Shaker Town (Taryn's Camera Book 4)

by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  With a leap back from the window, Taryn placed her hand on her chest, as if to manually steady her heartbeat. A ghost then, she thought, as the chills ran up her arms. The hairs on her head stood at attention. It would make sense that the grounds were haunted, if for no other reason than their age and the former spiritual nature of the compound. Just because there was a ghost, though, didn’t mean she had to do anything about it, she reminded herself.

  But as she climbed back into bed and flipped on the lamp for comfort, she shivered in dread and pulled the blanket around her like a shroud. She would have to do something about it. Because just before the figure passed through the fence like a puff of smoke she’d turned towards Taryn’s window and gazed right at her. The two had made contact.

  Game on.

  Creating the outside of the buildings would not be as much of an issue as the interiors. There were still several Shaker school buildings still standing around the country, not to mention loads of examples of schools from that time period and areas that were not Shaker-affiliated. The dry house would be a cinch (there wasn’t much to it structurally to recreate, even though it was mostly gone) and the weaving building wasn’t as deteriorated as it had appeared on first inspection. The interiors, however, would be trickier. Shaker style had its own nuances and definitive elements; it was still emulated today. If she screwed something up then even laypeople would notice; she wouldn't be able to get as creative as she liked.

  Normally, Taryn would begin the job by doing some charcoal sketches. She was going to approach this one a little differently, however, and start with some research. (To be honest, she wasn't entirely sure what a “dry house” was; she'd just nodded her head and smiled at Virgil when he showed it to her.) Luckily, the park had an archives and research room that she was given free reign of (within reason, of course; she couldn’t take anything out of it) and she intended to use it to her advantage.

  So, on her first full day at Shaker Town Taryn found herself locked in a good-sized room, alone, surrounded by piles of dusty ledgers, drawings, letters, and books. She learned about Shaker furniture, Shaker inventions (a Shaker woman actually invented the circular saw-fascinating), Shaker clothing (plain and same was the theme), and Shaker design. By lunch she’d been studying for almost four and a half hours and felt like she was back in school again. She'd barely touched the tip of the iceberg even after all that time. The Shakers were excellent record keepers.

  Still, her tummy rumbled and she was no fool. Taryn knew when it was time to eat and since the park provided her meals she let herself out of the room, making sure to lock it behind her, and made her way to the restaurant.

  The beautiful dining room with the glorious winding, circular staircase (featured prominently in all the brochures) was crowded, probably thanks to the gorgeous weather they were having. Young, yuppifying women with screeching toddlers fighting spoons in high chairs and relaxed-looking retirees clinked glasses of teas, slathered real butter on rolls, and oohed over dessert trays. The dinner crowd had been somewhat different the night before, a little more reserved maybe. She tried to imagine living in the area and being a stay-at-home mom, loading the kids up in the Suburban and taking them to spend a day at the park, complete with horse and wagon ride and a trip down the river on the old-fashioned sightseeing boat. It sounded kind of nice.

  Taryn, deciding that if she didn’t start watching her weight now she’d weigh a ton by the time she left, chose a nice spring salad and bowl of tomato bisque soup. She was still passing on the sweet tea, thanks to her stint at Windwood Farm, and hadn’t quite gotten around to giving up Coke–her main vice. While she waited for her food she thumbed through a well-worn Peter Straub novel she’d stuck in her day pack and set out to enjoy her lunch.

  She was still feeling a little high at the idea of actually being there. In college she’d been a tour guide at a historical home in Nashville and had always wondered what it might have been like to work there at Shaker Town. She still felt kindred spirits with other costumed guides whenever she visited a park like the one she was at now and made a terrible guest herself, always wanting to take over the tours and lecture herself. Staying there in the beautifully appointed, but simple, rooms and eating glorious meals for a month was almost like being at a resort. Granted, a resort where the women wore bonnets and long-sleeved dresses and there was a bit more blacksmithing than usual...

