“Morgan is the guy who was killed, right?” Melissa mused thoughtfully as she turned into the park. “Well maybe your Evelyn killed him.”
“Why?” Taryn asked, genuinely perplexed.
“If they were lovers or he raped her or...I don't know,” Melissa replied. “Lots of reasons to kill someone.”
“But he loved her. You could see that.”
“Love is an even stronger reason to kill someone,” Melissa chuckled. “Just wait until you're married.”
Taryn groaned to herself, resisting the urge to speak out about Andrew. They had been married in every sense but the legal one. And she'd never wanted to kill him. Well, almost never.
“I mean it,” Melissa insisted. “Some mornings I wake up and look at my husband and think, I could kill him or I could make breakfast. Then I think about the effort of cleaning up the blood, the expense of the funeral, and how hard it is to find a babysitter these days. So I'll get up and put on the coffee.”
Taryn laughed.
Melissa helped Taryn up the stairs and into bed. She even darted off to the vending machines and brought her back plenty of caffeine and snacks.
“You sure you don't want me to stay?” she asked worriedly, looking around Taryn's room to see if there was anything else she could do.
Taryn very much wanted her to stay; she didn't want to be alone. But she could never say that. “No, I’m fine. When these wear off I'll take one of my other ones. It will be hard to walk on for a day or two but it won't kill me.”
She apologized again for ruining their afternoon and Melissa waved it off. “Oh, please. I have more excitement with you than I've ever had with anyone in my life. I mean, come on. Something wild happens every single time I see you. Seriously. And...it helps a little.”
“What do you mean?” Taryn was propped up with a bunch of pillows behind her back, too many really but she didn't want to hurt Melissa's feelings by rearranging them. She'd worked very hard on making Taryn comfortable.
Melissa gently lowered herself to the side of Taryn's bed and let out a huge sigh. “I've never really been the religious type. You know, like everyone else around here I grew up going to church, going to Bible school, singing the right songs at the right time. That kind of stuff. But the actual believing part has always been a little hard for me. Sometimes I think the only reason I believe is because I am afraid it might all be true and I don't want to be left in the dust flames, as it may be.”
Taryn nodded her head. Boy, could she understand.
“I've never seen anything amazing. Never looked at anything as being part of God's work or whatever. Someone might look at a sunset and say, 'Look what God painted' and I'd always look at it and think natural gases and stuff, you know?”
Taryn said she did.
“If someone said they saw a ghost then I'd listen to their stories about their dead grandparent or whatever. And it's not like I thought they were lying or anything, but a big part of me was skeptical. And then I met you. What I saw at that farm...it changed everything I'd ever believed in. It made me believe in what I'd always wanted to believe in.”
Taryn was amazed. She'd never thought in a million years that the horror of Windwood Farm had made such an impact on Melissa. “Yeah, I get that I guess. It does make you start reevaluating what's going on around you. I was always a little skeptical myself.”
“I know for a fact that there's something else out there, now, something bigger than me. I have no idea what it is but it changes things. I know that faith is believing but I am not built like that. I have to see to believe. And I saw.”
A little light exercise was actually good for Taryn's leg and hip so she tried doing a few laps around her room. The morphine wore off quickly, it always did, and then she was stuck with her normal pain. She made sure to rub her gel down her legs and take her vitamins and drink her tea (followed by her Coke because living without caffeine was just wrong).
By 8:00 pm she was ready to get out and get moving. Traveling down the stairs was difficult and she realized halfway down them that it was probably a bad idea to even try, but by that time she was almost there and didn't want to give up.
Since it was getting closer to summer the sun was staying out later now. The dusky sky was sleepy, the rooftops rosy in its light. Taryn didn't want to go far so she walked to a bench and sat down to enjoy the evening air. A slow breeze tickled the nape of her neck and lifted her hair. The park manager and Lydia had both come by to check on her and offer her food but she'd resisted. Her stomach was a little upset from the morphine still. The outside air, though, was straightening her and she was beginning to feel the pains that came with going too long without eating.
Matt had sent her half a dozen texts and called her twice. He wanted to come up. She wanted to see him, but she didn't want to be taken care of at the moment. She wanted to see him when she was feeling well and in control, not because she needed someone to come to her rescue. It happened a lot with Matt; she depended on him to fix things for her. It felt like less of a partnership sometimes than caretaker and she needed to change that. With Andrew they had been in everything together. With Matt one of them was always “in charge;” as kids it had been her with her brashness and boldness, as adults it seemed to be him with his organization and even temper.
She thought she'd pieced together the story of the murder, at least with the information she had. She thought it obvious that Evelyn was pregnant, probably by Morgan, and that the baby had died. Then someone had killed him and she'd left. The “someone” had to be the awful thing that kept attacking her, but she didn't know what it was yet. She didn't believe in demons, or that demons could attack people, but without a face she didn't know what else to call it. Evelyn, either before or after Morgan's death, had taken her brother and moved into town with family where they had, apparently, lived happily ever after.
