I remember, as a child, being incredibly saddened by the fact that the house I lived in was only a scant handful of years older than I was. My parents had had it built and they knew every nook and cranny. It held no secrets.
For a child like me, in love with mystery and mythology from a very early age, this was devastating. I pretty much knew (but asked anyway, just in case) that there were no secret passages or magic doors in our basement. The odds of finding a portal to some fantastical alternate world there were less than nil. Somehow I carried on.Of course, these days I don't have that problem. Though I haven't discovered any mysterious doors or false walls in my basement (yet) the possibilty does exist. They wouldn't necessarily lead me to Narnia, but rather to somewhere more illict. In the 1920s, the fashionable area of Walkerville (which takes its name from Hiram Walker and is where I now live,) was a hotbed of rumrunning, what with it being on the border and all. All sorts of dubious characters from Al Capone to the Purple Gang to any number of self-made booze barons were on hand to profit from Prohibition. As a result, there are houses around here with hidden rooms and secret doors behind which one could stash their, erm, stash. There's even a really good scrapbook-style book about it.
And all the while my house stood here while the Twenties roared around it. I can't help but wonder what the house would divulge if it could -- I'll let you know if I hear anything.