Shaker Town (Taryn's Camera Book 4)

by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  “I don't know,” she shrugged petulantly, like a child. “Because it sounds too fantastical maybe?”

  The truth was, she couldn't believe it had really happened, not in the clear light of day. It made her sound crazy, like maybe she needed mental help, and it scared her. What if she was going crazy, that it had all just been part of her medical condition? And, worse, what if it never happened again?

  “You're afraid of believing it because you want it to happen again, aren't you?” Matt pressed. Still reading her mind.

  Taryn nodded miserably.

  “You were afraid of that with Miss Dixie, too,” he pointed out. “And it continues to happen.”

  “This is different. This is like time travel. That's just weird. I mean, if you think about it, have you ever noticed that nobody ever talks about time travel? I mean, you see articles in the National Enquirer all the time about people who have seen ghosts, met aliens, and visited Satan. But where are the time travelers?”

  “You mean the ones calling the paper and going, 'I just went back in time and you won't believe who killed Kennedy'–those people?” Matt smiled.

  “Yes! It can't be real.”

  “As opposed to the people who were abducted by aliens and experimented on?”

  “Hey, aliens could be real. It's an awfully big space out there.”

  “Taryn, did you ever think that maybe the lack of stories is the very thing that gives it some credibility? Maybe people don't remember when they travel back. Kind of the time paradox? And, did you ever stop to think that you weren't exactly traveling back in time but went inside Miss Dixie and was seeing her world?”

  Taryn's eyes grew big and her mouth dropped open a little. No, she had not considered either one of those. “OH my God, that's why it was so hazy,” she blurted out. “I went inside my own damn camera.”

  “I think so.”

  She aimlessly kicked at a small twig under her feet and sighed. “Yeah, like that's not any less weird.”

  “Miss Dixie has shown you things that need to make sense. You're not putting this together like you want to. This time she tried something else. Think about the things she must see and doesn't show you,” he added.

  The possibilities were endless and as Taryn gazed down at her camera she felt overwhelmed. The two of them worked together, her and her camera, and she didn't believe one really had much power without the other. But Miss Dixie seemed to have an unreasonable amount of supernatural ability for an electronic made in Southeast Asia.

  “So Andy's a little bit of a weenie, huh?” Taryn laughed as they walked back to her room in the darkness. The moon hung low in the sky, partially shielded by the clouds, and the lanterns glowed warmly around them. They were the only people out and if Taryn closed her eyes just for a moment she could pretend they'd stepped back in time again, two Shakers sneaking around in the night.

  Then a park vehicle drove towards them, headlights bright and radio blaring Eminem, and that fantasy flew out the window.

  “He's okay,” Matt replied, always the diplomat. He didn't like to talk about people unless it was for a very good reason.

  “I think he liked you, though,” Taryn conceded. “He's been very rude to me.”

  They'd been seated with Andy at dinner, since they had reservations and he did not. Julie had caught her eye and sent her a sympathetic smile when she saw Andy pulling up a chair. The hostess, who didn't know Taryn well, clearly didn't realize the evening was the first she'd spent with Matt in a long time. Andy, in his booming “look-at-me” way, had chattered on and on, poking and prodding at Matt until he knew what his job title was, his annual income, and how much he'd paid for his house. Taryn was mortified but Matt took it in stride. By the end of the night, after Julie had sent several glasses of wine her way, Taryn had mellowed out a bit.

  “The scientists I work with aren't always the most social creatures,” he smiled, linking his arm through hers. “Myself excluded, of course. I'm a veritable extrovert compared to some of them. I'm used to putting up with some odd behavior.”

  It was a joke, of course. Matt was even more private than she was. His idea of a big night was making homemade ice cream and zoning out to a marathon of Star Trek episodes.

  “Do you think you might be a little jealous of Andy?”

  Taryn stopped in her tracks and looked at him in surprise. “What do you mean? I think he's jealous of me!”