She actually felt pretty good with herself for putting it together. She'd solved the big murder mystery of Shaker Town, although little of it had been through bonafide research. She'd have a hard time explaining to others how she'd reached her conclusions, of course.
A door slammed in the distance, a noise that sounded like it came from another realm. Taryn looked up and saw a figure hunched over, running. They wore an old-fashioned cloak that was tied around their neck so that she was unable to see if they were male or female. The figure ran from the site of the old house, a place that only had a small structure still standing, and darted off into the woods. Another employee? Maybe. Their movements had been graceful, though harried, and the cloak had billowed out behind them like Gothic wings, almost black.
Moments later Taryn heard a scream, a deep bellowing that sang of pain and anguish. It continued on, reverberating through her and echoing from the dark hole of the ice house. Nobody else seemed to hear or notice, despite the fact there were several other tourists milling about the grounds.
Curious, Taryn stood and hobbled painfully towards the small group of trees, making sure she didn't step in a hole or over a root–something that might cause her to trip and make things worse.
When she reached the edge, the last of the sun had dipped over the hills and the light was muted now, colorless. It was quiet; the moaning had stopped for the time being. Still, Taryn had walked all that way...
There wasn't much to see, just a small plaque and shards of stone sticking up out of the space in the ground. She strained to read the words on the plaque, taking in the history of the fairly advanced technology that had allowed the Shakers to store their food in fairly modern ways. So intent on the words, she was, that she didn't notice the thick dirty fog that was starting to curl around her feet and lick at her ankles. It soared up about her, lapping like a hungry wolf. By the time Taryn looked down and noticed it, the fog was nearly to her waist, the thickness of it disturbingly impenetrable. She couldn't see the ground below, or her lodgings back behind her. She was enclosed in a circle now, cut off from the rest of the world, although she could still
hear the low rumblings of the other tourists who couldn't have been more than one hundred yards away.
Taryn kicked at the fog, tried to brush it off her, but it clung to her clothes like briars, digging into her with sticky thorns. The sound of anguish returned then, beginning as a low moan that was distinctly male and gradually increasing until it was the unmistakable sound of torture. Whoever was hurt was in an immense amount of pain, the noises gurgling in his throat like a wet bubble. She heard him choke, spit something, and then resume the awful sound of near begging for his suffering to end.
Taryn felt for him, she was human after all, and yearned to reach out and help. She could see nothing beyond her, however, and though the torment sounded like it was surrounding her and coming from all directions at once, she couldn't see a single source.
For a terrible moment Taryn thought she might be stuck there, forever trapped in that void. This must be what hell is like, she thought with panic. Not the everlasting fire and vicious heat of the stories but this blind, dirty, nothingness and terrible stench that choked and grabbed at you until you went insane.
In panic, she stretched out her arms, as much for balance from the fog that threatened to knock her over as to touch something that would serve as a reminder she was still alive. Her fingers grasped at thin air, the tips turning cold as ice. She thought of her mother, a woman who'd barely had the time to show her any interest, and silently cried for her. She saw Matt behind her eyes, his sweet dark face panicking and searching for her, knowing instinctively that she was in trouble.
“Matt, Matt!” she called frantically. “Please.” It was one word but it broke something around her and the air began to part a little. The temperature rose just a few degrees so she focused on him again: his deep-set eyes, his soft black hair, his long elegant fingers...She remembered kissing him, the way her forehead fit against his in a perfect fit, his skinny legs poking out of his too-big khaki shorts. Then she remembered being kids with him, riding their bikes at top speed down the big hill in their housing development, squealing together as they charged off into their fantasy land they'd created, just the two of them. She could almost feel her hair flying out behind her, the rush of the wind against her face, the wheels turning and turning under her, bringing her faster and faster to a destination that would never be as exciting in real life as it was in her mind.
The fog parted with deftness now, leaving her exposed, standing in the field by the former ice house, her arms still outstretched. A family with two small children walked by and glared at her, like she might have been on drugs (well, they weren't entirely wrong) and ushered their children on. Nothing to see here, folks.
Taryn's breath erupted in a blast, the wind knocked out of her. She hadn't realized she'd been holding it. Her phone was ringing like crazy, Matt's ring tone. She couldn't count on her fingers to work to answer it. It would have to wait.
It was completely dark now; she didn't know how long she'd been standing there but it must have been a little while. As she began to hobble away, a rustle caught her ear and she turned back, probably against her better judgment. A long, thick, pale arm appeared in the shards of rock. It clawed out of them, the body it was attached to covered by something she couldn't see. The skin was thickly splattered with what she thought was tar at first and then saw it for the blood it was. The wet liquid gleamed in the moonlight like black ice. The hand scraped at the air, reaching for something it couldn't grasp.
Taryn didn't wait to see what would happen next. She'd had enough for the day.
Chapter 15
“Hey, how you holding up?” Dustin asked, worry lining his face.
Taryn was still having trouble standing and in an effort to cause no further damage had set up a chair outside next to her easel. She could lower the easel and paint easily enough from her seated position, although she preferred to stand. Taryn's favorite way to paint was barefoot, digging her feet into the dirt and feeling the soft grass beneath them. It made her feel closer to the world around her, like she was more than just an observer.
