This room contains a puzzle. That is what houses want, after all: to need to be solved. To invite.

I will not tell you what the puzzle is, but I will describe the room:

Curtains, thick and heavy, block all light from the windows on either side of the door. Whether it was bright outside or storming, the old electric bulb hanging from the ceiling is all the illumination you need now. One one side is an overburdened coat tree with shoes gathered around its feet; on the other is a closet heavy with the dusty smell of old wool.

Kept mostly unscuffed by a balding carpet of faded pattern are the warm oak floorboards; the molding is the same friendly brown, though the light doesn't flatter it. And there are no other doors. Instead, on the far wall is a painting of a mermaid with long straggling hair, bathing her glittering tail in the pool of a dark cave in whose depths, the occasional smear of pigment suggests, lie unseen treasures.