The three of them laughed now, all entertained by Jamey’s descriptions of his childhood educators. “Yeah,” he grumbled happily. “There were some great teachers there. I miss them.”
The room fell silent. The smile on Heather’s face froze and Jamey ducked his head, unable to meet Taryn’s eyes. She, herself, looked away and found herself unnaturally interested in a magazine stand beside her, her face burning hot.
He’d had good teachers at Muddy Creek. “Had” being the operative word.
Thanks to Lucy Dawson, they were now all dead.
* * *
TARYN SLUMPED AGAINST the pressed-wood headboard and exhaled nosily. It had been a long day, an even longer evening. She’d spent all morning and afternoon at the school where she’d taken hundreds of pictures. Her plans of grabbing fried chicken and holing up in her motel room for the rest of the night had been thwarted by the call from Jamey, inviting her to dinner.
Had she known how attractive her hostess was going to be, she’d have taken more care with her appearance. She would’ve at least hopped in the shower before heading over. Even now, Taryn could feel the stench of the stagnant water from the valley and the school clinging to her. She wondered if Jamey and Heather had caught it as well.
Sniffing now, Taryn caught a whiff of the decay and neglect and wrinkled her nose. “Eh, crap,” she muttered. She was dog tired and wanted to curl under the covers and flip on the television but she knew if she wallered around on the bed the odor would never disappear. It would cling to her for weeks. The thought of taking it back home to Nashville with her had Taryn jumping out of the bed and scampering to the tiny bathroom, shedding layers of clothing as she went.
Her phone rang twice as the hot water poured down. Both calls were from Matt. She’d call him back later. The water pressure wasn’t great, but the heat felt wonderful on her clammy skin.
“Taryn’s water isn’t hot enough unless you can boil a chicken in it,” Matt liked to tell people.
Remembering the mosquitos and gnats that had surrounded her, the slimy weeds that brushed at her thighs, and the stench of excrement from the animals that had made the general area their dumping ground had Taryn scrubbing at her skin with the motel’s generic shower gel. Her sense of smell had always been unnaturally strong, but this was different. She was breathing it, tasting it.
Taryn scowled and scrubbed harder.
When her water started running cool she quickly rinsed her hair and turned off the faucet. Like everything else in the motel room, it didn’t work like it should; it took all her strength and a few kicks to get it off. As she wrapped the towel around her shoulders, Taryn was surprised to look down and see her red, raw skin glaring up at her.
“Oops,” she groaned. “Looks like I got a little overzealous there.”
The cold blast of air that smacked her in the face when she opened the bathroom door had her fighting for breath. With the steamy heat of the bathroom behind her, Taryn braced herself against the chill. The temperature had dropped a good twenty degrees in the short amount of time she’d been bathing.
“What the–” Taryn muttered, stomping over to the thermostat.
It read seventy-nine degrees, normal.
“Great. Is this broken, too?”
A gasp behind her, a sharp intake of breath, had her spinning on her heel. Hackles up, she was prepared to come face-to-face with an intruder, someone who had let themselves in when she was at her most vulnerable.
The room was empty.
Taryn stood motionless, water trickling down her legs and pooling at her feet. She slowed her breathing, taking inaudible breaths. A block away she could hear the faint sounds of a car radio. Someone slammed a door a few rooms down. Intermittent drops of water fell from the shower faucet, their metallic echo amplified by the quietness.
Taryn was still, but the room was not. There was something with her.
The scent was earthy– dirt mixed with creek water and something else…an animal, perhaps? It wasn’t unpleasant, nor was it unfamiliar. She’d smelled it before but couldn’t put her finger on where.
The air stirred around her, the currents moving swiftly as bursts of air whipped across her stomach and back. Something was moving, and moving quickly.
“Hello?” Taryn ventured, her voice cracking with fear.
The freezing hand that landed on her elbow was gentle, tentative. The small fingers lightly brushed her forearm. She didn’t need to be able to see the invader to know it was a child.
