The fall morning breeze bites at my skin as I step onto the porch. Frost clings to the rooftops in my subdivision, silvering everything the sun hasn’t touched. I pull my coffee close and breathe in the steam, its warm, spiced aroma reminding me of cinnamon brooms and all the mysteries October seems to stir. Mornings like this always pull at something in me, stirring up the old stories and local legends I grew up hearing.

October in Missouri feels like the land finally lets out a long breath after the heat and flurry of summer activity. The fields are stripped bare and fall quiet after the harvest, and the air settles into a cool stillness that cuts straight to your bones. The trees begin shedding their green and let their leaves fall slowly, and the nights stretch themselves across the hills a little earlier each day. There’s a hush over everything, as if the whole state is settling down to rest. Bonfires are lit, and in their quiet crackle, old stories seem to flow as freely as the hot drinks being poured.

We humans have a strange pull toward death, even when we pretend otherwise. We’re fascinated by what waits on the other side, by the unthinkable things people do, by the fear that rises in us and the control we try to gain by studying it. That curiosity shows up everywhere, from the old Missouri legends whispered around bonfires to the true crime stories we devour in books and podcasts. We’ve always looked for meaning in the unknown.

Every good mystery hangs on that tension between life and what follows it. It’s why tales of hidden gold, outlaw ghosts, and restless spirits survive long after the people in them are gone. Stories like the legend of Simon Durand endure because they touch something ancient in us... that part of us that can’t quite look away from the darker corners just to see what might be waiting there.

The stories that stay with us - the ones we keep alive after the last witness is gone - all circle around death in one way or another. Lizzie Borden's long silence, Bonnie and Clyde's doomed run, H.H. Holmes and the rooms no one escaped, the restless halls of the Lemp Mansion, and Jesse James standing on that chair, unarmed, to dust a picture when he was shot and killed.    

I'm not immune to the pull of a mystery, especially the kind that lingers at the edge of life's final chapter. When my father died, I was still a child, and that loss opened a door I've never fully closed. Death became something I studied rather than feared, pulling me into Missouri legends, ghost stories passed down in small towns, and the strange overlap of history, superstition, and human nature.

My aunts – all six of them – were so devoted to genealogy that my cousin and I practically grew up wandering old Missouri cemeteries. Every tombstone held a story lost to time and weather and memory.  Most graveyards made me wonder about the fragile stretch of life that the dash between dates tried to summarize. 

De Lassus Cemetery didn't allow for wonder. It was a place that felt forgotten even by the dead themselves. Abandoned after its last burial in 1969, it had begun sinking back into the earth. Graves caved a food deep, ivy tangled across the ground, and a young forest of oaks pressed their roots against the crumbling name markers. It was the type of place that made local legends feel real.

Octobers always remind me of my own roots, tangled in the St. Francis Mountains.

Madison County has always carried the weight of its mining past, and with it, a long memory of scandal. The St. Francis Mountains are full of stories, and the place where I once lived is no exceptions. 

Just down the road lies a half-mile stretch of E highway that, to me, is the most beautifully haunting secret in Missouri. On one side, the drops sharply down to the St. Francis River where, in the summertime, you can spot river turtle stacked on sun-bleached logs. On the other, the road presses against the bluffs of Black Mountain. Tree roots claw from the rock as if searching for soil, and their crooked branches arch overhead in a natural tunnel. In fall, the turning leaves and teh 15-foot wet-weather waterfall make the drive feel enchanted. But once winter settles in, the highway is nearly forgotten, and the ice turns it into a quiet, dangerous passage.

If fall is the ending of a lifecycle, winter is the moment the land exhales its final breath. Everything goes still. Everything goes quiet. 

And if this stretch of E Highway could speak, it would have no shortage of dark Missouri stories to tell. Floodwaters have climbed the 30-foot embankments and made the way impassible; cars have slipped over the edge and were caught by massive tree trunks; Civil War soldiers moved through the mountains between Fredericktown and Pilot Knob, using the bluffs as cover. It would talk about legends of ghosts, hidden gold, and murder in the isolated villages that once clung to these hills.

This corner of the Ozarks was known as “French Mills” and was once a small mountain community of nearly 200 people at the turn of the century. Today, if you drive that stretch of Highway E, the only trace that French Mills ever existed is a weathered wooden sign chained to a faded red cattle gate that reads, “French Mills Cemetery.”

That graveyard holds the remains of at least a dozen people, three of whom are rumored to have been murdered.  One of those deaths turned into a legend of deception and hidden gold, a piece of Missouri folklore that's always pulled at me.

Simon Durand died on December 3, 1917, but his story had been winding through these hills long before that. A French settler, he built a fortune in Liberty Township alongside his business partner, Jacques "Jake" LaCondemine after the two arrived in 1879. Together, they ran a grist mill, flour mill, sawmill, general store, and distillery. 

Simon was a sight people didn't easily forget. His grey hair was always matted and had a beard just as wild. He layered his clothing and generally appeared disheveled. He stood only five foot five, yet he was stout enough to hoist a 50-gallon whiskey barrel and drink straight from the bunghole without spilling a drop.

Considering whiskey barrels can weigh between 110 and 520 pounds, it's no wonder stories gathered around him. But the real legend of Simon Durand - the one that became part of Missouri Folklore - wasn't born from his strength. It came from the mystery that surrounded his final years and the questions that lingered after his death.

During the Civil War, Simon hired a live-in housekeeper named Sarah. Her husband had been taken from their farm to serve in the war and was never seen  again. The men who seized him burned her home to the ground, leaving her with her young son and an iron washing pot. She stayed wtih Simon for many years, long enough that she became Simon’s common-law wife and to give birth to Simon’s son, Candide.

