<br><br> <center>*Stains are things. They get on walls, in wallpaper, in rugs,
 in  upholstery, and clothes, and finally into you.*
― Maya Angelou</center>




<br><br> <center>
![Gail Simpson.jpg](https://cdn.steemitimages.com/DQmQxBusz3bwpS7v3V4bWBjCxQjZTriBW1EPfrc6uwACqad/Gail%20Simpson.jpg)
*Gail Simpson*</center>




<br><br>We were here on the outskirts of Toronto presumably to research the history of a 150 year old house, but there was something more than that.

First of all, there was the suggestion the house was haunted, and secondly, the person requesting my services was a teaching colleague, Gail Simpson, who in herself was reason enough for my being here.

Gail was lovely and vivacious and if I allow myself wax poetic, the kind of woman Shakespeare said could teach the torches to burn bright.

Greg certainly noticed her beauty and was out of the SUV to meet her before I even got the driver’s door open.

<br><br>”You must be Gail,” he chirped happily, “I’m Greg Dawson, Laird’s technical assistant.”

“Pleased to meet you, Greg,” Gail smiled. Her eyes were dancing either at Greg’s puppy-like adoration or my obvious discomfiture at his exuberance.

Hell, I was trying to be laid back with the girl and my best friend was fawning all over her. Kind of made it hard for me to maintain my customary reserve when Greg was dong everything but taking photos. 

Then, I remembered the camera equipment in the SUV and prayed he didn’t go full on nut case.

<br><br>”I phoned Poppy to let her know we’re here,” Gail said, “ and she told me she had just made a big pot of coffee. I hope you guys haven’t eaten because she’s also set out bagels and danishes.”

“That’s really thoughtful of her,” I replied, “but I hope she didn’t go to too much trouble.”


“Poppy?” Gail laughed, “no, she loves entertaining. She’s excited you were coming.”

“I just hope we can help,” I said sombrely, sensing a deeper urgency behind Gail’s cheerful demeanour. 

<br><br>But when I met Poppy Chapman I relaxed a bit. She was exactly as I hoped—the same age as Gail, attractive and outgoing. Greg noticed her too.

“Quite a unique house you have here, Ms. Chapman,” he observed  contentedly, between bites of raspberry danish.

Obviously, he failed to mention what he told me that it reminded him of something out of The Addams Family or The Munsters.

“It’s nice to meet someone who appreciates early houses,” she smiled. “And please, call me Poppy.”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

<br><br>Gail refilled our mugs while Poppy fussed about making sure we all ate enough.

 “When we’re finished our coffee I’ll take you on a tour of the house. I think you’ll find it intriguing.”

“I’m sure we will,” Greg enthused, eyes shining.

I caught Gail’s eye as she suppressed a slight smile, obviously aware Greg was impressed with more than the architecture. 

<br><br>Seeing Gail in a social setting away from the university made me realize she had a natural reserve like me. 

I had been hesitant to ask her out because she seemed stand-offish, but I now realized it was simply her understated personality.

She was actually warm and friendly, in a quiet way and I could see the affection she had for Poppy and the subtle ways she supported and encouraged her.

<br><br>“Thank you so much for the brunch,” she told her friend, “ it was lovely, Poppy.”

“And delicious.” Greg added cheerily.

It was obvious with Greg around Poppy would never lack a cheerleader. And it was also evident, she reciprocated his interest.

Watching the two of them  interact, I momentarily lost track of what had brought us here, but Gail subtly intervened. 

<br><br>”I think we’re ready for that house tour now,” she smiled as she helped Poppy bring the empty mugs and dishes into the kitchen.

“Okay,” Poppy whispered, almost seeming hesitant to begin.

“Why don’t we start in the basement?” Gail suggested.

Poppy nodded, her bright smile now subdued but jaw resolute.

<br><br>I could see there were places in the house where Poppy seemed wary of going, and the basement was one.
 
As we trooped down the stairs, Poppy informed us the basement originally had a dirt floor that was paved in the 1950’s when the coal furnace was replaced with a modern gas model.

As far as she knew, the walls of the basement were original field stone that simply had been whitewashed and a few basement windows added in the 70’s.

That was the extent of Poppy’s knowledge of this particular area.

<br><br>I noticed a damp spot on the concrete floor and asked about it.

“Oh, I forgot,” Poppy added, “there used to be an underground stream that ran through the property but it dried up in the 1940’s. The owners paved the area in the 50’s but from time to time I’ve noticed the dark stain and after a rain, a damp spot appears.”

I nodded, making an entry in my notebook.

<br><br>“I used to do laundry down here but the place creeped me out. So,  I had a contractor install plumbing so I could make a laundry room on the second floor near my bedroom. It’s much more convenient.”

“I agree,” Gail said, giving a slight shiver as she glanced about the space.

“Well, unfinished basements tend to be damp and dreary,” I added.

But I didn’t say what was really on my mind. Poppy was already uncomfortable and telling her what I thought would really spook her out.  

<br><br> <center>To be continued…</center>

<br><center>© 2020, John J Geddes. All rights reserved</center>

<br><center>[Photo]( https://wallpapercave.com/w/wp7706710  )</center>

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