“Oh my God,” Taryn whispered in a rush. She closed her eyes and stood as still as a stone, willing whatever was there to remain placid.
The pressure eased for a second and then, again, the frozen fingers fell on her, this time more confident as they dug into her skin–little things that groped and prodded.
Taryn couldn’t breathe.
Her instinct was to scream–to shriek and run from the room. Towel and all. But she couldn’t move.
Just when tears of terror threatened to spill, a soft noise came from the front door. The weight on her arm disappeared. In an instant, the air seemed to change. Something invisible shifted inside the room. Within seconds she could feel the warmth starting to seep back, though she remained frozen in place. Taryn knew whatever had been there was gone.
The sound came again, a rustling that sounded human. And alive. As Taryn watched, a folded-up piece of paper slowly crawled towards her from under the door, inching its way across the soiled carpet. When the movement stopped, hurried footsteps faded down the sidewalk and into the night.
Clutching her towel to her chest, Taryn walked the length of the floor and knelt to the auspicious intruder. Almost fearing what she would find, she unfolded the document as a foreboding unease settled in around her. One short paragraph was written in large, loopy handwriting in the middle of the page.
Her eyes began to scan the note but she stopped short when the signature at the bottom had her doing a double take. Taryn blinked, shook her head, and looked again.
Lucy Dawson.
Somehow, the most famous woman in town had braved the throngs of reporters camped out in that very motel to find her, Taryn. She exhaled noisily and bowed her head.
She’d just been officially invited to the party.
Nine
“I don’t know that you should do this.” Matt’s concern resounded through her head as Taryn’s little car leisurely pushed past the decrepit pink schoolhouse and began climbing the mountain behind it.
“Me either,” she’d agreed, not taking his words lightly. She was also concerned. “But I think I have to.”
“Have you learned nothing?” Matt had asked. “After everything?”
It was true; he was right. She’d been through a lot in the past two years. Her life had gone from fairly ordinary, sometimes boring, to exhilarating and sometimes scary. In addition to the revelations she received through Miss Dixie, she was becoming more sensitive with the energy that cleaved to the places she’d visited and worked at. She no longer needed Miss Dixie for communication and visions–they were finding her on their own, now.
And then there was her illness. Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. EDS. She was beginning to hate those letters. It was slowly causing her connective tissue to fall apart. And the pain wasn’t even the worst part; sometimes the fatigue and neurological issues were overwhelming. She’d gone from a person who’d readily jumped into her car with her camera, ready to explore and wiggle through any abandoned building that caught her interest to someone who could barely climb out of bed some days.
Thankfully, a legal settlement she’d received in the past year meant that she no longer had to rely on her work to pay the bills. Still, she enjoyed working. Taryn had never been a lazy person, never felt entitled. Her art was an integral part of who she was. She wasn’t going to give that up.
But Matt was right. She was probably nuts for inching up the graveled incline, on her way to see the woman who was, by most accounts, a cold-blooded killer.
When she’d left that morning the reporters in the parking lot had not even cast her a second look. “Slow day,” she’d heard one of them say. “Nobody’s talking.”
“Getting sick of this Podunk place,” another had complained. “You know I had to drive out to the highway to get reception earlier?”
“I hope they find her guilty and hang her soon. These people are clammed up tighter than a–”
Taryn had closed her car door then, wearing a secret smile. If only they’d known where she was going.
“Is it just curiosity?” Matt had asked.
“Yes, a little,” Taryn had admitted. And it was, to an extent. Taryn had a voyeuristic aspect about her–not something she was always proud of. It was the same trait that had her glued to the bad reality television shows, watching episodes of “Teen Mom” and “The Real Housewives Atlanta” and getting as involved as if she actually knew those people. It was true that part of her was excited and had a bit of pride that, out of the hundreds of reporters trying to snag a story with the murderess, she’d actually been extended a real invitation.
“But I am also intrigued. I want to know what she wants,” she’d gone on to explain. “To see what she thinks I can bring to the table.”