  Her server was a plump middle-aged woman with shockingly red hair, bright green eyes, and the faint shadow of a mustache on her upper lip. Though a little on the homely side, her personality and cheerfulness were so contagious that Taryn instantly forgot her physical attributes. “That all you want to eat,” she demanded, setting Taryn’s soup down in front of her.

  “Well, and the salad,” Taryn laughed. “There’s a little more coming, right?”

  “It’s good, but it ain’t enough to feed a grasshopper,” she snorted. Her name tag read “Ellen” and Taryn estimated her to be in her early fifties.

  “I’m going to be here awhile. If I don’t pace myself I’ll gain fifty pounds,” Taryn explained.

  “Oh yeah, you’re the painter. Well, I’ll be here at supper, too. Sit here when you come back and I’ll load you up with some bread and fruit for you to take back to your room. It’s not like you can make a midnight run to Taco Bell once we close down the kitchen. I mean, you can,” she mused, “but it’s a long run for the border.”

  It was true; the park was kind of out in the middle of nowhere. Taryn liked that but it did make it hard to pop out to the store when you had a craving.

  “Thanks,” she replied. “I appreciate it. I got the munchies last night.”

  “Girl, I live for the munchies. My purse is a regular 7/11.”

  Taryn spent the rest of the afternoon holed back up in the research room, her fingers blackening from the grimy pages and the bright sunlight muted by the heavy drapes meant to keep the books and other important documents from fading. The reading was enlightening and she could’ve kept it up for weeks, but she was really there to search for inspiration for the buildings so she had to skip over a lot of information that didn’t pertain to her current job.

  Pity, though. She loved reading about the Shakers' regimented lives and their complete control over daily living, doctrines, and rules. They might not have believed in procreating, but they were far ahead of their time when it came to women’s rights and racial issues. Women held the highest positions and, indeed, it was a woman who started the Shaker movement–Mother Ann, she was called, although she didn’t ever live at Pleasant Hill.

  The Shakers grew by taking in orphans or other unwanted children and by recruiting those of a like-minded mindset. The Elders would sit on the second floor of the meeting house during services, gazing down at everyone from tiny windows. From there, they'd check out the other onlookers (visitors were allowed to come watch the meetings although they still had to be segregated with men on one side and women on the other). Afterwards, if they'd seen someone they thought they might be able to hook, they'd seek them, ninja-style, and talk the place up.

  Okay, maybe not exactly like that, but it's the way Taryn saw things in her mind.

  In the beginning, when Kentucky was still the “wild west,” times were hard in the area. Rough winters meant cold weather and sometimes a shortage of food. The Shakers offered sturdy buildings, beds, hot meals, and heat. Recruitment was easier then. Everyone wanted to be a Shaker!

  The idea of celibacy was a lot easier to stomach when your belly was empty and your joints aching from the snow and wind. But then, as the warm weather came and game once again became plentiful, gardens sprouting, nature called in other ways and suddenly the strict rules became overbearing. Those who had joined for less than honorable intentions found themselves packing up and leaving and heading back home. These were often referred to as “winter Shakers” for their fickle ways. Of course, while they might be welcomed back once more when the winter came again, it wouldn’t always be open
arms that reached for them.

  When Taryn was finished with her research for the afternoon she took another walk along the pathways, stopping at the meeting house when she heard singing drifting through the open door. Visitors were seated on hard, wooden benches inside, facing a large man who walked down a large aisle, raising his voice so that it reverberated off the walls. The song was about simplicity, freedom, and living a life without frills. His voice was strong and powerful and the audience watched in rapture; even the small children gazed at him with something between fear and enchantment.

  Taryn slipped into the room and parked herself next to a family of four, the bench uncomfortable under her, reminding her she’d missed a dose of her pain medication. It was probably psychological, but since getting the Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome diagnosis she was almost certain the pain in her hips and legs had intensified. As she let herself fall into the music and rhythm of the singer’s staccato steps back and forth across the large room, however, she was able to temporarily forget about the pain and lose herself in her thoughts.

