The Apple Day Guardian

Rachel Pemberton had always been fascinated by local history, and when she stumbled upon old photographs of Cromford's early Apple Day celebrations while researching online, she became captivated by one recurring figure. In nearly every image from the 1970s whether from digitized archives, local history blogs, or photos shared by village families the same smiling woman with copper-colored hair appeared beside the makeshift fruit press or helping children bob for apples.

The woman's energy was infectious even through decades-old photographs. She seemed to be everywhere at once organizing, laughing, serving toffee apples from a steaming pot, adjusting decorations, pressing juice. Rachel found herself wondering who this tireless volunteer had been and what had become of her.

A few discreet inquiries led Rachel to the Cromford Heritage Centre, where Mrs. Dorothy Arkwright, a longtime volunteer, recognized the woman immediately from Rachel's phone screen.

"Oh, that's Nellie Toffington," Dorothy said with a fond smile. "Eleanor, officially, but everyone called her Toffee. She founded Apple Day back in 1974. Made the most wonderful toffee apples that's how she got the nickname."

"She looks like she put her whole heart into it," Rachel observed, scrolling through more images.

Dorothy's expression grew somber. "She did. That's why it was so tragic when she died during the event itself. 1982, it was. Up on a ladder hanging decorations when someone bumped it. Fell badly. Died three days later in hospital, kept asking if Apple Day had gone well."

Rachel felt a chill. "That's terrible."

"Nearly killed the tradition too," Dorothy continued. "Took years before the community felt ready to bring it back. But it did come back, stronger than ever. Some say Nellie never really left."

That evening, Rachel found herself unable to stop thinking about Nellie Toffington. She sat at her kitchen table with her laptop, scrolling through more historical images and reading about the evolution of Cromford Apple Day from its humble beginnings in the mid-1970s to the thriving community celebration it had become.

As exhaustion overtook her and she dozed in her chair, she became aware of a presence in the room.

The woman who stood in her kitchen wore clothes from another era a practical autumn dress and cardigan, both in warm browns and oranges. But what caught Rachel's attention was the strange coating that seemed to cover her, a glossy red-brown substance that dripped slowly, catching the light like liquid candy.

"You're researching Apple Day," the woman said warmly, gesturing to Rachel's laptop screen. "How lovely. Not many young people bother learning about where traditions come from."

Rachel blinked, certain she was dreaming. "Are you...?"

"Eleanor Toffington. Though everyone called me Toffee on account of my toffee apples being the most popular treat at every village fête." The woman smiled, and the dripping coating seemed to glow warmer. "And before you ask, yes, I'm quite dead. Have been since 1982. But I see you've been learning about that."

Over the following hours though time seemed to work differently in Toffee's presence Rachel learned the true history of Cromford Apple Day directly from its founder. Toffee explained that she'd created it not just as a celebration, but as an act of resistance against the industrialization that was changing rural life in the 1970s.

"People were forgetting how to preserve their own food, how to press their own juice, how to work together for common good," Toffee explained, absently touching Rachel's notepad and leaving a faint sticky residue that smelled of apples and caramel. "The supermarkets were taking over, everything was becoming convenient and plastic and disconnected. I wanted to create something that reminded people they could produce abundance together."

"The fruit pressing," Rachel said, understanding dawning. "That's why it's free. You're not just making juice you're teaching people they can do this themselves."

"Exactly!" Toffee's coating dripped more enthusiastically. "And the Morris dancing isn't just entertainment it's living tradition, proof that old ways can survive if communities actively choose to preserve them. The apple quiz teaches varieties, helps people understand what they're growing. Even the children's games serve a purpose teaching the next generation that celebration doesn't require expensive tickets or commercial entertainment."

As Rachel listened, taking notes with trembling hands, she realized Toffee's appearance was deeply symbolic. The candy coating that dripped continuously represented tradition itself sweet, sticky, connecting past to present, preserving what lay beneath. The red-brown color echoed both apples and toffee, the two elements that had defined Toffee's contribution to village life.

"Why do you still come back?" Rachel asked. "Why not... move on?"

Toffee's expression grew wistful. "Because I died with it unfinished. That year, 1982, I had such plans. I wanted to expand the event, add workshops about sustainable farming, create partnerships with other villages. And then..." She gestured to herself. "Ladder, concrete, hospital. Gone before I could see if it worked."

"But it did work," Rachel said softly. "Apple Day came back. It's been running for years now."

"I know. And I've been here for every one, making sure it stays true to its purpose." Toffee moved to Rachel's window, gazing in the direction of Scarthin Promenade. "You see, Rachel, traditions die when people forget why they matter. My job my eternal assignment, if you will is ensuring that doesn't happen. That Apple Day remains about community, sustainability, and shared abundance rather than becoming just another village fête selling mass-produced rubbish."

