“Nope. All good,” I said.
Sigh. After last night’s call, we’re going to have a reputation for sure.
It went like this:
The brittle needles and drooping branches of our Christmas tree had convinced me. Much as Dave and I love the light and comfort of the tree’s glow on these dark winter nights, it was time to take her down. I was on my way from the attic with the bin for the ornaments when I smelled it.
“Dave?” I yelled down the stairs, “Did you light a candle?”
I put down the bin and sniffed. The scent of wax and newly-lighted candle was strong. Dave’s hearing was not. I yelled again.
“Hon? Did you hear me? Did you light a candle?”
He came to the foot of the stairs and said no.
“Weird. Do you smell that? Something’s burning somewhere.”
We both sniffed and there was no mistaking it. This was no mere whiff, but the distinct, cozy scent of melting wax and candle flame. He climbed the stairs and we stood in the hall, sniffing. We went from room to room, outlet to outlet, fireplace to fireplace, attic to basement, sniffing. There was no sign of smoke nor fire, but the smell remained strong in the stairway and upstairs hall.
“I do not want to call the fire department,” I said.
“I think we have to,” Dave replied. “We can’t risk there being something we’re missing.”
“Ugh. I feel silly bothering them. We just need an experienced nose…”
We decided it was unwise to ignore the possibility of something smoldering in the walls. I dialed the fire department’s non-emergency number, described the smell, answered a few questions, and begged the man who’d answered not to send a fire engine.
“We have to send a truck,” he said.
“Do you have a tiny truck?” I pleaded.
He laughed, and shortly after, a fire engine and police car pulled up outside the house. Fully-outfitted, Firefighters Al Doty and Martin Ohradan and Officer Tamra French came to the door. They asked a few questions, and a renewed sniff-search commenced.
“I smell the fireplace. Maybe that’s it?” suggested Officer French. At the door to the basement, we all paused. There was a sweet odor, promising, but not waxy. Dave and I know the comfortable smells of our smoky fireplace and the dryer sheets we use in the laundry downstairs. The mystery scent was different.
After a while, Firefighter Ohradan asked, “Do you still smell it?” A good question, an important question, but by then, Dave and I been sniffing here and there for about an hour and no longer knew what we could smell. Our three responders wanted to validate us and our story. They were patient and persistent in pursuit of that smell, but it was not there for them.
They were also professional, efficient, and concerned for our safety. Firefighter Doty wielded a heat-seeking device and methodically scanned the walls. He found nothing, and we were reassured.
Still, what had caused the smell? I was forming a theory but didn’t want to say it out loud. Didn’t want to be written up in a report as a crazy lady, however…
Our house is old. When we bought it, we were told it was built in 1782 by Colonel Isaiah Jennings upon his return after fighting in the Revolutionary War. During our early years in the house, I’d sit on a stool, basking in the warmth of our massive fireplace, and imagine other mothers who’d raised their kids, stirred their stews, worried, worked, and mused at this hearth. I wondered about those who’d lived here in years past.
And maybe they wondered about us.
Our daughter, Casey, was seven when we moved in, and periodically she’d report seeing a pale, bearded young man at her bedroom door. At the time, we told her she was dreaming. But once, a neighbor – a science teacher – shed inexplicable tears while sitting before our fireplace. His mother was a psychic, a quality mortifying to one of scientific bent, yet, later, he asked her for insight. She said she’d “seen” a wake laid out in that room when she’d visited our home. The deceased was a pale, bearded man.
In our thirty years here, I’ve always felt embraced by the house and fascinated by its history. I’ve never seen or felt anything I might interpret as otherworldly… until I smelled that burning candle.
Dave and I are grateful to Officer Tamra French and Firefighters Martin Ohradan and Al Doty for their expertise and kindness in making sure we were safe.