The details are unclear, but Sarah died sometime in the 1870s. Simon had been the only father that John had ever known, so John remained with him until he married a young woman named Mary King. Mary came from a prominent local family and so she and John quickly became respected members of the French Mill community. John followed in Simon's footsteps and built his own life through business, owning a farm and two stores.

Mary and John carried a running tab for Simon in their stores that eventually climbed past a thousand dollars. People said Mary urged John for months to confront Simon about the debt. When John finally did, the two men stopped speaking, and Simon told anyone who would listen about how John had wronged him.

Simon understood money but he was notoriously frugal. Instead of paying people for their work or supplies, he often promised a generous repayment upon his death.  During this time, he’d hired another housekeeper named Birdie He once showed her a pair of rams horns packed with gold nuggets, each one a different size and shape. If she kept his secret, he told her, she would be rewarded when he died. 

Birdie eventually married a man named Eli, and Simon, still craving care and company, asked the couple to move in. He promised they would never have to work again if they stayed on his property. They agreed, but it did not take long for them to realize that Simon rarely kept his word.

The promises he scattered through the community had begun to close in on him. Candide, Simon's only heir, had already been murdered. John was no longer in his life. Simon had told so mnay people they would be rewarded after his passing that half the community seemed to have a stake in whatever wealth he was hiding. People drifted toward him with questions about money, each one hoping to learn where he kept his gold. Some carried grudges, and at least one had taken him to court. 

After a long day cutting logs for firewood, Eli came home to a farm that felt strangely silent. When he stepped inside the house, he found Simon tied to his bed and badly beaten. Simon whispered that “the people” had stolen the key to his money box. No surviving record ever identified who these people were. Simon believed they would keep returning to hurt him until he revealed where his gold was hidden.

There is no clear record of further beatings. What we do have are strange events that surrounded Simon during the final years of his life.

In 1899, a newspaper in Madison County reported that Simon had suddenly fallen ill. His right leg had swelled and turned an unusual color. Doctors suggested a tick bite. Neighbors began to believe the old man was being poisoned.

Another incident appeared in print in 1908. A local newspaper reported that a man known only as Orr had shot Simon in the arm. The article said the two men had argued about a cider mill. No one ever explained Orr’s motive. He appears in the historical record only long enough to fire the gun and then he vanishes.

Shortly before his death, Simon changed his will. He held bonds from every state in the union, along with bonds from Mexico, Canada, and Australia. The total value was around sixty thousand dollars at the time. That amount would be worth millions today.

The most haunting detail came from Birdie. In her old age, she often repeated something Simon had once told her.

“Birdie, when I die, they will never find half of my gold.”

Simon was known to keep cash on hand, including the ram’s horns filled with gold that Birdie had seen. She never knew where he hid them. His health worsened over time, and nearly every version of the story suggests poison as the cause of his death. It is said that several men were present the night he died. When Simon asked for John so they could reconcile, these men refused to bring him. Once Simon passed, they carried him to the cemetery and threw him into his grave under a waning moon.

An autopsy was never performed, a death certificate was never filed, and charges were never brought against anyone for the death of Simon Durand.

Simon left behind a long list of enemies. For reasons that remain unclear, the sheriff was rumored to be one of the people involved in his death. The circumstances surrounding it were never investigated.

His will, dated November 19^thof 1917 and written just 13 days before he died, directed that his debts be paid as soon as possible. It granted four thousand dollars to the widow of Jack LaCondemine and $50 to his old friend Siliven. The will was signed in the presence of the sheriff, Sam King, who was John's father-in-law.

The probate judge became suspicious of the events that surrounded Simon’s death. He ordered that five hundred dollars be taken from the estate to pay for a headstone, and he required the respondents to locate and turn in the missing money box.

On November 3, 1921, four years later, a newspaper article announced that the Simon Durand Estate was nearly settled. It reported that Simon gave the sheriff a farm worth twenty-five hunderd dollars, Sam King a thousand dollars, and Mrs. Sim Graham five hundred dollars. These gifts were said to have been given before his death in gratitude for their kindness.

The hidden gold was never found.

Many versions of this story exist and they rarely agree on the fine details. The events I have included here are the ones that appear consistently across retellings. Some are documented in public records.

Even with so many gaps, it remains an incredible story. It has deceit, violence, a child born outside of marriage, missing treasure, and two murders. Despite the lack of hard evidence, generations of families have passed it down. One account even claimed that people from around the world have searched for Simon Durand’s gold. That raises an interesting question. There is almost no mention of this legend on the internet today, so how did these people hear it?

I first heard the story from Bob Kemp. His grandfather had known Simon as a neighbor and had a long-running dispute with him. Bob liked to talk about Jake and Simon. He always said, “No one ever did find that gold.” Every time he said it, he grew quiet and thoughtful.

A leaf scrapes across the concrete in front of me as a soft breeze pushes it along the porch. The last sip of my coffee has grown cold. My rocker taps lightly against the brick behind it now that I have stood up.

Was Simon Durand a miser, or was he simply a man who used those around him to get what he wanted? If the gold ever existed at all, is it still hidden or did someone find it long ago and choose to stay silent? Was he truly poisoned?

I turn to go inside.

Fall marks the end of a life cycle and Winter is death, but Spring reveals the secrets that Winter has kept.

We may never know the truth about Simon Durand’s gold or the many other murderous stories we hear and read.

Then again, maybe we will.  

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Have you every searched for hidden treasure or heard Missouri legends like Simon Durand's gold? I'd love to hear your favorite ghost stories, local mysteries, or family tales. Share your thoughts in the comments. Let's keep these legends alive!