Black obsidian, with the sheen of a thousand lost souls. Inside, you never see their faces but always feel their breath, and hear their excited whispers like delighted children - your fear fuels their delight.
There is nothing sacred behind 362, only freakish torment, despair, and the broken dreams of broken men. There is no cake, no dancing, no melons, and no WiFi signal.
I will not speak of 362 again, nor should any of you. It is the door of the damned, a portal of sadness, a place where all things end.
Did I mention the no wifi thing? That really should have been enough...