Bloody Moor: A Ghost Story (Taryn's Camera Book 8)

by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  BLOODY MOOR

  TARYN’S CAMERA BOOK 7

  Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  For Nicky…

  and Sean

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  Prologue

  The lifeless body she held in her arms was still warm. He might have been sleeping, if not for the awkward turn of his head. She shuddered, feeling the weight of the world on her shoulders. Beneath her, the house was silent. They’d all fled, leaving her alone. She wouldn’t be alone for much longer, however. Soon, the rest would come. With them would come her own certain death.

  She looked down upon his face again and sighed. Such a handsome face it had been–and still was! The blood had been wiped from his skin with respect and now his alabaster complexion appeared to glow in the dying of the firelight.

  She slowly lowered his upper half to the floor and, careful so as not to disturb him in his eternal sleep, and gently tugged her skirts out from under his legs as she rose to her feet.

  Standing now, she turned and took a long look around her bedroom. Her eyes lingered on the door to the tiny room in the corner.

  “It’s your fault,” she whispered. She could feel the anger bubbling in her stomach and when the rage had built so that she was seeing red before her eyes, she grabbed the teacup on the fireplace mantle and threw it. The sheer violence of her action had it smashing against the door and shattering into little more than dust.

  “Why did you come here?” she demanded, her voice echoing through the empty house. “Why don’t you leave?”

  She wanted to cry, wanted to throw herself across her bed and weep until there was nothing left. There wasn’t enough time for such selfishness, however; they’d be arriving soon.

  Smoothing her skirts, she straightened her shoulders and walked over to the door. Because it was much smaller, she had to bend down when she pulled on the knob. It stuck and, at first, she was afraid it wasn’t going to give at all. The broken teacup pieces ground into the floor beneath her feet with each move she made. When the knob finally turned and the little door gave way, she faltered, losing her balance. Before she toppled to the ground, however, she righted herself and peered into the darkness.

  The fetid wind that blew from the opening was damp, yet surprisingly warm. It blew off of something that was very old, perhaps older than the land on which they lived.

  “There isn’t time,” she whispered. “I will be leaving soon.”

  The air blew outwards again, pushing her hair back from her face in tangles matted with sweat, tears, and blood.

  “I can’t help you,” she sighed. “My time is over. You must wait.” She spoke now to the other woman, the one who had come long before her. The one who might not have been a woman at all.

  There came a sigh then, a shattering exhale full of pity, sadness, and something much darker that she didn’t want to think about.

  Then came the voices.

  Closing the door firmly, she rose to her feet once again and timidly made her way to the window. It was difficult at first to see through the thick, white fog. It enveloped her land and house like a wall, shielding her from the outside world. She could almost believe that the mist could save her, keep everyone away.

  But it couldn’t.

  Even now, she could hear them as they charged forward, their torches and lanterns held high in their hands as their angry shouts grew closer and closer. They were everywhere at once, their faces hidden by the mist while their disembodied voices rode through the night on the wind.

  She looked down at her hands; they were trembling. A sob threatened to escape from her throat but she choked it back. She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction.

  And then they were there. The angry lights burned through the fog and her land was full of tiny fires. They shouted her name, their faces distorted with anger, but mostly fear. They could see her standing in her window; she wasn’t hiding.

  She closed her eyes and waited. They would reach her soon.

  Chapter One

  “ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO TRAVEL to Wales alone?”

  Taryn tried not to let Matt’s legitimate concern annoy her. He had, after all, known her for more than twenty years and had seen firsthand some of the scrapes she was capable of getting into. However, she was also an adult; she could take care of herself.

  “I'll be all right,” she replied brightly. “It will be fun!”

  “You don’t need me to come up there and help you pack or anything?”

  Right, she thought sarcastically. I want you to fly all the way from Florida to Nashville to help me throw some sweaters into a suitcase.

  Instead of being a smartass, however, she rolled her eyes (he couldn’t see that, after all) and plastered good humor into her voice. “Nah, I’ll be okay. Almost packed. Got everything together.”

  “Passport?”

  “Came in the mail yesterday,” she answered. “Expedited.”

  “Travel toiletries?”

  “Bought some of those cheap bottles from Wal-Mart and filled them up with my regular stuff.”

  “Warm clothes?”

  “Cardigans, leggings, and long-sleeved tops,” she told him. “It’s all about layers.”

  “Extra batteries for Miss Dixie?”

  Taryn paused above her suitcase, a roll of underwear in hand, and glanced over at her camera. The beat up and gently loved Nikon watched her from her bedroom bureau. “Two in my checked bag, one in my carry on.”

  “So where are you flying into and how will you get to this town of Lampeter?”

  Knowing that Matt would not be satisfied until she pacified him with the answers he sought, she tossed the underwear into the suitcase then slid down to the floor. “I fly into London. From there it’s a train to Cardiff, a switch to Carmarthen, a local bus to Lampeter, and a pack mule the rest of the way.”

