Before entering, I examined the rather large house key closely, though I fancy myself, at best, a gifted amateur at metalworking. The key was of a curious and archaic design. It had been crafted, I surmised, by some long ago master, one possessed of remarkable skill with punch and press.
Even more curious, though you may think me odd for noting such a thing, from this near distance the house itself appeared to possess a distinct, almost human, personality. By some curious arrangement of the window shutters and of the door itself, the house seemed to be, dare I say it, smiling. It was a strange, mocking smile, which played upon the entranceway as though some private joke were being shared.
But enough of such fancies. It was time to take possession of my rightful property. I inserted the key into the ancient lock. It turned easily, with a satisfying smoothness of motion. Yet the door would not budge. Push or pull as I might, the accursed door would not open — not an inch.
My immediate response to this unexpected turn of events was quite startling and unforeseen. I felt a sudden spasm of pure rage pass through me, quite unlike my generally even temperament. “You are my house now!” I heard myself shout, “I must be allowed entry!”
I took some moments to calm myself. “How absurd,” I thought with amusement, marveling at my own temporary madness. “It is, after all, only a house.” Restored thus to my usual rational state of mind, I set about methodically to discover alternate means of ingress.