Where is Jacob?

Where is Jacob?

The Grist Mill in Martintown, Ontario, Canada, is said to be haunted. The Prescott Paranormal Society completed an investigation of the mill in six hours overnight on July 2-3, 2010. They reported evidence of paranormal activity including “EVP” (Electronic Voice Phenomenon) recordings where a “Jacob A.” or “Jacob M.” can twice be heard answering the investigator’s question by stating his name.

The investigators also detected electromagnetic signals that were interpreted as playful hide-and-seek activity by “Jacob” on the mill’s upper floor. Other incidents including the basement door closing, and a ‘several seconds’ interval of camera blackout, was reported. 1-1

A different paranormal investigative company did a separate investigation around 2018 and confirmed the findings of the first investigation. No one knows who “Jacob” was but here is my story of what could have happened.

Sometime in the late 1800’s...

It was getting close to dusk. Jacob’s chores were all done for the day.

“Father, may I go down to the Mill to watch them grinding corn?”

“All right, Jacob, but mind you’re back before dark. Your mother is making sweet buns and you know how much you like them. They are best eaten hot so make sure you don’t dally too long down there. And mind the water! It can be treacherous. You know how slippery those rocks get.”

“I know, Dad. I promise I’ll be home before dark and I’ll be careful near the water.”

“Run along then, son,” said his father, turning to where their lone plow horse stood patiently.

“Come on, Belle. You and I still have work to do.”

Jacob ran down their farm road as fast as he could. He was twelve years old and as quick as a fox. He took a shortcut through Brennan’s pasture, minding not to step in anything. Then he ducked down and scooted between the split rails of the fence. As he scurried along the main road, he could hear the water bubbling over the rocks even before the McMartin Mill came into view.

As he topped the rise in the road, the grist mill stood majestically before him right next to the covered bridge. Jacob loved the sight of the Mill. Mr. McMartin had built the structure in 1846.

Jacob’s father had told him that Alexander McMartin’s father, Malcolm McMartin had built a wooden mill on the spot some forty-odd years before. He could not remember if the old mill had burned down or if it was just no longer big enough to handle all the custom milling the local people needed. A new four-story mill, made with local fieldstone, was built to replace the older one.

Jacob could sit for hours and watch the big wheel turn lazily in the water, powering the big gear wheels inside the mill where the corn and wheat were ground and milled into flour so that people could bake bread and Jacob’s favorite sweet buns that his mother baked. He looked up at the sky and through the trees could see the sun dipping quickly downwards towards the horizon.

There was no one on the Williamstown Road so he crossed it not far from the mill. He stood on the little bridge for a while just gazing at the mill, listening to the turning wheel and the water in the North Raisin River as it flowed off into the distance.

Mr. McMartin came out of the back of the mill. He also stood listening to the sounds the wheel was making as its blades dipped one after another into the water. It was the power of the water that turned the huge wooden wheel. Jacob stood in awe. Then Mr. McMartin glanced up at the bridge, saw Jacob and waved. Jacob waved back and then darted across the bridge and into the front of the mill.

“Hi, Mr. McMartin. What are you grinding today?”

“Just finishing off a new batch of wheat, Jacob. Too early for corn yet, but the wheat will make some nice fresh flour. I’ll give you some that you can take home for your mother.”

“Oh, that will be wonderful. Mom loves to bake and especially using your freshly ground flour. She’s making sweet buns for us to have with supper tonight.”

“Do you want to watch the big waterwheel for a while? It cannot be for long though. I imagine your folks will be eating supper before too long and I’ll be closing up for the night soon.”

“Yes, I’d like to watch the wheel for a while if I may. Father told me not to tarry but I wanted to see the wheel. I could watch it for hours.”

“Well, you can go out on the back stoop but be careful. There’s water splashing all over the place and it is slippery. Mind you hold onto the railing. What are you now...twelve years old? Getting to be a big boy, huh, Jacob? Still...be careful. I’ll be locking up as soon as the rest of the wheat in the hopper is fully ground.”

The boy went down the stairs to the basement where the gear wheels were turning slowly. He pushed open the back door and there was the water wheel. It towered over Jacob like a huge angry round giant.

The wheel sounded as though it was moaning and groaning as it churned the water and flung some of it over the stoop. It was not long before Jacob was soaked. He was fascinated by its turning and how the whole thing worked. When he grew up, he already knew what he wanted to do. He could not think of anything he’d rather do than to spend his time in a mill like this one, turning corn and wheat into flour so that the local people could bake their bread, buns, cakes, and pies.

Towards dark, Mr. McMartin looked in the hopper and it was empty. He was getting tired and hungry, so he was glad all the wheat had been ground. He remembered Jacob so he peeked out the back door. The waterwheel was turning its slow cycle, but Jacob was not there.

“Hmmm. He must have gone home when I was not looking. I can’t say I blame him if his mother is baking sweet buns.”

He locked up and was heading up the path to start his long walk home when he spied a figure plodding towards the mill. ‘Why that’s Elias, Jacob’s father’, he thought.

“Evening, Alexander. How’s the wheat grinding up then?”

“Hello, Elias. It is all turned into some mighty nice flour. I was going to give some to Jacob to take home but then I got busy with the wheat in the hopper and did not see him afterward. I assumed he went home.”

“Well, he isn’t at home. I told him not to stay long here and he is a good boy. Usually listens to his father and not the kind to get into mischief though he likes to come down here.”

“Oh, don’t I know that. Soon as he is a little older, I’m going to offer him a summer job here.”

“I am sure he would be thrilled to spend his summer here listening to the churning of the waterwheel and watching it magically turn grain into flour. I wonder where he could have gotten to. It’s not like him.” Jacob’s father looked at the miller and there was a genuine concern in his eyes. Together they checked every inch of the mill. They took lanterns out back and tried to see along the shore, the rocks and even under the water. A few other men joined them, and they searched all the surrounding fields and forests. They asked everyone in the village and searched through the night.

Nothing was ever seen of Jacob again. Did he get too close, lose his footing, and fall in when he was watching the waterwheel? Did he get swept away by the fast, rushing water?

No one knows what happened to Jacob such a long time ago but if you visit the Grist Mill in the Village of Martintown, Ontario, Canada, some say that Jacob is still playing in the mill and that you can still hear his voice in the attic at night. This is not surprising since it was, and perhaps still is, his favorite place in the world.

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This is the lead story of my book of short stories called ‘Where is Jacob’ and other Haunting Stories. Find the book on Amazon. ASIN # 1687015864

Let me know if you like stories of ghosts and haunted places and I will post some more. I have many to share with you.

Besides writing stories, I am an artist. The image is an oil painting that I did of the Martintown Mill several years ago. See more of my paintings at http://www.artistbobtaylor42.com