"How do you help?" Rachel asked, fascinated. "What do you actually do?"

Toffee smiled mysteriously. "Little things. I appear in dreams to the organizers when they're planning incorrectly. I guide lost children back to their parents during the event. I help the press run smoothly, mechanical things respond well to ghostly persuasion. I make sure the Morris dancers arrive on time. I ensure the weather cooperates. Nothing too dramatic, but enough to keep the tradition alive and true."

As dawn approached, Toffee began to fade. "Thank you for caring enough to research our history," she said. "Young people like you give me hope that these traditions will survive."

"Will I see you again?" Rachel asked.

"Come to Apple Day on October 4th," Toffee replied. "I'm always there, even if most people can't see me. Bring your curiosity and your notebook. Watch what happens. You might learn something worth writing about."

The following weeks passed in a blur as Rachel became increasingly invested in documenting Apple Day's history. She interviewed longtime organizers, collected more photographs, and began writing an article for the local history society. What surprised her most was how many people, when she mentioned Nellie Toffington, would smile knowingly and say things like "Oh, Toffee still looks after us" or "You'll see her presence on the day, if you pay attention."

Professor Barnabas Ravenwood arrived in Cromford three days before Apple Day, drawn by Rachel's inquiries about supernatural activity connected to local traditions. When she'd reached out to him through academic channels, explaining what she'd experienced, he'd been immediately intrigued.

"A tradition guardian," he explained over tea in a village café. "Spirits who remain bound to community practices they helped create. I've documented similar phenomena elsewhere, but never one so directly involved in annual event management."

"So I didn't imagine her?"

"Almost certainly not. The consistency of reports over decades, the residue you described, the pattern of inexplicable good fortune the event experiences all classic signs of active spectral intervention." Barnabas pulled out his notes. "Toffee represents something important: the preservation of community knowledge about sustainable living and collective celebration. Her work ensures that wisdom doesn't die with the generation that created it."

October 4th, 2025 dawned clear and bright over Cromford. Rachel arrived at Scarthin Promenade early, notebook in hand, determined to observe everything. As families began arriving with wheelbarrows full of apples and pears, she positioned herself where she could watch the entire event unfold.

What she witnessed was magical, though subtle. A child who wandered too far from parents suddenly turned around, as if guided by invisible hands. The Victorian press, which organizers had worried might jam, ran perfectly all day. Morris dancers who'd been running late arrived exactly when needed, looking confused about why they'd suddenly found perfect parking. The weather held beautifully despite ominous forecasts.

And throughout it all, Rachel caught glimpses of Toffee never fully visible to most people, but present in the way sticky red-brown residue appeared on fence posts and information boards, in the faint scent of toffee apples that wafted through even when none were being made, in the inexplicable sense of joy that permeated the entire event.

But what struck Rachel most was watching a small girl no more than five reach up as if holding an invisible hand, smiling at empty air while her mother chatted with friends. When Rachel approached later, the girl's mother laughed.

"She's been talking about 'the nice lady in the brown dress' all day. Says she showed her where the best apples were for pressing." The mother shrugged. "Children and their imaginations."

But Rachel had seen enough. She knew exactly who the nice lady in the brown dress was.

As evening approached and volunteers began cleaning up, Rachel found herself standing near the Victorian press, alone for a moment. The air grew warm despite the October chill, and she smelled apples and caramel.

"Thank you for believing," Toffee's voice said, though Rachel couldn't see her. "For researching, for documenting, for helping people understand why this matters."

"Thank you for trusting me with your story," Rachel replied to the empty air.

"Write it well," Toffee said, her voice fading. "Help people understand that traditions like this aren't just quaint nostalgia they're practical wisdom about how to live sustainably and celebrate collectively. We need that knowledge now more than ever."

Rachel's article, published in the local history journal and picked up by regional press, told Toffee's story with sensitivity and respect. She didn't sensationalize the supernatural elements, but she didn't hide them either. Instead, she focused on what Toffee had created and why it mattered a tradition that taught communities they could feed themselves, celebrate themselves, and connect with seasonal rhythms without commercial intervention.

The response was overwhelming. Neighboring villages reached out about starting their own community harvest celebrations. Schools added apple pressing to their curriculum. Applications for allotment space tripled throughout the region.

And each autumn thereafter, as October approached and apples ripened throughout Derbyshire, those sensitive to such things would catch the scent of toffee apples on the wind and know that Nellie Toffington was preparing for her favorite day of the year ensuring that the tradition of community celebration, sustainable harvest, and shared abundance would continue for generations to come.

For Toffee understood what the modern world so often forgot: that the sweetest traditions are those we create together, that true abundance comes from cooperation rather than competition, and that some lessons are too important to let die even if you have to return from the grave to teach them.