Shaker Town (Taryn's Camera Book 4) (8 page)

A scraping noise behind her made her jump a little. It was the sound of furniture moving across the wooden floors. Since children were encouraged to touch things and even play in that room Taryn turned and expected to find a little one at her feet. The expectant smile on her face disappeared, however, when she was met with nothing but a cold draft of air that shot across her face and lifted the hair off her shoulders.

Something passed through her, something malicious and unforgiving that clutched at her insides and scratched until she thought she would scream and it finally gave up and slithered out on the other side.

Though not someone she would consider to be maternal, her instinct was to turn and protect the long-ago children who had once (maybe) filled the small room behind her. The thickness that permeated the space around her was pure, unadulterated evil and Taryn recognized it for what it was. The pictures on the wall shook a little, a small chair fell over as the presence traveled around the room, searching for something it couldn't find. She saw the quilt on the bed slide to the floor in an untidy heap and it filled her with anger that something so ugly would even dare to touch the innocence of childhood.

“Get out of here,” she hissed but even as she spoke her fingers slid across her camera, snapping a picture so that the flash of light filled the room at once and set even the dark corners ablaze with light.

The putrid air passed through her again, this time in a frantic rush so that she stumbled backwards into the doorjamb and nearly toppled to the floor.

The air was still once again, unbroken by scent or sound or noise. She waited, though, and gathered herself. There were footsteps on the stairs now and someone would be up in a moment.

Giving one last look at the small room, Taryn had the urge to pull the door to, to keep out anything that might be lurking outside. She left it open to the light, however, and hoped whatever had been there had passed.

She was barely in the foyer when the smothered sound of giggles erupted from the empty room behind her.

H
er hands caked with acrylic paint and her hair plastered to her head with sweat, Taryn was anxious to return to her room for a shower before heading to the other building to catch supper. The temperature had dropped a little but the humidity was still high, causing her clothes to stick to her body. Although she was tired, achy, and more than a little messy Taryn couldn’t complain. In the twilight of the day the sun was casting a colorful quilt over the low-rising hills and valleys and everything moved just a little bit more slowly, deliberately.

Her grandmother had called this the “magic hour,” and when she was little Taryn thought that meant fairies and unicorns came out to play. She would sit on the porch of her suburban Nashville street, peering over the rooftops of the houses that surrounded her, hoping to catch a glimpse of something magical. Even as a teenager she’d sometimes sit on the back porch of her grandmother’s home in nearby Franklin, surrounded by her potted tomato plants and butterfly bushes in the summertime and pretend the fairies really might come out to play.

Now, Taryn just enjoyed the walk back to her building, her knapsack hanging low on her back and her art supplies slung over her shoulder in a black leather satchel.

Still, the chill of her experience in the children’s room hadn’t left her. She’d worn it all day and on occasion the decay of whatever the essence had been wafted up from her clothing, assaulting her all over again. She’d found herself paranoid a few times, sure someone was standing just inches behind her while she painted or was watching her from behind a row of trees. There was never anyone there, though, and the tourists who were interested in her work kept a respectable (but visible) distance.

Her room was cold when she entered and Taryn welcomed the air, although it immediately chilled the dampness on her skin. Shrugging off her capris and T-shirt she slipped on her bathrobe and sat down on the bed to go through her pictures.

Most were unremarkable but when she got to the second floor of the Centre Family Dwelling she paused and zoomed in, looking carefully. In real life, the beds in the first bedroom were on the east side of the room and there were four of them. Miss Dixie, however, showed three on the west. They were still neatly made up, with white coverlets and orderly pillows. A chair hung on a wall peg and two pairs of sturdy shoes lined the floor under a window.

These had not been there earlier.

Still taken aback every time her camera showed her a change, Taryn shook her head, trying to clear the clutter in her mind. It made zero sense to her that she would see some things yet not others. The next three photographs were normal, without any deviation from what she’d seen outside of the lens.

And then there was the children’s room. It was still the children’s room through her camera, with the same small bed and chairs and costumes laid out for guests to try on. That wasn’t any different. In the center of the room, however, was a tall, shadowy figure of a man. His arms were stretched out powerfully, as though opening himself to whatever might befall him. Although Taryn could see
through
him, there was still something fierce about his stance, the ethereal lines of his body did not lessen the power of his manifestation. Indeed, the objects in the room around him were wavy, a little unclear, as though his presence weakened them.

