Elijah Adams passed away in 1901 at the tender age of eight, caught in the path of a horse-drawn carriage. Legend has it that the carriage's wheel became entangled in the strands of his copper-colored, wispy locks and refused to let go. It dragged him across the cobblestone road for a distance of forty-three feet before finally releasing its grip. The tragic incident left a trail of bloodstains resembling artful strokes along the ground. Today, that stretch of road is known as Crimson Lane, a reminder of the fate that befell young Elijah.
"I hope no one buys into that tale," Elijah whispers in my ear as he perches on my shoulder. He absentmindedly scratches the back of his head, tracing the diagonal indentation where the wheel rolled over him, creating uneven patches in his hair where it remained attached.
"Why shouldn't they believe it?" I inquire.
We find ourselves behind the counter of the souvenir shop, observing the visitors in the parlor. Our gaze remains fixed upon them—the modern-day tourists who have come for the midnight tour. It's quite amusing, we both think. The only real attraction we have are the goats, present solely for symbolic purposes. Elijah had a fondness for goats and once dreamed of living on a farm. Nevertheless, people flock here to catch a glimpse of the residence of a boy who met his tragic end elsewhere. Well, that, and the fact that the hotel is conveniently located, and the tour provides an inexpensive way to pass the time when other options run dry. According to Elijah, the Adams family estate was never a place of warmth and affection. It came as no surprise when Robert, Elijah's older brother, grew up and transformed their ancestral home into a commercial enterprise.
"It wouldn't be fair for them to believe it," Elijah remarks before vanishing into thin air.
Elijah doesn't enjoy lingering in the souvenir shop for too long. He finds the concept of it utterly absurd—t-shirts, photographs, postcards—meaningless trinkets. According to him, the only gift of real value is the gift of unadulterated truth.
He's probably off playing on the rooftop again. Robert despises it when Elijah ventures up there. Elijah considers his brother's fear to be unfounded—after all, you can't die twice. You're either gone or you're here. But Robert scolds him every time, always concerned, not for Elijah's well-being, but for those like me—a living person who can see Elijah and the other supposedly deceased entities. I nearly had a heart attack during my first encounter. Witnessing a child dancing on the precarious edge of a tall building is not an easy sight to bear.
Elijah claims to be the oldest. He was born in 1864, while Robert came into the world in 1866. However, Robert lived on until 1889, reaching the age of twenty-three. Arguments about who is truly the eldest often turn into heated debates, although they are somewhat beside the point. Typically, I've been informed that when a person is about to depart from this world, they are granted the opportunity to explore what lies beyond. For some inexplicable reason, the Adams brothers are trapped within their ancestral estate.
"Ahem," coughs the man standing before me. I must have been too engrossed in Elijah's presence to notice his arrival. He appears to be in his forties, his blonde hair blending with patches of gray in his beard—a subtle sign of his advancing age despite his youthful countenance. I notice he isn't wearing a ring, indicating that he is unmarried.
"Hello, sir," I greet him with my best smile. "How can I assist you today?"
He remains silent, as if he wasn't the one seeking my attention. Instead, he surveys the shop before wrinkling his nose and gesturing toward the glass counter. Slowly, he raises his hands, mimicking a pinching motion and then jerking his hand toward the glass as if capturing a speck of floating dust. "Gotcha," he mutters.
Finally, he clears his throat and addresses me. "My girlfriend," he says. "She has a fascination with peculiar things." Clearly. "She's obsessed with the Adams Brothers. While I'm here in Virginia, I thought I'd stop by and get her something. Do you have any recommendations?"
It's one fifty-nine. My recommendation would be to never enter a shop a minute before closing time and expect extra services.
I clear my throat in response. "Um, perhaps if I knew more about her?" I reluctantly inquire. "Let's start with her favorite—"
"Oh, look at the time," he interrupts, glancing at his watch. "Hmm, I'm staying at the house. I suppose I'll have to come by tomorrow after the morning tour."
"You're not joining the midnight tour?" I inquire. "Apologies, I just assumed."
"I was," he replies. "It's our thing to travel around the country and piece together unsolved mysteries. She'd be furious if I solved this one without her, but I couldn't pass through Virginia without checking it out—hence the gift."
"Ahh," I respond. "An apology in its finest form... But the Adams Brothers aren't a mystery. I'm more sorry that you're wasting your time than I am for your girlfriend missing out."
He chuckles as if he knows better and then walks away.