Page 8 of Baking With A Ghost

"Oh, my. I was just a girl when they finally built the dam and the wheel was no longer needed. At least seventy years ago now, I'd say. A few other businesses were in and out of here when I was younger, mostly other businesses to assist farmers in the area. They kept the wheel at the insistence of the family all these years though, out of respect for the son."

A son?

"What do you mean, out of respect?"

She leans forward and beckons me to come closer. It's the end of the day and she's my only customer, so I scrape an extra chair along the floor and sit in front of her, bracing my elbows on my knees.

"When the Miller's originally owned this place, they had two children. A daughter and a son. The daughter, she went off and got married and lived her life as women did in those times. She married a local farmer and story has it, she was never able to have children. Her parents, bless them, turned to their son as the only hope to have an heir with the Miller name to continue with the mill."

She stares out the window and I follow her gaze into the bushes, as she no doubt gets lost in the story she was told as a child. When her eyes grow misty, I reach out to touch her hand.

"Mary? Are you okay?"

Her watery blue eyes return to the present and she graces me with a sad smile.

"Yes, dear. It's just a sad story to remember, and rumour is it may not be true, but the son, his name was Simon. He died. It was very tragic. He was supposedly trying to move some stones in the river that had washed in and blocked the flow to the wheel. He slipped and hit his head but told no one, is the story told. They found him dead the next day and it was always assumed he had a bleeding head injury."

I gasp and clutch her hand. "That's terrible. Was he young? What happened after that?"

"The parents couldn't live here anymore, being constantly reminded of it. I remember my granddad saying once, after he made his last visit to the store, the Millers thought they were failures for their children and that’s why they couldn't stay. They packed up and abandoned the place."

"Wow, that's so sad. So it was just left? Who was taking care of it until the guy I bought it from?"

"Oh, that's the odd part. Nobody knows. The grass was always cut and the flowers were always taken care of. You couldn't get inside but someone was tending to the outside. And... "

She stops mid sentence and studies me.

"And what? What happened?"

"I never witnessed it but it's on record by a fellow in town, his great grandson is about your age and still lives here. There are stories of the wheel turning, even after the dam was built and there was no water flow. People think it was the ghost of the son, not knowing what to do and where his family was."

I sit up, poker straight. "A ghost?"

She grasps my hand with a stronger grip than expected for an older woman.

"I'm sorry if I scared you. You seemed like you wanted to know more about the place." She studies my face again, no doubt seeing the mix of curiosity and fear on my face. "Has anything happened since you've been here, John? Weird stuff?"

I'm not about to share my erotic dream with a kind old lady in my bakery. I like to share, but that's a bit too far across the line for me.

"No. But I'll try to pay more attention. This story has me very curious though. I'll be sure to try to find more info."

She pats my hand and slowly rises from the chair. "You've done a great job so far, John. Even if the rumours are true, it's good to have you here. Don't let it scare you. It's all just stories, right?"

I nod and walk with her to the door.

"Right, just stories."

She waves goodbye and somehow manages to get into her too tiny smart car and drive away.

Going through my closing routine, I tidy the front of the shop and make a note of what to bake tomorrow to fill the shelves again. Mary's words hang in my mind, like a blanket of fog on a cool fall morning. Was it the Miller’s son in my dream? Is it Simon the lilac letter was warning me about?

If someone is trying to warn me about a ghost, it sounds like he's a helpful one at least.

Making sure I lock the shop door, I continue through the bakery kitchen to my loft upstairs, intent on doing some google research on the family who owned this mill, while I eat dinner.

Snowball runs to the door, much like a dog would, and weaves around my legs in her standard greeting.

"Hi, baby. I know you want your food. Let me get in the door first, okay?"

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