Nestled in a narrow alleyway amongst twisty-turny streets, the Ferguson Street house has long captured my imagination. When I was small, I reveled in discovering its secrets: a dark basement with tapered stairs lined with jars of canned goods, culminating in an honest-to-God black cauldron used for apple butter and sauce; a seldom-used parlor with two vintage organs, imposing as dark sentinels in their watchfulness over the space; a converted attic where my great-uncle slept, a place I was granted access to only once in my life.