This room is jampacked with rows of shelves and piles of open crates, all of them filled with all manner of assorted mundane, household objects: coils of rope, candles, dinner plates, taxidermy beasts including a raccoon, a badger, a fox and a fawn, gardening tools, and the like. A single leather bound book lies open in a small circular clearing in the middle of the room, as if it were deliberately placed there.

You inspect the book. There are just a few lines of text written neatly on its open pages:

“The key you seek is here somewhere. Do not be so hasty, or look past what’s right there. We all have one. Some big, some small, some long and tall, and even when it’s stuffed it can run.”