Cherry Pie or Die

by CeeCee James

  I began with a sweeping hand motion. “There are many rumors that claim this building is haunted, and that the ghosts hate visitors. In fact, the manor was only recently opened to the public. When I grew up around here, no one dared to enter.”

  “You were scared?” Mr. Peterson scoffed.

  I nodded. “Very. Every slumber party I ever attended always ended with a ghost story about this place.”

  “What’s it haunted by? Soldiers?” Mrs. St. Claire asked, her red hair glowing in the sun. She batted her long eyelashes.

  I nodded again. “The legend says not just one soldier, but several. After the battle at Fort Mifflin, a group of soldiers were sent out on a scouting expedition. The scouts, led by Captain William Heyword, ran into a band of redcoats, and the captain was severely wounded. They were too far away to return to the fort, so his remaining two soldiers carried him here, to Three Maidens’ Manor. At the time, it was known to provide revolutionists safety as well as medical help.”

  “Let me guess. There was no help,” Mrs. St. Claire whispered. She stared at the house with her lips pursed in apprehension.

  Mr. St. Claire’s glasses flashed in the sunlight as he stood quietly by his wife’s side. He tucked his hands into his pockets and waited for the answer.

  “You’re right,” I said. “There definitely was not. The three sisters who lived here were loyalists, or tories. Unfortunately for the soldiers, that reputation of safety was part of a trap laid by the women. During the night, the women murdered the soldiers, dragged their bodies out through the field, and flung them into the Delaware River. It’s said that the ghosts of the murdered Captain William Heyward and his soldiers haunt this house.”

  Mr. Green chuckled. I got it. Some people didn’t believe in hauntings.

  “That’s how the story goes,” I said mildly, shrugging.

  He held the phone away from his mouth. “I’m sure it is. Like you said, a fun story over a campfire.” He turned to his young wife, his white hair gleaming in the sunlight. “So, what do you think, honey? Think we’re about to meet Casper?”

  Mrs. Green shivered and grasped her designer bag closer to her side. “You know how I feel when you joke about things like that.” She eyed the front of the building—a red brick exterior with a very plain entrance. “I’m not so sure about this.”

  “Stop. You can’t believe this nonsense.” Her husband gave her a sharp a look.

  “I kind of agree with you, Rachel,” Mrs. St. Claire said to Mrs. Green. The red-headed woman scrutinized the building again, then suddenly jumped, looking startled.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “What… what was that?” She pointed to a lace-curtained window on the second floor.

  I glanced up, but didn’t see anything.

  She gave me a weak smile when I caught her eye. My response back was probably similar, honestly confused if she’d been joking or if she’d really seen something weird.

  All right, I thought. Enough of this.

  “I want to point out this interesting landmark.” I directed their attention to the side of the door. Several holes marred the bricks. They had been conspicuously painted white to stand out against the red background.

  “These right here are actual bullet holes from a battle that took place in 1779. By then, the three sisters had married. Lord Cornwallis himself gave the sisters three beautiful candleholders as a wedding gift to thank them for their loyalty. One of the couples moved to the town, but the two remaining fought in that battle. Rumor has it that one of the sisters hid the family’s jewels somewhere on the property.”

  “Are we going to find some diamonds, then?” Mr. Peterson asked, tongue in cheek. He grinned rakishly at me and rubbed the cleft in his chin.

  “Let’s go inside and find out,” I answered. “The curator will give us the tour and answer any questions you have.”

  I led my little group through the front door, our footsteps thumping against the wooden floor. Inside smelled like Pine-sol and old books. The light was dim, coming only from a single, lead-paned window.

  Walking down the hallway to meet us was a short woman—shorter than even my five-foot-two—dressed in Revolutionary War attire. She wore a white cap and a calico dress covered by an apron.

  “Hello!” she said, her voice high and cheerful. “Welcome to Three Maidens’ Manor. Come in!” She waved her hands, encouraging us to move closer. “Scoot away from the door. There you go. There’s plenty of space.”

