Shaker Town (Taryn's Camera Book 4)

by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  She knew she should be worried about the building but she was also concerned that they’d try to dock her pay for what had happened, despite the fact the park director had assured her it wasn’t her fault. “It happened a few months ago to a television set in the room across the hall from you,” Virgil told her cheerfully. “Wasn’t a thing in the world you did.”

  Still, she felt responsible. She did not want to be known as the woman who burnt down Shaker Town.

  They’d offered to move her to a room in The Trustee’s Office and while she liked the idea of being close to the food, it was also too close to everyone else. There would always be a constant flurry of activity there and she wasn’t feeling into that at the moment.

  The figure in her other room…it was just a ghost. Ha, she laughed aloud. A year ago to see such a thing and have the thought of “he’s just a ghost” run through her mind would’ve had her questioning her sanity. But she’d seen a lot since then and learned even more. Not all ghosts are real; some are just residual energy. Not all ghosts are aware of what’s going on around them; they were just out there minding their own dead business.

  But this one knew she was there. He could sense her, feel her. She’d known that while she was helpless in the bathtub.

  But, then again, he (or maybe it was a she but Taryn didn’t think so) had helped her. Of course, he could have just been trying to keep his building from burning down and didn’t give a flip about her…

  Was it possible there were two ghosts? She thought maybe there was. For that brief moment she'd been aware in the tub, she'd known vicious fear, something that paralyzed her on a primal level. But the figure in her room had just surprised her, made her curious.

  Shaker Town was old. Lots of people had come through it. It would be more of a surprise if it wasn’t haunted than it if was.

  Miss Dixie stared at her from the middle of the bed. Even in the shadows of the early morning she looked taunting and accusatory at Taryn. “Pick me up,” she seemed to cry. “Turn me on and you’ll get the bigger picture.”

  “You never give me any answers,” Taryn complained aloud, but still picked the camera up, the weight somehow comforting. “You just cause a lot of problems.”

  But ghost hunting seemed to have become Taryn’s second job, and one that was starting to become more necessary. Letting out a deep breath, Taryn slung the strap over her shoulder, stuffed some snacks in her knapsack, and slipped on her sandals. She had work to do, in more ways than one.

  There was always a lull at some point in the day, usually around lunch, when the tourists went off to unpack their picnics or eat in the restaurant and the park got quiet. It didn't last long but it was nice while it did.

  Taryn used this time to do a little more exploring and put Miss Dixie back to the test. Although Taryn had only really picked up on the one picture, so far, now that she’d seen a few things she hoped she might get more.

  She’d start with the biggest building at the park, the Centre Family Dwelling.

  The building, back in the day, would've been a sight to see. Not only was it imposing, it contained fairly stunning design ideas. Probably housing nearly one hundred Shakers at once, it still had the separate doors for men and women. Interior walls had “borrowed light” which allowed in air and sunlight. It also had a dumbwaiter, separate stair cases for the sexes inside, food storage rooms, a large dining room, and a kitchen with all the latest nineteenth century technology for food preparation.

  When she walked through the front entrance she could hear laughter back in the old kitchen but there wasn’t anyone in the front of the building. There were some interesting rooms down there but while she still had the energy she wanted to start at the top.

  The stairs were hard on Taryn’s legs so she took them slowly, willing herself not to sublux her hip or, worse, dislocate it altogether. The Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome could and did do that frequently and today it was making her joints hurt worse than usual so she was trying to be easy on herself, especially her hips and legs which seemed to hurt the worst. She had just turned thirty-one a month before but felt twice that.

  The top floor was deathly quiet, not a soul to be seen or heard.

  Before that could change she quickly turned Miss Dixie on and began walking through the rooms, paying careful attention to zoom in on the beds, the chairs, and anywhere a person might turn their attention to. As someone known for being messy Taryn was hypnotized by the Shakers' fastidiousness. Mother Ann had even lectured the Believers to “be neat and industrious; keep your family’s clothes clean and decent; see that your house is kept clean, and your victuals is prepared in good order” and to not lose anything, waste anything, or carry debt. With their pegs for everything and cleanliness-is-next-to-Godliness mentality they were truly Matt’s kind of people.

  Taryn fantasized about selling or donating everything she had and living Spartan-style in a tiny house she could take on the road with her but knew that wasn’t realistic. What would she do without her record or cowboy boot collections?

  Even though the Shakers hadn’t had an official church, per say, the cavernous rooms with their hushed quietness and tidiness reminded her of a chapel. The click of her camera was so loud that it echoed, making her jump once. She slowly moved from one room to another, aiming and shooting until she’d covered the top floor. One piece of furniture struck her as both sweet and a little funny; a large cradle rested in the middle of the floor, a blanket and pillow inside. Although she could have easily fit inside it, it wasn't made for a large baby...they'd used these adult cradles for the older Shakers who were sick or disabled and needed comforting.

  When the bell rang to signify the commencement of the singing, Taryn smiled. Lydia was off so it was a male voice that filled the course between the two buildings when she started on the floor beneath her. His voice was a rich, even baritone and though she’d learned most of the songs on the program since her arrival she still appreciated the stunning beauty of the voice and lyrics. If there was anyone left in the building, now, they’d make their way out and find themselves in the meeting house. It was hard to ignore the singing.

  She stopped in what was set up like a children’s room and gave herself a moment, just taking in the tiny wooden toys and small beds and chairs. Did children’s cries echo in here, after being taken away from their mothers and fathers? She tried to imagine a child who’d lived in the same room as their parents suddenly tugged away and cast alone in a strange room with other children they didn’t know. Had it been frightening or exciting, a new adventure for them? As religious as they’d been the whole “go forth and multiply” hadn’t pertained to the Shakers. It was only through bringing in converts or taking in orphans that they’d been able to sustain their population.

  Even though Taryn hadn’t been close to her parents, she’d still mourned them when they’d died; she’d felt like an orphan. They were good people, just distant. She’d preferred living with her grandmother but couldn’t imagine the idea of being torn apart from them while they were living. What had it been like for the children here, to see their parents on the other side and not be able to go to them, hug them, stay with them?

  Taryn imagined that those rules were frequently broken, probably by the mothers.

  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.

  Her 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.

  Chapter 6

  Taryn 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.

  “This 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, n
o, 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.

  Later, 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.