Alice bothers to do the math, she will figure out that, given its distance from other known rooms and the distance of room's door to the oft-trodden hallway that runs behind the the room, plus the known distance of the floor to the ceiling, the room must be less than or equal to fifteen feet in length, twelve feet in depth, and seven-and-a-half feet in height. If she bothers to ask her co-workers what is inside the room, they will quickly change the subject. If she tries the handle, it will not turn. If she knocks, there will be no echo - her knuckle's thud will die before leaving the door's wood. If she works late one evening, dragging her bones across the keyboard for hours past the cleaning woman's last round, she will think she hears an incantation just penetrating the door to the room. The language will be strange, but she will have no doubt that its words are directed at her. If she hears the murmured language, she will get closer, and she will know its murmur and rustle is for her. When there are silences between the mutters, she will know those are for her as well. Still, if she happens upon the door late at night, when she should be home replacing her marrow, she will not try the knob, though she has some glimmer of what's behind it. She will know that it will not open.