  The eight of us crowded in the small foyer until the door was able to shut. A sharp creak sounded under Mr. St. Claire’s foot, and we all jumped and then broke out in laughter.

  “So!” the woman said with a happy clap of her hands. “My name is Mrs. Stilton, and I’m the curator here at Three Maidens’ Manor. The spot where you are standing right now is where two of the sisters, along with their husbands, were killed in battle in 1779. The revolutionaries had finally come to take their revenge.” She beckoned with her little hand. “Come on. Follow me.”

  The short woman led us down the hall with a sway of her hips. She brought us into the kitchen.

  “Right there is the original butter churn, table, and chairs.” Mrs. Stilton pointed. “And on this shelf are pieces of broken crockery that have been discovered on the property.”

  Mrs. Green asked her husband to snap a selfie of her beside the butter churn. He shook his white head impatiently, still on his phone.

  Mrs. St. Claire walked over to the laced curtains. “Are these two hundred years old?” She brushed her red hair back from her face for a closer look.

  “No, but they are old,” Mrs. Stilton answered. “We try to use what antiques from the period we can find. But the rest are substitutes to help replicate the look of the late 1700’s. The curtains are special because lace was a big deal back then. Women would tat yards of it to eventually edge her future curtains, handkerchiefs, and underclothes. She stored them in her hope chest.”

  “My goodness,” Mrs. St. Claire murmured. “I’m glad we have Target these days.”

  The group laughed.

  Mrs. Stilton guided the tour up a staircase, leaving Mr. Green behind to visit the bathroom. The group walked into the first of six the bedrooms. We studied handmade headboards, clothing that was preserved behind glass, quilts, old hair brushes, perfume bottles, and razors.

  As we left one bedroom and headed into another, I noticed both Sarah and Mr. Peterson were missing.

  Just then, Eliza Sue nudged my arm. “Hey, I’ll be right back. I have to use the little girl’s room.”

  I nodded. I was starting to think that trying to keep this group all together was about as easy as herding cats. We walked into another room, where we learned about a straw tick mattress, conveniently cut in half to display the ticking, along with the rope bed-frame that held the mattress. There were boots, a shoeshine kit, and more. I glanced around and noticed Mr. Green had rejoined us at some point. He made a point to show us that his feet were nearly twice the size of the boots on display. His face creased into wrinkles as he laughed.

  Mrs. Stilton watched us patiently before rounding us up again. “All right, everyone. If you can just follow me. We have one more area to cover.” She led us back down the stairs. “Hang tight to the banister, these steps can be slippery. Now, where we’re going is, perhaps, the spookiest place in the whole manor. It’s where the sisters actually killed the soldiers.”

  We clattered down the stairs to the main floor. Eliza Sue came out of the bathroom and joined us.

  “Come on. It’s just this way.” Mrs. Stilton opened a door in the hallway. Cold air rushed out of it, along with the scent of dirt.

  “This is the root cellar,” the curator continued. “The three sisters kept the soldiers down here, reassuring the men that it was to keep them hidden. Now, be careful. There are ten steps, so count them. Follow me.”

  She started down the stairs toward the pitch black. I reached for the banister, noting it felt grimy. I cou
ld barely make out a string hanging from the ceiling, as Mrs. Stilton reached for it. She gave it a yank, but nothing happened.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. The bulb must have burned out. Be careful, folks. Remember, there are ten steps. Don’t worry, there’s a light at the bottom.” I heard an echo as Mrs. Stilton entered the space below.

  “The basement is where most of the sisters’ covert activities took place,” she continued. “In one of the rooms down here, they actually kept a stock of weapons and ammunition for the English army. All of it was pilfered away, of course, when the revolutionaries got here. But there was a bayonet blade found buried in the ground. Possibly from the battle of 1779.”

  By now, the eight of us had traveled down the stairs after her and stood waiting in a huddle at the bottom. The only light came from the open doorway above.

  I could hardly see Mrs. Stilton moving ahead. She stopped at what seemed to be a small side table. We began to squash together behind her.

  “Hang on, everyone. I found the lamp,” she said. “Just give me a second to turn on the light.” She fumbled for the switch. There was a click. And then…

  Boom!