  Some people were under the false impression that the Shakers’ erratic singing and dancing was unstructured, as freestyle as the Pentecostals whose services sometimes resembled epileptic fits. If you'd never seen glossolalia then you were in for a surprise; talking in tongues could be as creepy as anything in a horror movie. They weren’t unstructured, though. Though they did use their glossolalia, singing, and dancing to encourage religious experiences and communicate with the heavenly father, the songs were chosen in advance, the dance steps pre-determined, and the service as regimented as anything else they did. Having that religious experience was important–so much so that some of the leaders thought there was something wrong if at least one person didn’t get the spirit in them and react. The next service might be longer, more involved. One meeting lasted for more than twenty-four hours. Taryn thought if she'd been there for that one she'd have been faking a little spirit talk, if for no other reason than to eat.

  Taryn, an avid music lover, reveled in the sound of the deep baritone filling the walls built for such entertainment. Even with the doors open at either end, the acoustics were extraordinary and she found herself closing her eyes, leaning back on her hands, and enjoying the vocalization. The people surrounding her were quiet, respectfully listening to the songs as they rang out one after another.

  Then, sensing an end, Taryn opened her eyes and took out her camera, Miss Dixie. She zoomed in on the singer, scanned the captivated audience, and then took a wide angle shot to encompass the room's entirety. Her memory card would be full soon at this rate; she’d already taken a ton of photos.

  Grinning and with a light heart, when the show was over Taryn stood up with the rest of the crowd and made her way out the door, unintentionally walking through the women’s side.

  Much, much later, after stuffing herself with pork roast and pecan pie, Taryn relaxed in her room, her red flannel nightgown pulled down to her feet to keep the chill off. She was having a hard time staying warm, despite having the heat on, and flannel was her friend. She hoarded her flannel nightgowns the same way some women did expensive lingerie.

  An aimless reality show was on for background noise as she flipped through her photos on her laptop. Her New Year’s resolution was to edit her photos as she went along rather than waiting until the very end and trying to do it all at once. She had thousands of photos to do something with and was afraid she’d never get around to it. Something always came up.

  Taryn smiled as she cropped and fixed images of the horses leading the wagons, the goats in the barn, the oxen in the field... She’d caught a particularly charming shot of a toddler leaning forward into a clump of daffodils, the delight on her little face enough to make Taryn tear up.

  The images of her lunch and dinner, food porn at its best, made her stomach grumble and she vowed to head into town the next day and pick up some snacks to hoard in her room.

  She hadn’t taken any interior shots except for those at the meeting house. She’d spent so much time in the research room and walking around outside that she hadn’t explored the insides.

  Feeling the urge to go to the bathroom coming on, she was halfway off the bed when the image on the screen grabbed her and brought her fumbling back, nearly losing her balance and toppling to the floor.

  The costumed performer stood in the center of the floor, his eyes closed and mouth open as he lost himself in song. The audience gazed at him, wonder and rapture on their faces. His portly stomach burst from his period-style pants and his hands were clasped behind his back, just as they'd been in real life. At first, nothing looked off about the photograph. But on second glance there behind him, where there hadn’t been anyone before, was the lone silhouette of a woman. Her hands were raised in the air, open to Heaven, her skirt twirled around her as she spun on the sunlit floors. A ribbon on her bonnet had come loose and was soaring through the air, hovering several feet from the ground. The pale blue of the fabric almost white as a ray of sunlight hit it.

  The image was as plain as day, her features distinct. The fact that she hadn’t been there at all that afternoon and that Taryn was able to see right through her were the only clues that she was a ghost.

  Chapter 3

  One of Taryn’s favorite parts of the day was when, while getting dressed in the late morning, the sounds of Dustin’s wife Lydia doing the first musical show drifted down the tree-lined path that ran through the heart of the park and filled her room. Thanks to the meeting house's glorious acoustics Lydia’s voice, which would’ve sounded like an angel’s under ordinary circumstances, was magnificent under the high ceilings. It resounded through the walls and shot outside where each beautiful note wrapped around every leaf, through every tree limb, and even filtered through the windows of the other buildings so that visitors would stop, listen, and hold their breaths until she finished.