  Matt smiled a secret grin and looked down at her. “Andy's book will be in all the local bookstores. He'll do a book tour, get to travel. Sure it will be around the state but a few people will be very impressed. He'll make some money, get some speaking engagements. But your paintings...”

  “Yeah, I know, Taryn grumbled. She unlinked her arm and stuffed her hands in the pocket of her cardigan. “Nobody ever looks at my name or knows who I am. Although I do get asked to do speaking engagements. Most of them are for paranormal research groups, of course...”

  “Which you could do if you wanted. But that's not the point. You might make the money and have the freedom but Andy's work will garner him a lot of respect. And you wrote about the Shakers, too, for your dissertation. So maybe you both have a little bit of professional jealousy.”

  Taryn was appalled to realize he was probably right. “Well. Dammit.”

  It made her think, though, all the way back to her room. She did get invited to speak at paranormal conferences, to set up a vendor's table at conventions, and do Podcasts. She'd turned them all down, so far, but it didn't mean the ghost blogs and ezines hadn't picked up on her. Whether she did the interviews or not didn't stop them from writing about her. Maybe she should give in and realize that the paranormal thing was as much of a calling as the painting. Something else tugged at her in Matt's words, though. She approached it now with caution.

  “Matt?”

  “Yeah?” He was getting ready for bed, pulling down the blankets and fluffing the pillows. He'd already changed into his pajamas and brushed his teeth.

  “Do you think I could write a book?”

  “About your experiences? Or about the Shakers?”

  “Neither,” Taryn shook her head. “I was thinking more along the lines of a photography book. I take a lot of pictures. Maybe I could write one and include some of them? Not the ghost ones, those are too private, but maybe the ones with my old houses?”

  Matt smiled and patted the spot beside him. Taryn bounced into bed and cuddled up next to him. “I think that's a grand idea,” he announced, stroking her hair. “And I think you can do anything you want.”

  Much later, as Taryn laid there and listened to the steady sound of Matt's chest rising and falling, she stared at the empty space above her bureau, where the picture of the Shaker had been just the day before. There was a faint dusty line there now, the space inside bright and clean. She'd swept the glass up and disposed of it herself. Management had told her not to worry; it looked like the nail came right of out the wall.

  She shuddered remembering the room's vibrations, the objects sliding to the ground, the otherworldly growling beside her, and the almost-exciting feel of the power that grew inside of her–the idea that her own emotions were feeding something powerful.

  “Matt? Do you believe in demons?” she whispered. But his soft snoring continued. He couldn't hear her.

  Chapter 18

  The drive to Lexington was much more pleasant when there was someone else with her doing the driving. Taryn was able to sit back in the seat, watch the scenery pass by, and fiddle with the radio. She let it land on a station that liked 80's hair metal and let Slash's guitar riffs wash over her. Matt winced a little in the driver's seat. He was more of an Enya person. He lacked both the heavy metal and redneck gene she seemed to possess.

  They were there in less than an hour, pulling into the building that looked more like a warehouse than a store. The walkway was littered with old wooden doors, fireplace mantles, windows with glass still intact, windows that lacked glass altogether, and a color
ful collection of yard art that included lawn jockeys and frightening gnomes. Taryn couldn't wait to get inside.

  The woman at the counter looked frazzled. Her bright red hair was piled on her head with a series of bobby pins, most of which had come loose. There were streaks of solid white coursing through it. She wore an oversized sweatshirt and yoga pants, her feet in heavy duty boots Taryn could see as she walked over to a display and began rearranging a selection of old rusty screws and bolts.

  The inside was a collection of color, textures, and dangerously sharp objects. From where she stood she could see endless rows of doorknobs, planters, hinges, and bathroom fixtures. Through another door she caught a glimpse of clawfoot

  tubs, metal stair railings, concrete steps, and tools. This was her kind of place and made her itch, again, for a house of her own that she could renovate. Taryn had no decorating skills of which to speak but she liked to shop well enough.

  “Can I help you?” the woman asked, her voice raspy and deep.