“I meditated on this,” Matt said. “Last night, before bed. I took a good, long look at the situation. It doesn’t look like she has ill intentions towards you. So today should be fine anyway.”
Taryn was moved. In his own, weird, way Matt took care of her. He was never going to be the macho type, preferring his incense and candles to a bloody fist or gun, but he protected her. And she’d always watched out for him, going back to the time when she was twelve years old and had beat up Jerry Fischer for calling Matt a “pansy” in gym.
“Hey, just think about it,” she’d teased him right before hanging up the phone. “All the attempted murder stuff on me kind of came out of the blue, you know? None of the killers actually sent me an invitation…”
“Uh,” Matt had replied slowly, “remember that party? The one I attended with you?”
“Oh.” Oops. Well, at least most of the times she’d almost been killed had come out of the blue. But, to be fair to the person who’d tried to kill her that night, things had kind of fallen apart at the last minute. Taryn could take partial responsibility for that one.
She ruminated over her conversation with Matt, and Lucy’s letter, as the trees closed in around her. Patti Griffin sang quietly, the religious tune not out-of-place in the cathedral of the forest. The sky, gray and brooding, was barely able to poke through the lofty trees towering above, their shadows engulfing the mountainside in hushed stillness. Dense underbrush filled in the spots between the soaring pines, maples, and oaks that seemed to reach towards Taryn and watch her from behind.
As Taryn studied the undergrowth, skinny saplings, lush kudzu, and thorny bushes she had a brief idea of how tough the original settlers would’ve had it. Most of the state parks she’d been to were fairly antiseptic–manicured and clean and easily navigable. This, however, was wild. She tried to imagine slogging around the mountains with a knife; thorns and branches cutting into her thighs and stomach, getting tangled in her hair.
Taryn quivered, suddenly feeling as though she’d stumbled back in time.
* * *
“I’D INVITE YOU INSIDE, but the house is a mess,” Lucy explained to her guest. “I’m not used to company.”
“It’s okay,” Taryn shrugged. “It’s nice out here.”
Thought the front porch was cluttered and full of furniture and ceramic flower pots, Taryn was enjoying herself sitting outside. The log cabin was old but appeared to be in good condition. The view from the porch was the sloping mountainside; an ethereal view of the colorful canopy spread out before them.
Lucy sat beside Taryn in an old metal chair. The white paint had chipped and flaked over the years, the silver metal that peaked out in bare spots was rusted. Taryn rocked back in forth in a creaky swing. Somewhere behind the house a dog barked. Other than the squeak, the barking was the only sound that interrupted the otherwise quietness.
“Bet you’re wondering what all this is about,” Lucy said. Her large bifocals took up most of her face. Her brown hair, streaked with the silver, hovered on her head in a messy bun. The paisley skirt and striped nautical shirt didn’t come close to matching. Still, there was a stately air about her that was almost regal. She commanded Taryn’s presence without saying a word, and it wasn’t just because of who she was. Taryn was, in fact, a little in awe of being in the presence of such a famous person, but it was the woman herself that Taryn was now finding intriguing. Lucy sat erect, her back as straight as a steel rod. Her voice carried the mountain lull, a melodic accent Taryn had always loved. But her grammar was impeccable.
Taryn tried to imagine her putting together a homemade bomb and setting it off, killing those she’d grown up with in cold blood, and couldn’t.
“I read your note,” Taryn replied. “But, yes, I am curious.”
Lucy pursed her lips and looked over Taryn’s head. Her attention was fixated on something Taryn couldn’t hear or see and for a few minutes Taryn thought that might be the end of their visit. Then Lucy spoke again.
“I know about your dinner with Jamey and Heather.” At Taryn’s look of surprise, Lucy laughed. “I might not get out much anymore, but that doesn’t mean I am not in the loop. I do still have some eyes and ears around town.”
Taryn wanted to know why and how, but decided to leave her questions for later. If there was a later.
