“Please don’t be afraid,” the transparent figure stood and left a confused Pippin in the chair. “I probably only have a moment more.” He looked wistfully out the window, and almost sparkled as the sun lit dust particles that whirled in the air and passed through the shadowy outline of his body.
“I don’t even know what to be,” Taylor replied, instinctively taking her mother’s hand.
A small amount of comfort welled in Madeline at the familiar feel of her daughter’s hand. “What – I mean who are you?” she asked.
“My name is Simeon, I’ve been here-oh, a while,” he replied as the two women stood absolutely still, grasping hands. “I’m obviously no longer ‘alive’ as one would say.”
“Yeah… ok. I can see that,” Madeline said. “Why are you – here?”
“Wait-Simeon? Simeon Adams?” Taylor dropped Madeline’s hand and groped for her phone. “I was just reading about you!”
“Oh, maybe it was me… but it was probably one of the other dozen or so Simeon Adamses that have spent time here,” he said sadly. “I’m not one of note.”
“Oh,” Taylor seemed embarassed, and also at a loss for words which was 100% not like her.
A cloud passed in front of the sun, and the shadow named Simeon disappeared.
“Wait! Where did you go?” Taylor called. There was no answer. The house seemed quieter than quiet, with the snow buffering and absorbing any sounds from outside, startling the living – and not living, as the case may be – inhabitants of the house.
“Ok, that just happened, right?” Madeline exhaled for the first time since they met Simeon.
“Yes, I’m pretty sure it did,” replied Taylor.
“Meow.” Pippin agreed, and sauntered out of the room.
“I’m gonna need a drink,” Madeline headed down the stairs and into the small bar. “Want one?”
“Uh, I’m ok,” replied Taylor, somehow managing to read something on her phone, avoid stepping on the cat, and look over her shoulder for their mysterious visitor all while going down the steep and narrow “historic” staircase. “I thought that he’d be a lot older.”
“Who?”
“Simeon.”
“What-why would you think that?”
“Well, I’ve been doing that research you didn’t want to hear about, and there are several generations of the Adams family that lived here on the property.”
“The Adams family?” Madeline giggled as she poured a large glass of Maple bourbon. “Oy, that’s all we need. At least I’d get to be Morticia. And you are-of course-the moody Wednesday.”
“Yes, and I’m ignoring that snark,” Taylor continued. “Each generation had a ton of kids, and always the oldest one was always named Simeon, and almost all of the kids lived at least through middle age – with several living to be 100 years old.”
“And?”
“I don’t remember a young Simeon dying.”
“Well, maybe you just haven’t found him yet. It has been a very long time… and a lot of people have lived here.”
“And died here…”
“Well, that goes without saying.”
“Ugh, these records only go back to the late 1800’s.” Taylor tossed her phone onto the coffee table. “Guess I’ll have to go back to the county office? I wonder if it’s open tomorrow…” she reached over to retrieve her phone when she heard a quiet mewling.
“Dahlia?” Taylor sprang from the chair. “What if she’s in the fireplace annex thing?” She frantically jerked at the cast iron lever which secured the cover to the old bread oven. After a few tugs, the door swung open and a decidedly unhappy, ashy, dust-covered tabby cat exploded into the room.
Taylor caught the flying feline and began brushing the muck from her eyes and ears, checking each throughoughly. “Poor poor baby,” she cooed, as Dahlia head-butted her chin with such a ferocity Madeline worried one of them would end up bruised. “You aren’t hurt, are you? How did you get in there?”
Madeline brought her drink over to the couch and began to stroke Dahlia’s back. “Ick, what IS this crap? It feels like 200 years worth of dusty spiderwebs.”
“It is probably 200 years worth of dusty spiderwebs,” Taylor replied. She looked directly into Madeline’s eyes. “Seriously. How did she get in there?”
The ladies were quiet for a moment. The house was even more quiet.
“Maybe there is some kind of outlet or chimney or something just for the bread oven, and she found her way in the back door – so to speak.” Madeline wasn’t sure she believed what she was saying, but it was better than thinking that someone had locked the cat in.
“What if someone locked her in?” Taylor’s eyes filled with tears. “Oh my god, thank goodness you sucked at building a fire. She could have been cooked! I TOLD YOU that was a cat cooking oven!” This should have been funny, but neither one of them was laughing.
“I don’t know what happened, but I am sure that is not a cat cooking oven.” Madeline was not as sure as she sounded. “Remember when she got stuck under the cabinet in your old bathroom? That cat is like a liquid, she can just flow into anywhere.”
As Taylor continued to clean and cuddle Dahlia, Madeline eased back into the old couch. “Ouch! What the…” She reached behind her where something was stabbing into her lower back. “Where did this book come from?”
“Let me see.” Taylor snatched the book. “A History of the Rumford Fireplace. Booo-ring.” She tossed the book on the coffee table. “It was probably just lost in the cushions.”
Madeline reached over and picked up the slim paperback. “This looks like our fireplace on the cover,” she murmured and began flipping through the pages.
Taylor was untangling the last of the spiderwebs from Dahlia’s collar. “I wonder if he was murdered or something?” She picked up her phone and entered ‘Simeon Adams murdered’ into the browser search bar while Dahlia smashed her head against Taylor’s arm like her life depended on it.
“Who? Oh my lord, this IS our fireplace!” Madeline sat up. “Like, literally, look!”
Madeline held up the book and positioned the fireplace photo next to the actual fireplace.
“Look, Taylor!” Madeline nudged her daughter with her foot and waved the book at her. “How can you even read on that tiny screen anyway?”
“Geez mom,” Taylor glanced at the juxtaposed photos. “Yes. It looks like our fireplace.”
“I’m trying to tell you it IS our fireplace,” Madeline shoved the book in front of Taylor’s phone.
Taylor sighed and took the book.
“‘A good example of the Rumford fireplace, a design by Benjamin Franklin. The Rumford is known for a shallow firebox and producing copious amounts of heat from a small footprint. This example is from the early 1800s in a Southern Vermont farmhouse which'” Taylor stopped reading and stared at her mother.
“Which what?”
“‘Which – incidentally – is rumored to be the scene of a revolutionary-era robbery and murder.” Taylor read, her voice flat with shock.
“Um, no. That is NOT our fireplace. I’m sure of it,” Madeline took the book from Taylor and closed it.