  “They still have those?”

  “I’m kidding,” she laughed. “Well, about the pack mule. I imagine I’ll walk from the bus stop to the house.”

  “Worried?”

  “Nah,” she shrugged. “The only thing I’m concerned about is dragging my luggage through all of that. I’m trying to pack light, but even my ‘light’ is a lot for regular people. To be honest, I am kind of hoping they lose my bags.”

  “What for?” Matt sounded genuinely baffled. To his organized mind, a deviation from a plan could cause chaos to ensue. Matt did not do chaos.

  “Because,” she explained, “if the airline loses it then they’re responsible for getting it to me. They’ll drive it right to my door. Or, you know, where I am staying. Hopefully not this door. That would be a problem.”

  “Well,” Matt said with a bit of hesitancy, “I guess it’s okay to be inconvenienced as long as the inconvenience is in your favor.”

  “That’s the spirit!”

  Matt was silent for a moment and all Taryn could hear was the ticking of her living room clock. It was shaped like Elvis, and his legs danced back and forth with every tick of the minute hand. She’d paid $5 for it at a flea market.

  Finally, he spoke of what was on both of their minds.

  “Speaking of spirits…”

  Taryn sighed and crossed her legs. They were already aching and she’d barely been on them for more than an hour. She needed to get in and see the doctor before she left, but that wasn’t going to be possible; she flew out in two days.

  “T
he house is haunted, but I’m not there for that,” she replied at last. “I’m just there because the new owners are renovating it and opening it as a high-end hotel and wedding destination. They’re just using me for my artistic talents. Not my, you know, my…”

  “Other talents?” Matt offered.

  “Of which I have many, as you well know,” Taryn replied primly.

  Matt laughed, but it was strained. “I read up about the house. It’s meant to be one of the most haunted places in Wales–in the U.K. even! Are you sure you want to…”

  “I do,” Taryn replied firmly. “I read those stories as well. I am feeling much stronger these days, much more confident in what I am doing. And besides, nothing truly terrible has happened to me on any of my jobs. I’ve always come out fine.”

  “People have attempted to murder you on at least four occasions,” Matt pointed out.

  “’Attempted’ is the keyword. Nobody’s succeeded yet.”

  “If you’re feeling poorly, though,” he spoke gently, “then you might not be as strong as you once were. That could work against you.”

  Taryn supported her back against the foot of the bed and closed her eyes. It was true; she was getting worse. Things got a little harder for her each and every day. There were now even days in which it was difficult for her to even walk down to the mailbox at the end of the apartment building. Someday, possibly soon, she might even find herself relying on a wheelchair. But until that day came…

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I know what I am up against and, Matt, there might not be a lot of time left. Not being morbid, but as long as I can do what I love, why not do it? I might not have the chance to go to Wales again, to stay in a mansion and work. I mean, for crying out loud, the Holy Grail was supposed to have been stored there for awhile!”

  “I can always take you there myself,” Matt interjected. His stubbornness bore through her. “I don’t care if you can walk or not. I’ll carry you around on my back if you want to go.”

  “And I thank you for that, as uncomfortable as that image may be, but there are some things I just need to do on my own,” Taryn said. “While I am able.”

  “Okay,” Matt sighed. He knew when he was defeated.

  They let the silence drift between them, each lost in their respective thoughts. Elvis continued to shake his hips in the other room. Taryn was afraid she’d hurt his feelings. Matt’s pride wasn’t something easily bruised but, where she was concerned, he had a soft spot. He wanted to take care of her, had been trying since she was a little girl, even though she was the one who used to beat the bullies off of him. And he felt helpless–not just because of her illness but because her job and life had little to do with him and lately the division was growing stronger and stronger.

  She might not need him at all. That’s what he was thinking; she knew it.

  “Sooo…” he finally said at last. “The Holy Grail, you say? I didn’t read that part of the mansion’s history. Want to fill me in on it?”

  Taryn opened her eyes and smiled. “Sure! Okay, so supposedly back in the seventeenth century there was this…”

  It was nearly midnight before she hung up the phone.

  ***

  The corridor was thick with night as Taryn soundlessly made her way down the tunnel of blackness. Her feet padded so softly on the cold wooden floors that she might have been a ghost herself. Above her, the ceilings soared, amplified in height by her sleep.

  Taryn reached out and let her fingertips trail along the oak-paneled walls. Cobwebs clung to her nails, balls of sticky string that felt alive.

  She turned and began her descent down a wide staircase, the marble floor now cold and uninviting. Piano music played somewhere, the ethereal notes hollow and bleak. Her skin chilled beneath the silk covering pulled balanced across her shoulders. Yet, in the darkness, she was comforted. The blackness closed in around her, soft and warm. She was gliding down the stairs now, moving through the air as though on a cloud; her feet and legs were not moving.

  Death, death was all around it. She could smell it, taste it even. It clung to the floor and walls, filled the air. She swallowed and tested the bittersweet taste. There was sorrow, but hope. It did not frighten her.

