Page 13 of Baking With A Ghost
My plans for today were to stay in and rest, but it appears the rest part has already been taken care of. I slept for fourteen hours. I wonder if that's something I should be concerned about?
My other plans for the day are to research my stone mill’s history and the mysterious story of what happened to Simon. I paid for online access to the local library's archives earlier this week. For a small town, they're sure up to date on the library end of things. I can do all the research I want in my pyjamas, while sitting on my couch with all the coffee I can drink. That’s a win for me.
Settling into the bay window seat with my computer, I admire the landscape below. Fall is just beginning to cast its colourful magic on the tiny town. The leaves are starting to show their secret beauty, much like the girls of Simon's time, brave enough to lift their skirts a bit and wade into the water. I shift my gaze to the tiny little creek bed and envision what it must have been like to live here a hundred years ago. How did Simon manage? Was Mary right and his parents up and left him here? Where was he buried?
So many questions float in my mind, like dandelion fluff in the summer breeze, they seem to never end. But I need answers. I've met Simon. As much as one can meet a ghost, anyway. He’s left me clues, that much is now confirmed. Exhaustion is no longer a plausible explanation anymore for all the strange occurrences. I shift on the window cushions recalling my erotic dream. The hand and knee prints are long faded away from the firm padding, but the memory of that dream still remains in full technicolour glory.
Am I crazy for wanting to… what exactly? Have a relationship with a ghost? Casual sex with a spirit?
The whole scenario is ridiculous, but I'm drawn to it like a moth to a flame.
I try various searches in the local history, looking mostly for newer headlines. Surely the stone miller's son dying and the mill’s sudden closure would have made a news story? They had written news then, didn't they?
A timeline article of the building and original owners appears, mostly boring history stuff, until somewhere near 1920. That's when the history starts to have larger gaps in time and I learn Simon's last name. This lines up with what Mary told me about her grandfather. He would have been coming here around that time and it is interesting to note, the family's last name was Miller. As was customary, you did take on the last name of what your family did back then, so Miller fits.
Simon Miller.
That's the name of the beautiful man in my dream. The ghost who wrote his name and chose spices for my bread. The same one who finished my laundry while I was working in the bakery and I'm positive hugged me.
Scrolling on, I keep reading about how the stone mill was starting to struggle as it switched to the hydro grid. For some reason, the family didn't want to use the new hydro power. While the whole town was being wired to finally enjoy electricity, the Miller’s wanted to rely on a steam boiler or use their own hydro power.
The article also mentioned building a loft for grain storage that was later turned into living quarters when the mill no longer operated. Simon's family had already moved at that time though, so he wouldn't have lived up here.
Other than the timeline and history of the building itself and its owners, I've still got nothing on Simon except his last name. It simply says the Millers moved in 1939 and the building was then sold to an unnamed buyer.
Frustrated with the lack of information about the family, I recall the lilac letter that was left for me several weeks ago. Normally I would've thrown it out, but I didn't. Instead, I stuffed it into the drawer of the writing desk near the doorway.
Pulling it out, I reread it again.
If you want to know about the ghost who lives here, meet me at the coffee house tonight at 8 P.M.
This was weeks ago, would this person still be there tonight? How do I know who I'm looking for? Several hours of my own research hasn't turned up much for me. What do I have to lose?
Decision made, I shower and prepare to meet a stranger to talk about a ghost that lives in my house. A ghost I've hugged and had an erotic dream with.
Nothing weird about that at all.
Arrivingatthecoffeeshop before 8 P.M, I order a lemon tea and a blueberry muffin before scanning the seating area. A couple sits next to the fireplace, heads together in a private conversation, and an older woman sits scrolling through her phone as she sips her drink. Those are the only people here besides myself.
"Here you are, sir."
The barista sets my order on a tray for me.
"I know it's Sunday, but is it always this empty?"
"It's hit or miss on a Sunday. Our one Sunday regular should be here," he checks his watch, "in about fifteen minutes."
"Cool, thanks. Hope it's a good night for you."
I choose a table by the window and face the door, wondering if I'll be able to pick out the mysterious letter writer. People come and go over the next hour, never staying, and I start to wonder if the barista got the time wrong for this mysterious regular. Just as I start to gather my things to leave, the door whooshes open and I sit back down.
This is the guy. I don't even have to ask, I just know.
He's dressed in ripped jeans and a faded black Metallica t-shirt. On his feet he wears shiny brown dress shoes and he carries a worn leather messenger bag across the front of his body. He scans the room as he recites his order and settles his gaze on me. A giant smile spreads across his face and he nods in acknowledgement.
But his eyes… something sits on the surface that has my heart hammering and my palms sweating. This guy is about to change my life. Every nerve in my body screams with equal parts fear and anticipation. He strides to my table.
"John, isn't it?"