  Taryn generally liked to sleep in and considered anything before noon as “early.” Her work allowed her to set her own hours, but the early morning sun and late afternoon rays were truly the best lights to work with. Of course. The Shakers had risen at 4:30 am in the summer time and only slightly later in the winter; it would've been dark when they got up regardless. Sometimes Taryn was just going to bed at that time.

  At the first few notes, Taryn crawled out of bed, threw on her thick white bathrobe, and wandered over to the window where she leaned against the glass and gazed at the undisturbed meadow. It was empty now, freshly mowed, and peaceful. Difficult to believe just a few nights before Taryn had watched the ghost woman all but dance through it and disappear. Although Lydia and the meeting house were a good ten-minute walk from her lodgings, Taryn could hear her as plainly as if she were in the next room, the sounds of the Shaker anthem, “Simple Gifts,” grabbing hold of her heart and squeezing just a little.

  It had been a long time since Taryn had painted multiple buildings and she wanted to make sure she did it well. Everyone from the tourism board to the guests and governor himself would be seeing her paintings, and probably scrutinizing them, and she didn’t want to let anyone down.

  Of course, staying there at Shaker Town was more of a vacation than anything, if she was totally honest with herself. People traveled from all over the state to eat in the famous restaurant that served vegetables grown right there on the site, to sleep in the comfortable Shaker-style beds in the renovated buildings, and to see the craft demonstrations. They boasted many events throughout the year including a fund-raising bike trek, ghost tours, candlelight tours, concerts, and more. She was lucky that not only did she get to be there for free–they were paying her.

  Taryn was enjoying this time of year, when everything felt, looked, and tasted fresh and clean. Although it was cool in the mornings all the way up until noon and she had to wear long sleeves and a jacket to stand outside at her easel, as the day wore on she was able to shed these and enjoy the warm sunshine on her back. The daffodils had popped up with the irises and grew around the fe
nce posts and in clusters in the meadows.

  On slow days when there were only a few stragglers or elder hostel groups following brightly-colored umbrellas she liked to close her eyes and imagine she had the place to herself. She could hear the bees buzzing around the blossoms, hear the faint rumble of airplanes high in the sky, and catch the calls of the horses and cows out in the field–and that was it. After a few months of turmoil, stress, and dealing with the aftermath of what happened in Georgia (including having to give testimony at a stressful but mercifully short trial) she was glad for the peace.

  Unlike other places where she’d worked, the employees there at Shaker Town seemed to genuinely like what they were doing and enjoyed being there. She'd hung out with some of them while they were on their break and so far she’d only heard the normal complaints–aching feet, unruly kids, sore throats from talking so much, etc. She’d been a tour guide at a historical home in Nashville during her college years so she could sympathize with all those things. But, unlike the situations at her previous place of employment, she didn’t hear these guys complaining about small pay scale, demanding and unreasonable bosses, uncomfortable costumes, and lack of respect. So that had to be saying something. The only main complaint she had was that the closest business for her to make a mad chocolate dash to or rent Redbox from was a ten minute drive away in the small hamlet of Burgin.

  The day was over for the employees yet some were still lingering, trying to unwind before driving back to Harrodsburg, Perryville, Danville, or Lexington. Taryn had originally been lying alone on her quilt by the pond, reading a book, but was soon joined by Dustin and his wife Lydia, George who worked maintenance, and Julie–resident bartender. Since it was a Friday night they’d be having happy hour out on the patio soon, along with live music, so Julie was resting before she started setting up. Taryn had only met the petite, tanned MA student once before but liked her bubbly, youthful personality. Taryn was prone to silence, enjoying solitude to the point of it being a flaw, so surrounding herself with others who were more outgoing was sometimes necessary. George was a middle-aged man originally from Delaware, a state Taryn sometimes totally forgot even existed. The only thing she knew about it was that she occasionally got collection notices from credit cards with it as the return address.