  Everyone screamed.

  Chapter 3

  A brilliant flash ripped through the darkness. I flinched at the sound of glass exploding. Blinded and disoriented, I groped about, trying to locate the wall. Screams filled the air. Someone bumped hard into my side, and then my foot was stomped on. From somewhere nearby, a man grunted.

  “Get off of me,” Mrs. Green yelled. I looked in the direction of her voice, but couldn’t shake the bright echo of light my eyes were still seeing.

  My fingers finally touched a wall. I stumbled closer to it just as everyone began talking.

  “Breaker blew!” Mr. Peterson said, his voice infused with an extra measure of confidence. Relieved laughter rose around me.

  Slowly, my eyes readjusted from the explosion. The hall was still dark, and everyone looked like shadows moving about.

  “My goodness!” Mrs. Stilton exclaimed. “Is everyone okay?”

  “I’m fine. Are you okay?” I asked, worried that the blast had burned her hand.

  “I’m fine,” she said. “Who’s got a light?”

  Someone pulled out their cell and clicked on the flashlight. The beam had a blue tint, making all the faces staring back appear extra pale as it swept the room.

  Mr. St. Claire squinted hard behind his glasses as the light passed over his face. He threw up his hand. “Be careful with that, would ya?”

  Several more cell phones flashed on as everyone assured each other they were fine.

  “Honey?” Mrs. Green’s young voice called out. And then even louder, “Honey?”

  I looked around for her husband. The older man seemed to be missing.

  Suddenly, she screamed and dropped to her knees. A flashlight beam followed her. It splashed over Mr. Green lying on the floor.

  He wasn’t moving.

  “Michael?” Mr. Peterson asked. He stooped down over the man. The flashlight’s beam bobbled erratically across Mr. Green’s body as whoever held the phone trembled.

  “Honey, wake up!” Mrs. Green called, patting his cheeks. Her blonde hair fell over her face.

  Dear heavens, did he have a heart attack?

  “Michael!” Mr. Peterson said more firmly. He shook the old man’s shoulder harder.

  Mr. Green’s jacket fell open.

  “Oh, my word…is that blood?” I heard Mrs. St. Claire whisper.

  Everyone fell silent. Someone trained their phone’s light on his chest.

  A blossom of red spread across the front of the man’s oxford shirt. The cell’s light glinted off something metallic. Sticking from the center of his chest, like the fletching of an arrow, was a silver handle.

  Several people screamed. Someone called for lights. Someone else shrieked for help. I propelled myself through the crowd and dropped to my knees by the prone man’s side.

  “Everyone give him air!” It might have been a stupid thing to say. Mr. Green didn’t look like air would help him now. I tentatively held two fingers to the side of the man’s throat, but there was no pulse.

  Mayhem broke loose. Mrs. Stilton returned, carrying a kerosene lantern. Mrs. Green cried in high-pitched keens, and Eliza Sue swept the poor woman into her arms. Mr. St. Claire blinked through his glasses at the body, dumbfounded, while Mr. Peterson spoke with the 911 operator. He seemed the calmest out of all of us, but I noticed even he rubbed his forehead in shock as he gave the operator the house’s address.

  I glanced around for Sarah, but she seemed to be missing. I couldn’t be bothered to find her though, because Mrs. Stilton was trying to straighten Mr. Green’s legs.

  “No, just leave him be,” I cautioned her with my hand up.

  “He’s… he…. Is it murder?” Mrs. Stilton whispered.

  My gaze cut to Mrs. Green, but she was still sobbing on Eliza Sue’s shoulder. Quickly, I gave Mrs. Stilton a grim nod.

  “This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening,” Mr. Peterson muttered. He’d put his phone away and was pacing in the hall. He bumped into Sarah, who was standing in a pool of light from the room at the end of the hall. She must have gone in there and turned it on.

  Sarah reached out to Mr. Peterson as if trying to comfort the pacing man. He ignored her and abruptly turned and came pacing back like a caged lion.