“I attended school with Jamey, you know,” Lucy continued. “For a time, as children, we knew each other.”
Not that they were friends, or even acquaintances, but that they “knew each other.” An odd turn of phrase. Since there was only one middle and one high school in the county, most of the children probably at least knew of one another. Still, Lucy looked a good ten to fifteen years older than the youthful principal.
“Are you not friends anymore?” Taryn ventured, unable to help herself.
“Not for a very long time,” Lucy said. Her voice remained calm and even but Taryn detected a glimmer of sadness in her eyes that stung a little.
“People seem to start changing in middle school,” Taryn offered lamely. Her own middle school years had been disastrous and would’ve been downright traumatic if not for her friendship with Matt.
“People change for a lot of reasons,” Lucy replied vaguely.
“What, exactly, is it that you want to talk about? Is there something you want me to do?” Taryn asked.
“I know about you. I know what you do. What you can do,” Lucy added.
Taryn nodded. That was beginning to happen more and more on her jobsites. She could no longer keep her skills a secret. Beside her, in her backpack, Miss Dixie was a solid reminder.
“I was wondering if…” Lucy hesitated now, blushing with embarrassment. Then she straightened again and smoothed down her skirt. “I was wondering if you’d seen anything. Heard anything while you were at the school.”
Taryn paused, not knowing how to answer. By continuing with the conversation, was she somehow becoming a part of the court case? Was she getting too involved? What if Lucy was hoping that her victims were still stuck in the school and using Taryn as proof that her diabolical revenge had worked?
Nah, she thought. Nobody with bifocals that big could be that malevolent.
Still, she needed to feel her out. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve lived here all my life,” Lucy explained. “I grew up around the school. When I was a child and attending school we used to tell stories about ghosts and ‘haints’ in there. We tried Bloody Mary during basketball games. I was a cheerleader, you know.”
Taryn smiled. She’d also played Bloody Mary as a child. “Did you ever see anything?”
“Once a toilet flushed on its own,” Lucy laughed. She looked much younger when she smiled. “We never tried it again after that. We dec
ided the devil was in there with us. Ran out of there screaming like a bunch of banshees.”
Taryn laughed along with her.
“Later, much later, I began hearing things. Real things. I didn’t sleep well starting as a teenager. I’d go for these long walks late at night. I know these hills like the back of my hand. They’ve always made me feel safe. Prefer my mountains to people,” Lucy said, her eyes dull.
Taryn, herself, felt closed in and claustrophobic. It was difficult to see how another person could see the same thing and feel comforted.
“What kinds of things did you see and hear?” Taryn prodded.
“Crying. Talking. Children, mostly.”
Taryn remembered the wailing; even now the tiny hairs on her arms stood up as she sound echoed in her mind.
“I know from your face that you know what I am talking about,” Lucy said.
Taryn wondered if she were really that transparent. Lucy did not push, however.
“It makes me feel a little better, to be perfectly honest, to know that I am not alone in this.” The words dangled between them, heavy in the air. Taryn wasn’t sure if the double meaning was intended.
“Is there anything you want me to do?”
Lucy hesitated before answering. “Y–yes. If you see or hear anything, I’d like to know. Please.”
Taryn nodded. “I can do that.”
“It’s important to me,” Lucy said suddenly, her face alight with desperation. “This old heart has hardened a lot over the years but the children…children. I just, I just need to know. Please.”
“I’ll do that,” Taryn promised her. “Anything I hear or see.”
Lucy nodded, her face grim. “It’s the most important thing to me, you know.”
Taryn leaned back against the swing, the wooden slats cutting into her back. Ironic. Lucy was on trial for murder. In a time when she, Taryn, would’ve been up to her eyeballs in depositions and lawyer meetings and studying every episode of “Law & Order” like it was her new job, Lucy was asking for ghost stories.
Muddy Creek: A Paranormal Mystery (Taryn's Camera Book 7) Page 6