  Up ahead the music grew louder. The tonal song rose and fell in volume. She longer she walked, the farther away it seemed to get. The corridor, dark with its wooden panels and even darker portraits, rose above her on both sides and appeared to go on forever. There were no twists or turns–this house was not a labyrinth but one massive passageway.

  Someone was going to die.

  She knew it, could feel it, but while the thought should have brought sadness and perhaps a sense of fear, it did not. She was accustomed to death. She welcomed death.

  As the last notes of the somber ballad filled the air, Taryn sighed; the sound shook the house’s foundation.

  She was death.

  Chapter Two

  TARYN TOOK ONE LAST LOOK AROUND her apartment and then, feeling oddly sentimental since she normally couldn’t wait to get away from the place, took a picture of it.

  Taryn hated her apartment most days. She’d tried to pretty it up by hanging dazzling paintings on the walls (some hers, some not), draping colorful throws on her sofa and chairs, and setting out her collections of sea shells and candlesticks that she gathered from her travels. Still, it did little to hide the overall dinginess, cramped space, and smell of old cheese that drifted in from the elevator.

  Thanks to a job that had gone awry and netted her an insurance payout (or payoff, depending on how you looked at it), she could have afforded better. The idea of moving, however, sounded draining. Besides, she was rarely there anymore; Taryn only spent a stretch of two to three weeks at home in any given timeframe.

  “Why Wales?” her favorite server at her favorite Nashville pancake house had asked over dinner the night before.

  “I don’t know,” Taryn had shrugged. “The job offer kind of came out of nowhere and it just felt right.”

  What she didn’t tell her server over pecan pancakes and warm maple syrup, was about the astrologer. She didn’t want to appear unstable, after all.

  Taryn had visited the astrologer a month before. She’d gone to him intermittently over the years, mostly because she kept hoping that he’d eventually get something right. Although he’d never been entirely off, his answers had mostly been vague. Taryn wasn’t sure she put a lot of faith in horoscopes, you could read most any sign’s fortune for the day and apply it to yourself, but there was quite a bit of work that went into her astrologer's report, so it felt more scientific.

  Even before her camera started showing her the past, she’d sought proof of the supernatural. Anything to give her hope that there was something out there bigger than herself.

  On her last visit, she’d gotten her wish.

  “You want to see a map of the world?” he’d asked. “See where you might have the best luck?”

  “Sure,” she’d replied. “Might help when the next job rolls around.”

  He’d first brought up a map of the United States. She wasn’t surprised to see that a fate line ran right through southern Georgia. The time she’d spent on Jekyll Island, and later St. Simon’s, had certainly been memorable. She’d created some lovely paintings there, too.

  Nor was she surprised to see that destiny and love lines ran through southern New Hampshire. Her aunt Sarah had lived there, after all, and Taryn had inherited Sarah’s ramshackle farmhouse. She was currently in the process of having it restored and often played around with the idea of making it her permanent home.

  She was a little surprised, however, to see that Florida wasn’t on her map at all. What did that mean for Matt?

  “How about we check out Europe?” he’d asked with a grin.

  Whether she totally believed in his work or not, Michael Thurman was an immensely likable and intelligent guy. He was absolutely excited by what he did and could talk for hours about his enthusiasm for Chiron.


  “Sure. Let’s see Europe.”

  Taryn had never been to Europe–she’d never had the money on her own. Her parents, now deceased, had traveled there often. They’d left her with her grandmother during those trips, not that Taryn had minded. She preferred being with her grandmother over traveling with them.

  “Anything in Ireland?” she’d asked, peering across his desk as she tried to get a better view of his computer screen.

  “No, not that I see,” he’d replied, much to her disappointment. “But here, look at this.”

  She’d patiently waited as he’d printed off a copy of the map and had then leaned over the desk with him as he’d pointed out little squiggly lines of green, black, red, and blue. “See these,” he gestured with his index finger.

  She’d nodded.

  “These are your fate, destiny, work, and love lines,” Michael had explained. “You have a strong destiny line going through the Czech Republic and a love line running through Italy.”

  Taryn smiled. She’d always had a thing for Italian guys. Matt was part Italian himself.

  “But right here,” he pointed, “this is where you need to be.”

  Taryn could see a place on the map where all the lines intersected, causing a big blob of color. “What is it?”

  Michael had laughed then, momentarily relaxing his normally piercing eyes. “It’s Wales. Almost right there in the smack dab middle of it.”

  “So what does it mean?” Taryn had asked. “That I should go to Wales?”

  “Maybe.” Michael had shrugged. “All four of your lines intersect there, which could mean something positive for you.”

  “Does it say anything about a past life?” She was always hoping to get some glimmer of a past life from him.

  “Could be. That could be where your destiny comes into play. My guess is that, if you went there, excellent things would come of it. I certainly wouldn’t discount the idea of traveling there.”