But, maybe worst of all, his savage glare was directed straight at Taryn.

T
aryn spent the next four nights tossing and turning in her sleep, unable to achieve any quality rest. Her days were a blur of unseasonable heat, linseed oil, and frantic strokes of color on canvas. One of the buildings was almost complete. She was saving the school building for last, since it was in the worst shape, and she’d need to do more research on it to reconstruct it.

On her iPod Taryn played the high-energy songs of Bruce Springsteen, Bon Jovi, and John Mellencamp. She considered these her “blue collar threesome.” She was normally more of an alt-country fan but when her energy was low she needed something that would get her blood pumping. It just made her work faster.

People were friendly enough, and even stopped to talk and invite her to lunch, but when the work was moving swiftly she preferred to be alone and stay inside her own head. Ellen, the server who waited on her the most, took to bringing Taryn her lunch outside when she didn't show up in time to eat, and brought her dinner once. These short interactions were about all Taryn could handle while she worked.

In the evenings she zoned out in front of the television in her room, sometimes not even aware of what was playing before her. From her bed, if she kept the curtains open, she had a beautiful view of the stars at night and she’d watch them until she dozed, thinking of how those same twinkling lights once shone on the people who lived there more than a hundred years ago.

She continued to talk to Matt throughout the day, sometimes by phone and sometimes by messenger. His work was moving along and he was in the middle of some project. He always sounded distracted, even when he was at home, so she tried not to bother him much.

She ate her meals at a small table in the restaurant by herself, tasting very little of the wonderfully southern fare yet filling up just the same.

And something continued to stalk her.

“
T
his is Andy Tribble,” Dustin announced, introducing Taryn to the middle-aged man who stood beside him. Next to beanpole Dustin, Andy was short and stubby, his belly protruding over his pants so far that Taryn couldn’t see his belt properly. He looked to be around fifty and Taryn was almost certain that the lopsided thick patch of hair on his head was not truly his.

“Hello,” he wheezed, holding out his soft, beefy hand that swallowed hers. His was wet from sweat and instantly dampened her palm. She resisted the urge to wipe it on her skirt. But, after all, she didn't want to be rude. Grinning, he pushed his large glasses back up on his nose, leaving a cloudy patch of moisture from his finger on the glass. “Hot, ain’t it?”

“Just a bit,” she smiled politely although, indeed, it was a scorcher. Taryn was wearing a short, pink peasant skirt and white tank top. Although both were cotton and lightweight the sweat beads were still rolling down her back and stomach, gathering on her legs.

“Andy is here to write a book about the Shakers of Pleasant Hill,” Dustin explained.

Andy bobbed his head in excitement. “About their methods of acquiring new members,” he proclaimed. “It’s for the University Press.”

“Will you be living here while you write the book?” Taryn asked politely.

They were standing in the middle of the gravel road that ran through the park and although they were shaded by the big, leafy trees her legs were killing her and she couldn’t wait to sit down and have a drink. She’d been on her way to the restaurant for lunch when Dustin stopped her.

“Oh, no, no,” he shook his head, his hair flapping with the movement. “I live in Harrodsburg. But I’ll be out here every day,” he promised.

“Andy has some interesting ideas about the Shakers,” Dustin admitted, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Especially about the ghosts.”

“Oh, well, I guess I do,” Andy admitted. “I’m more of a realist and intellectual about these things. I don’t, for instance, think the Shakers really had religious experiences during their meetings.”

“Well,” Taryn pointed out, “they didn't have religious experiences at every meeting. Some days of the week the meetings were just for going over their finances. And then there were meetings where letters from other societies were read. Some nights it would have been a union meeting
just
for conversation. And one day of the week they had to get together to learn any new songs and dances.  They really only used one day of the week for all the stomping around, marching, and singing we know them for. Sometimes they just talked.” Taryn was lecturing now, in full tour guide mode.

Andy's face reddened even more, turning a deep shade of purple. Ignoring everything she'd just said he sputtered, “And I think there’s
always
a reasonable explanation for ghosts.”