  “Maybe we can move her into the other room,” Mrs. Stilton said. From the glare of the cell flashlight, I could see her nod in the direction of Mrs. Green, still sobbing in Eliza Sue’s arms. I nodded. If the curator thought she could move the pair, that would be the best thing.

  Mrs. Stilton walked up to them. “Would you like to go sit on the couch?” she asked in a quiet voice.

  Mrs. Green didn’t answer, but with Eliza Sue’s help, Mrs. Stilton slowly guided her down the hall to the room. Their path was abruptly stopped by Mr. Peterson, who was returning from the other end.

  “Will you stop that?” Mr. St. Claire snapped at Mr. Peterson. “Quit moving around!”

  “What’s it to you?” Mr. Peterson asked, his voice high with stress, his face hidden in the shadows.

  I quickly got between them. “All right. Everyone just calm down.”

  “Calm down?” Mr. Peterson spun around to face me. “Someone just died!”

  “And it wasn’t an accident,” Mr. St. Claire growled out, his glasses reflecting the light from the room.

  I exhaled sharply. It gave me the shivers to think how adamantly he’d stated that.

  I glanced at poor Mr. Green. Now that the flashlights had been taken off of him, I could barely make out his shape on the floor. The light from the end of the hall glinted off his well-polished shoes.

  “I’m going outside,” Mr. St. Claire said.

  “I-I think you need to stay here,” I said.

  “I’m going to be sick,” he growled again. And then he was stumbling down the hall the other way. I heard his shoes slap on the steps, and then distantly, the front door bang open.

  Mr. Peterson glanced at me and then paced back the way where Eliza Sue had taken Mrs. Green.

  I stood alone, my heart pounding, trying to think of what to do. The police were on their way here. I needed to keep the scene clean, keep everyone calm. Should I stay with the body? I glanced at the warm light spilling from the room ahead, and then back at the body.

  My skin crawled.

  A memory hit then. Just a whisper. So unexpected it brought a metallic taste to my mouth.

  Derek.

  “You know,” a low voice said in my ear.

  I jumped and a scream ripped out of me.

  “Oh, my goodness. I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Stilton apologized. Her face looked like a macabre crying mask with one side heavily in the shadows.

  “Are you okay?” Mr. Peterson’s voice was frantic as his silhouette filled the entry to the hallway.

  “I’m f-fine!” I said, my voice feeling as weak as water.
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  “Again, I’m so sorry. I truly didn’t mean to startle you,” Mrs. Stilton repeated. “I just needed to share something. I didn’t want the others hearing me.”

  “What?” I asked. The adrenaline caused my hands to shake. I wrapped my arms around myself, now grateful for the warm sweater.

  “The alarm went off last night,” she hissed.

  “What alarm?” I whispered back.

  “The manor’s alarm. Like someone had broken in.”

  My mouth dropped. “Are you serious? Did you let the police know?”

  “They met me out here. I searched through the house with them, but there was no one here.”

  The air felt like it had dropped twenty degrees since we’d first arrived. I shivered some more.

  “This house is said to be haunted, you know.” The curator leaned closer. I moved away, not liking her that close to me. Not now, not after everything that had happened.

  She continued solemnly. “It’s not the first time the alarm has gone off in the middle of the night. And sometimes things have been moved around.”

  “Was anything moved last night?” I asked.

  Mrs. Stilton held up the lantern and shook her head. The light cast dark shadows under her eyes. “No. Nothing was moved. Nothing stolen. I figured that Captain Heyward and the soldiers were just bored last night.”

  “Soldiers… you mean…”

  “Yes. The ghosts.”

  At her last word, I caught movement along the wall. A scream rose in my throat, ending in a weird gurgle when I realized it was Sarah. The young athlete slowly flexed her arm as she stood at the end of the hall, watching us.

  Just then, I heard a clatter down the stairs. Mr. St. Claire arrived, followed by two police officers.

  “Leslie,” the first officer—a heavy-set man with a deep voice—addressed Mrs. Stilton.

  “Charles,” she said back.

  “The soldiers again?” he asked, shining his Maglite down at poor Mr. Green.