She was making do with the chair, though, and had set up a small table with her drinks, iPod stand, and paints. It was almost like she had her own little living room right there in the middle of the park.
“I'm doing okay,” Taryn replied, a little uncomfortable. Everyone had been so nice to her, stopping to see her and check on her. Eddie Jay had even dropped by with some banana nut bread his “wife” baked for her. (Park gossip said she wasn't his wife at all, but a woman he hung out with at a local bar who sometimes came in and cleaned for him.)
“Lydia said that if you needed anything just give us a call. With her at one end and me at the other we could meet in the middle and take care of anything you need,” he said.
“I think I’ll be okay,” she smiled.
Like just about every place she worked, she was getting attached to Shaker Town. She hated to leave now, despite the ghosts. She even played around with the idea of applying for a full-time job, or volunteer as a docent. She could see herself living in one of the cute little houses in Burgin or Harrodsburg. Or even commuting in from Lexington. She liked Lexington. But the idea was totally unrealistic, unless she wanted to change careers.
Still...
Taryn had recently become aware of a woman nearby who went into old houses and businesses when they were about to be torn down or renovated and salvaged fixtures. She took doors, fireplace mantles, light fixtures, staircase banisters...Then she sold them at her store off the beaten path in downtown Lexington. Taryn hoped to be visit it soon. How could you go wrong with a name like “Cowgirl's Attic?” She'd always felt like a cowgirl at heart. And besides, that sounded like her dream job. If she could only combine that with her painting, she'd be all set. Who knew, Lexington was a little artsy. Maybe she could open her own gallery...
But she was woolgathering, like she tended to do when she was working. It was easier to get lost in thought when her hands were busy and her mind free to wander.
In the end, she hadn't been able to hold Matt off. When Carol informed her that they were extending her contract another week, against Taryn's protests, Matt decided he'd been away long enough. He would be arriving at the airport the next morning and Taryn was both excited and nervous about seeing him. The park was hers at the moment: her mystery, her ghosts, her peace. When she and Matt were together, something else happened. They fed off one another in more ways than one and whatever sensitivities she had become stronger, if that was possible. Now what was going on would be partly his, too. It almost didn't seem fair.
The follow-up appointment with the orthopedist was in Lexington which meant Taryn had another long drive ahead of her. Since she couldn't take anything strong while driving, she'd cut herself off in advance, just to make sure there wasn't anything in her system that might impair her.
Maneuvering down Nicholasville road at 9:00 am wasn't the most pleasurable activity she'd ever done (all those lanes, all those cars, all those pedestrians who had death wishes) but it was kind of exciting. Once she'd parked at the large research hospital and was in the shuttle bus to the main building she finally took a sigh of relief.
Guest Services had tracked her down just before she left; she had a package. Rob's books had come through for her, finally, and she had them safely tucked inside her knapsack. She figured she'd have a lot of time for reading while she waited. These things always took forever. Just explaining her medical conditions alone took up half the visit.
There were three books in total: the promised-collection of ghost stories, what looked like a heavy book of text-heavy history stuff, and a loosely bound older book that, at quick glance, showed copies of journals and letters.
Once she got settled into the cold, antiseptic waiting room, she pulled them from her bag and began flipping through the pages. The first one was the book of Shaker ghost stories. They were fun reading, but mostly the “bump in the night” kinds of stories she was used to hearing. She saw her woman in white pop up
a few times, along with stories of ghosts helping other people, taking strolls across the lawn, turning lights off and on, and singing. Typical ghost stories. Towards the end, however, there was one that made her sit up straight. It came from a contributor simply listed as “John” and was dated 1987.
“I was at the park for a wedding and it had just grown dark. It had been a long day and my girlfriend and I were fighting. I took a walk to cool off and found myself down at the pond. It was the only place I could find that was quiet and away from everyone else so I sat on the bench under one of the big trees. A few minutes later, I heard footsteps approaching. Thinking it was someone from the wedding, I turned around, ready to be annoyed. Couldn't I have even a few minutes to myself? It wasn't one of the guests, however. This was a man, wearing a long cloak and an old-fashioned hat pulled low over his eyes. Then I thought, you know, it was an interpreter. Maybe I wasn't supposed to be there. I was getting ready to apologize but he walked right past me. He didn't pay any attention to me and just went to the pond. He was carrying something in his hand but I couldn't see what it was. I watched him for a minute, you know, and he watched the water. I started to call out to him and see if everything was okay but then I noticed that something was dripping from his cloak. At first I thought it was water, that he'd cleaning something and got wet. But I've been a trauma nurse for a decade. That was blood. It ran off his cloak in streaks and dripped onto the ground. Before I could stand up and walk away, he disappeared.”
The story jived with what she knew about the pond being haunted, as well as what she'd seen. It was amazing “John” had seen him so clearly. He must be a sensitive and not know it, Taryn thought.
Shaker Town (Taryn's Camera Book 4) Page 13