Now feeling a little prickly, maybe from the heat and maybe from his bull, Taryn cocked her head and studied the little man in front of her. “I think there’s a reasonable explanation for ghosts, too,” she pronounced with authority.

“Yeah, what’s that?”

“That somebody died and now they’re haunting a place.”

Andy’s face reddened, Dustin snickered, and Taryn politely smiled, resisting the urge to flutter her eyelashes.

L
ater, back in the archive room, Taryn felt guilty for being rude to the poor man and told herself she’d apologize and make it up to him the next time she saw him. After all, he was as entitled to his opinions as she was to hers. She remembered what the owner of Windwood Farm had told her the first time she met him–that maybe she didn’t believe in ghosts because she’d never seen one.

Obviously, that had changed.

Taryn smiled to herself now, remember the naiveté she’d walked into
that
job with. And at how quickly things had changed for her.

The sun was setting when she started putting books back and organizing her belongings. The small green lamp on the desk flickered once, then went out, leaving her in a stuffy darkness, the smell of books musty combined with the dust and wooden shelves.

Taryn stopped what she was doing and rooted around for her cell phone. It was at the bottom of her bag and by the time she found it the room had magically grown almost completely dark; not even the outline of the furniture was visible.

Snapping her phone open, the small blue light illuminated the close quarters and offered some comfort. Taryn was a little claustrophobic and a whole lot afraid of the dark so she welcomed its glow. She quickly stuffed the rest of her papers into her knapsack and threw it over her shoulder and, still holding onto her phone, was halfway to the door when a sound caught her in her tracks.

Taryn hesitated mid step, not sure if she wanted to turn around and look or not. It was just a slight shuffling noise, and on the other side of the room, but it was the unmistakable sound of a fabric rustling against something. A breath caught then, Taryn was never sure whose it was, and the room filled with the slow, sweet voice of song.

This wasn’t the vibrato of the docents in the meeting house, with their powerful voices and theatrics. This was a sweet, soft voice that first sang with hesitation and then grew with confidence as the words swirled around Taryn like tiny daggers pricking at her skin.

“Twas in the merry month of May/When all gay flowers were blooming...” the voice rang out, oblivious to their audience.

The sad words and melancholy melody fell flatly against the darkness, swallowed up by time and space. Taryn couldn’t help herself; she
had
to listen. The other woman might have been dead but her voice was young, almost hopeful, and innocent. It was impossible to turn away from.

Unlike the blast of air that had accosted her days before, this time Taryn was consumed with a yearning that was much stronger than any fear that might have settled over her. The rustling continued as well and it was then Taryn realized the figure must have been pacing back and forth, carrying on a task that had seen its completion a long time ago.

Biting her lip and holding her breath, Taryn turned then and searched for the spirit with her eyes. The glow of the cell phone faltered for a moment, and then, in the murky shadows, it lit on a pale, blue dress and the even paler silhouette of a woman even younger than herself. She wasn’t quite solid, as the light appeared to shine through her, but she was as real as anything Taryn had ever seen.

She appeared not to notice Taryn at all as she continued the pacing and singing, wringing something in her long, elegant fingers.

Taryn began the process of untangling Miss Dixie from around her neck when she was struck once again by the cold, savage wind. It didn’t move through her this time, but
around
her, and Taryn could see the moment when it struck the other woman. With a muffled shout, the woman fell backwards, clawing at the air, and Taryn watched in horror as her face distorted first into fear and then pain. She screamed, struggled, and pleaded for help but her invisible attacker showed her no mercy. Taryn reached for her but an invisible wall separated them; Taryn couldn't get through. Then, the woman's eyes rolled back and her head fell limply to one side.
She's dead for sure now
, Taryn thought helplessly, nervous laughter and fear making her retch. The last thing Taryn saw before darting out the door, into the light, was the shadowy figure falling upon the apparition, stamping her out like an eclipse.

T
here were more than a dozen messages from Matt back in her room. Some of them were chatty diatribes about his day, how much he missed her, and his puttering around the house. He was trying for an herb garden in his kitchen this year and wanted her advice on heirloom tomatoes for his backyard garden. And then there were his funny cat videos, singing hamsters, and comedic sketches. Matt was a pro at procrastinating and liked to send everything he came across her way.