In the quiet, fog-drenched valleys of the Appalachian Mountains, there’s a small town called Black Hollow, nestled between rolling hills and thick forests. Life is slow, and people keep to their own business—except when it comes to pie. Pie-making is serious business in Black Hollow, especially when the annual Autumn Bake-Off rolls around.
No one ever dared to challenge the reigning champion, Granny Hilda McCoy. Her apple pie was the stuff of legend, with a flaky crust that made grown men weep and a secret ingredient no one could figure out. Even after Granny Hilda passed away a few years ago, people still whispered about her pies. Some said she took her secret recipe to the grave.
The problem was, Granny Hilda wasn’t quite ready to let go of her title.
It was late October, and the Bake-Off was just around the corner. Benji Hobbs, a lanky fellow with more confidence than sense, had decided this was his year to win. He’d been practicing his apple pie recipe for months, certain he could dethrone the long-gone legend. "It’s just a pie," he told anyone who’d listen. "She’s dead. Ain’t like she can bake from beyond the grave."
The day before the Bake-Off, Benji was in his kitchen late at night, rolling out dough and slicing apples. The moon hung low in the sky, casting eerie shadows through the trees, and a chilly wind blew through the cracked windows. But Benji was too focused on his masterpiece to notice the way the temperature in the room suddenly dropped.
As he reached for a pinch of cinnamon, the wind howled through the kitchen, rattling the pots and pans. Benji shivered and glanced at the door. It was open—though he could’ve sworn he’d locked it.
"Probably just the wind," he muttered.
But as he turned back to his pie, a soft creaking sound echoed from the corner of the room. Benji froze, his hand halfway to the cinnamon jar. Slowly, he turned his head, his eyes scanning the dimly lit kitchen.
There, sitting in Granny Hilda’s old rocking chair—the one nobody dared move since she passed—was a faint figure. At first, Benji thought it was just a trick of the light, but then the figure rocked forward. The chair creaked again.
"Well, now," a raspy voice said, "what in tarnation are you doin’ with that dough?"
Benji’s jaw dropped. The figure solidified in front of him, her ghostly form unmistakable. Granny Hilda, her gnarled fingers clutching the armrests of the chair, was glaring at him with narrowed eyes.
"G-Granny Hilda?" Benji stammered, dropping the cinnamon. "Ain’t you... ain’t you supposed to be... you know, dead?"
"Clearly," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "But that don’t mean I’m gonna sit by and watch you ruin the Bake-Off with whatever abomination you’re tryin’ to pass off as pie."
Benji took a step back, his eyes wide. "I-I’m just tryin’ to bake! I thought maybe this year I could—"
"Ha!" Granny Hilda interrupted, cackling. "You? Win the Bake-Off? You couldn’t win a mud pie contest with that sorry excuse for dough. Now move aside. Let me show you how it’s done."
Benji, still half-convinced he was having some kind of cinnamon-induced hallucination, stepped aside. Granny Hilda floated over to the counter, her transparent hands somehow picking up the rolling pin like it was nothing. In a blur of ghostly expertise, she rolled out the dough, sliced the apples, and mixed in spices with the precision of a master baker.
Benji just watched, slack-jawed, as she worked. "Is this... really happenin'?"
"Oh, it’s happenin', all right," Granny Hilda snapped. "You think just because I’m dead, I’m gonna let some amateur waltz in and take my title? Not a chance, sugar."
Within minutes, the kitchen was filled with the warm, comforting aroma of apples, cinnamon, and butter. The pie looked perfect—too perfect. Benji stared at it, knowing there was no way he could top whatever magic Granny Hilda had just worked.
"You see that?" she said, floating back into the rocking chair. "That’s how you make a pie. And don’t you even think about tryin' to pass this off as your own. If you win that trophy, it’ll be because of me."
Benji swallowed hard. "So... what do I do?"
Granny Hilda’s eyes glowed mischievously. "Here’s the deal, boy. You take this pie to the Bake-Off tomorrow, and you tell everyone Granny Hilda sent it from beyond. They’ll think it’s a joke, but when they taste it, well..." She chuckled darkly. "Let’s just say they’ll know I ain’t goin' anywhere."
The next day, Benji showed up at the Autumn Bake-Off, Granny Hilda’s pie in hand. The townsfolk looked at him like he’d lost his mind, but when it came time for the judging, no one could deny it. The pie was perfect—better than perfect. It was as if Granny Hilda herself had made it.
Because, well, she had.
Benji nervously stood before the judges as they raved about the pie, their eyes wide with disbelief. When it came time to announce the winner, he cleared his throat and said, "Uh, so, this here pie... it ain’t mine. I mean, it is, but it’s also... Granny Hilda’s."
The crowd erupted in laughter, but Granny Hilda’s old rocking chair, which had been brought to the Bake-Off as a tribute, creaked ominously.
"Sure, Benji," one of the judges said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. "And I bet Granny’s sittin' right there in her chair, watchin'."
At that moment, the chair rocked forward with a loud creak, and a cold breeze blew through the valley, sending a chill through the crowd. Everyone went silent.
Benji just smiled nervously. "Yup. She’s watchin' all right."
From then on, no one in Black Hollow ever dared challenge the title of pie champion. Every October, when the Bake-Off rolled around, Granny Hilda’s chair would mysteriously appear by the judges' table, creaking and swaying in the breeze. And if you listened closely, you could almost hear her raspy voice, cackling and saying, "Still the best pie in town, even from the grave."
Benji? He retired from baking and took up fishing instead. Turns out, there aren’t any ghostly pie masters lurking in the rivers of Black Hollow—at least, not yet.
