Jacob’s Favorite Pie
by Victoria Ginn, age 16, White Plains High School
Oct 30, 2012 | 1246 views |  0 comments | 6 6 recommendations | email to a friend | print
Moving into the Crosby house had its advantages . . . or so I thought.

I’ll never forget the day we moved into our new house. It was a crisp autumn day in October. There was a slight breeze, rustling the leaves on the ground and the bare tree branches. I was so excited because we were finally moving into a bigger house. I would finally have my own room. While we were moving our boxes in, people were stopping and gawking. They were looking through their window curtains, stopping at their mailboxes with mouths hanging open, and stopping while walking their dogs. I couldn’t figure out why they were staring. We were just normal people, moving into a normal house.

The next day, as I was walking home, a girl from school walked up and asked if I was the one who had just moved into the old Crosby house. I told her I was, and she clicked her tongue while shaking her head.

“Silly me, my name’s Amber, but I feel like I should warn you . . . that house is haunted, you know.”

“I’m Lily, and I don’t believe in the supernatural.”

“Suit yourself, Lily, but I should tell you the story.”

“All right, go ahead,” I sighed, while moving some leaves with my foot.

“Hundreds of year ago, a young couple built that house. Their names were Elizabeth and Jacob Crosby, and they moved in on October 16, 1858. Those two had a love for each other like no one in this small town had seen in a long time. They spent three blissful years in that house together until the Civil War started. Legend has it that Jacob went off to fight for the Confederacy.

“For a while, things went smoothly. He wrote letters as often as he could, explaining everything was all right and he would be home for Christmas. Elizabeth would bake Jacob’s favorite fresh peach pie everyday, setting it on the windowsill to cool. She was fine until the letters abruptly stopped coming. Locals say after that, she went crazy, staying closed up in her house, and pretty much becoming a hermit. She was slowly dying of a broken heart, but the worst was only yet to come.

“During Sherman’s March, several Union soldiers came upon the Crosby house. They barged right in, trashed the whole house and killed poor Elizabeth. The only reason it wasn’t burned was because Sherman liked it too much.

“Families have come and gone but never stay too long. They say the same strange things caused them to leave. You can hear the BANG, BANG, BANG of the soldiers ramming down the front door, Elizabeth’s shrieks of terror as she meets her murderers face to face and even catch glimpses of Elizabeth herself stalking around corners, waiting on her beloved Jacob to return home, while also plotting her revenge. We assume it’s true, but the few who spoke of it, didn’t stay around long for questions. Rumor has it that right before she kills, the heavy aroma of fresh peach pie can be smelt all throughout the home.”

“Well, thanks for the heads up. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I stuttered, trying to shake the uneasy feeling settling in the pit of my stomach after hearing the story, and waved as I walked off. The rest of the way home, I replayed the story over and over in my head.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” I chanted to myself, more trying to reassure myself than anything else. I hadn’t paid much attention to my surroundings because I was so engrossed in Amber’s story. Things had grown eerily quiet; it was the true, picturesque October night. There was a bright, full moon lazily ducking in and out of wispy clouds, casting an eerie glow over everything in its path. As a cool breeze blew through the bare tree branches, off in the distance, I heard a wolf howl. That was all it took, I was off like a rocket heading for home. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but werewolves were a completely different thing!

Once I reached the front porch, I repeated, “There’s no such things as ghosts,” thankful to be opening the door.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, darling.”

I almost jumped out of my skin at the sound of the unknown voice, but subconsciously, I knew exactly to whom that voice belonged. I nervously shut the door, stepping forward into the house. The hairs on the back of my neck rose and a chill crept down my spine when I walked into the kitchen and saw the window up with the curtains billowing in the wind. Right before I went further into the room to face whatever lay in store for me, I was paralyzed by the enticing aroma of peach pie wafting through the room.
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Jacob’s Favorite Pie by Victoria Ginn, age 16, White Plains High School

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