  “I don't know where to look first,” Taryn confessed. Matt looked like a deer in headlights. He was more of an IKEA person. “I'm so excited to be here.”

  “Well, we've got more than 8,000 square feet so have a wander. Just watch where you step.”

  Taryn understood what she meant because in some areas of the store there was literally no place to stand. In others she was looking at no more than a few square inches. She could think of a few HGTV shows that would've gone nuts over such a place.

  For more than an hour they wandered through the rooms, Taryn marveling at the architectural salvage and Matt gingerly trying to peek through the old fabrics and dusty bric-a-brac without knocking anything over.

  Since she didn't really have anyplace to store anything, Taryn couldn't buy what she wanted (the seat to an old carriage). She didn't want to leave empty-handed, though, so she settled on an antique suitcase that she could screw some legs on and turn into an end table.

  At the desk, she rang the little bell and the woman popped out from behind a closed door. “Find something?”

  “I would've spent more,” Taryn swore, “if I had a way to get it home. And somewhere to put it.”

  “I know what you mean,” the woman agreed. “I own it and want to take everything home myself.”

  Taryn smiled. She'd found a kindred spirit.

  “So what are you doing around here? You live here?”

  Taryn shook her head. “Just staying over at the Shaker village and working on a project. I'm doing a reconstruction landscape of three of the old buildings they're restoring.”

  “Aw, so you're my kind of girl,” the woman declared with approval. “I bet you also like crawling in through windows, getting yourself dirty from old wood floors, and taking pictures.”

  “Yes,” Taryn laughed. “Those are some of my favorite things.”

  After she'd rung Taryn up, the woman stood back and put her hands on her hips. “I'm Lucy, by the way, and I have something you might like. I just got in a bunch of stuff and don't know what to do with it yet. Hold on.”

  She darted back off but returned momentarily, holding a stack of papers. Upon closer inspection Taryn could see they were photographs. “These came from Shaker Village, actually,” Lucy explained. “They're very old so handle with care.”

  Taryn flipped through them reverently, gazing at the images, many of them scenes from the 19th century, and faded so much with age that they were hard to make out. One caught her eyes, however, and she pulled it back out and studied it with interest. It was a group shot of several people standing in front of the meeting house, most of them with sober expressions, even the children.

  Evelyn stood near the middle, hands clasped in front of her. A child stood beside her, trying not to smile. He must've been warned not to act up while they were documented for posterity's sake.

  Taryn felt a warmth spread over her; seeing Evelyn again was like seeing an old friend.

  A small gap between the men and women had Matt laughing. “They really were segregated, huh?” he asked.

  “Yep,” Taryn smiled. But when her eyes fell to the other side of the picture she gasped. There Morgan was, clear as day, standing in the middle of the men. His handsome good looks and impish smile was out of place among the stern exteriors. He looked like an overgrown boy, out for a walk, who got caught up in the wrong crowd. Unlike the others, he was beaming from ear to ear, staring straight at the camera.

  “Look,” Taryn pointed. “There's Morgan.”

  “You know those people?” Lucy interrupted, coming around and peering over Taryn's shoulder.

  “Well, not personally. But I've been studying them a lot.”

  “That young guy, what did you call him?”

  “Morgan,” Taryn replied. “He was murdered while he lived there. Obviously after this was taken.”

  Lucy shook her head, lips pursed. “No, I don't think so. I know a little about the Shakers and there was only one murdered during that time. It was a big deal. His name was Morgan, but that's not him.”

  Taryn looked up in surprise. “It's not?”

  “Nope. That's Morgan,” Lucy pointed at a tall, thin man a few people over. He stared at the camera with a steely gaze, his eyes dark and cold. “And he was definitely murdered.”

  Taryn had no idea what to do with that information. She'd been wrong. It wasn't the first time, but it was still a shocking disappointment.

  “Well, if that's not Morgan than who is he?” she asked.

