About half of my house is an addition. The front half is all original material, but the second story, the kitchen, the bath room and the study are all new. The study doesn't very often get called that, it has a more sinister name. The Scary Room.
When the addition was being built I was young, three to five, I'd like to say. It was built largely by people we knew with the know how to operate tools and make boards fit together with small, pointy metal things called nails. My Dad was working on some part of the house and he sent me inside to retrieve his tool belt. The tool belt was in the room that was to become the study, but since we didn't need the space for any particular purpose it became a storage area for the construction materials. All the boxes, boards and other spare parts were strung about discordantly in there. There was only one working light bulb. It was dark and there were many odd shadows and shapes because of the lay out. So my Dad sent me here to get his tool belt and time passes and time passes and eventually Mom comes around to see what's been keeping me. She's worried that maybe I got trapped under something that fell, and when she sees me standing outside the room just kinda looking in she's a little upset.
"Krister," she says, "What are you doing? Your father sent you in to get his tool belt."
"I can't go in there," says I, "That's the scary room."

Then Mom probably chuckled and made me feel better and got the belt herself.