There’s a tiny door behind the table where the lamp stands. I don’t know where it leads, but it’s clearly a cupboard under the stairs of some sort. However, there’s no handle anymore. It looks like it’s been ripped off. Who knows, maybe it was done by a monster. Or, more accurately, by the residents of this house, the old couple who’ve lived here for forty-five years. Even if it could be opened, I doubt it would lead anywhere interesting, but it’s easy to make up stories about doors that people have surely never opened.