naive surrealism

Last night he says,
"Mum, it's sore."
"Hey? What is?" I say. I turn the light back on.
"The door," he says.
"The door is sore?"
"Yes," he says. "It has a sore handle."
"Really?"
"Yes, and if you close it, it might bleed, you see."
"Oh, dear." He is starting to get scared of the dark and wants me to leave his bedroom door open at night. Still, I'm a little disturbed by his dark imagination. I haven't even been reading him The Brothers Grimm.
"Well, we better leave it open then, eh?"
"Yes," he says, relieved.
I close the door when he's sleeping, though, because otherwise the cat likes to try and smother him.