  Lucy shrugged. “I don't know but I know someone who might. She's really into all the Shaker genealogy and shit. I got these from her and can give her a call if you'd like. She lives in Harrodsburg and might be up for a visit. If she feels okay.”

  “You sure you don't mind calling a customer like that?”

  Lucy laughed, a rich sound that rattled the selection of jelly jars behind her. “She's not a customer. She's my aunt.”

  The small shotgun house was painted barn red and boasted two metal 1940's style chairs on the front porch. A small flower garden had been planted in the front and the flowers were a mishmash of color, height, and types. It was obvious the planter had chosen them because they liked the flowers, not because any thought was given to landscape design. Still, they were neatly mulched and weeded.

  Several tomato plants had been started by the porch and were poking through the earth in small clumps. A cucumber vine was beginning its climb up a fence post. Two brightly-colored cushions, both clashing and different colors and fabric textures, somehow made the cold, metal chairs look more inviting.

  Taryn liked the house. She could already tell it was well lived-in.

  With Matt standing a respectable few feet behind her, Taryn gave the door a nice rap and waited. They were lucky she'd been willing to meet with them that afternoon. “My aunt is a little strange,” Lucy cautioned them, “but I like her. I'm the only one in the family who really gets along with her.”

  “I can understand that,” Taryn said. “I had an aunt who was the same way.” She thought of her Aunt Sarah, living and dying in that big New Hampshire farmhouse all by herself and shuddered. She should've been there for her.

  “Well, at any rate, her bark is worse than her bite so just ignore her if she starts going off on some tangent. She does love the Shakers a lot and can tell you just about anything you'd want to know,” Lucy said in admiration. Taryn could tell there was a lot of respect for her aunt.

  Taryn was about to knock again when she heard the slow, meticulous, shuffling from the other side of the door. Of course Lucy's aunt was elderly; even in such a small house it would take her awhile to get to the door. “Sorry!” came a fairly-strong sounding voice from the other side. “Got beans on the stove and had to give 'em a stir!”

  The sound of several locks being turned echoed on the small porch and then the front door was flung open. Taryn and the other woman were left standing inches apart, on the screen between them.

  “Well, huh,” the other
woman said. “How do you like them apples?”

  “Is everything okay?” Matt asked, stepping forward at last.

  Taryn laughed. “We've met before. Matt, I'd like you to meet Della...er...Susan.”

  “Life is just one series of coincidences after another,” Susan grinned. “Well, come on in. I didn't expect to be having company but if I throw some cornbread in the oven I think we could have a nice supper. You are staying, right?”

  You never turned down supper at a southern woman's house. “Yes ma'am,” Taryn answered. “It sounds and smells good.”

  Hours later, after vast amounts of food had been put away, the table cleared, and the dishes washed an on the rack to dry (Susan refused to get a dishwasher–thought they were a fad) the three adults sat down in the living room to talk. The space was a tiny one but she'd made the most of it, filling the walls with bookshelves and curio cabinets that housed collections of whimsical unicorns, faeries, and dusty paperbacks–everything from James Patterson to Jane Austen. Taryn felt right at home.

  “I knew I felt a kinship with you when I met you at the pond,” Susan chirped. Matt was in the kitchen, fixing everyone sweet tea, while the women talked among themselves. “You're a girl after my own heart. I didn't realize you were so interested in the Shakers. It's clear this isn't just a job for you.”

  “I love them,” Taryn said simply.

  “Do you know why?” Susan prodded with interest. “Are you very religious and pious?”

  “Oh, God no,” Taryn laughed.

  “Good.”

  “I like the idea of belonging to something,” Taryn admitted. “Of being part of a community, or at least something bigger than yourself.”

  “Do you like being around a bunch of people, then? You don't strike me as a particularly sociable person, no offense. When we were first introduced you were hiding yourself away, as I recall.”

  “It varies,” Taryn admitted. “I like the idea of being around people but sometimes they make me nervous. I have never fit in. Not anywhere. The reason Matt and I became friends in the first place was because we were both kind of recluses, even as kids.”