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

by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  Now it was Nicki’s turn to interrupt him. “Your midnight snack was sushi?”

  “Where in the world did you buy sushi in Lampeter?” Taryn put in.

  “I made it myself,” he shrugged. “Took the bus into Carmarthen and found seaweed at a market. The rest is just avocadoes and-”

  “Okay, okay, we got him off track,” Nicki said in a rush. “Please go back to the ghost story.”

  “Right. So,” Shawn continued, “I was in the dining room and heard this loud noise coming from the kitchen. It sounded just like the door slammed shut and that something had fallen off the wall from the vibration. At first I thought it was Paul. Well, you know what he’s like. Not someone you want to run into in the dark. Still, I thought I should make nice with him so I stood and started into the kitchen to talk to him. I had only taken a few feet, however, when I heard the chains.”

  “The chains?” Taryn found herself leaning forward, hanging onto every word.

  “The chains,” Shawn nodded. His eyes dulled and he lowered his head. The lighthearted tone has disappeared from his voice. “It was a heavy chain, something you might see in one of those old prison movies. It hit the floor with a thud. I could hear it smack into that tile. And then it dragged. There was no mistaking the sound of that metal being hauled across that floor.”

  “Oh my God,” Nicki whimpered.

  “What did you do?” Taryn asked. She tried to imagine herself in his position, thought of what she’d experienced the night before, and commiserated with his fear and helplessness.

  “Nothing at first,” Shawn admitted. “I just stood there holding my breath. I had my drink in my hand and I was afraid to move. I didn’t even know I was shaking until I heard the ice rattling.”

  He exhaled loudly and shook his head as though to clear the memory. “The chain seemed to come all the way to the dining room door and then it stopped. It was only a few feet from me but the door between the rooms was closed so I couldn’t see what was on the other side. I didn’t want to see what might be on the other side. It paused, as though waiting to see what my next effort was going to be, and then it commenced its movement again. I know, though, that while it stood there it was aware of me. I know it was listening to me breath, was feeling me out. I could feel it.”

  Nick sprinted up to the bench and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Oh Shawn! I’m so sorry I made you tell us this story. How awful for you.”

  Shawn was probably ten years older than Nicki, and clearly the more mature of the two in many different ways, but Taryn could tell by the way he leaned into her embrace that he was grateful for the security she offered. Nicki was young but had a mothering instinct that made those around her feel safe and loved; Taryn had felt it as well.

  “I heard that chain scraping back across the floor again,” he said bitterly, still leaning into Nicki’s stomach, “and then the door slammed. When the dinner bell rang outside, I high-tailed it out of the dining room.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Taryn said.

  “I still wasn’t convinced that it wasn’t a real person, you know? So even though it took every ounce of courage I had, I went over to the back door and peered outside. I was intent on locking it. Maybe even putting a chair in front of it. At first, I didn’t see anyone in the garden at all. It was so dark, you see. But then, off in the shrubbery, I saw a shadow. A tall, robust man was standing there. Not watching me, not looking at the house. Just staring off towards the moor. Watching. As though he were waiting for someone. And then, like he’d never been there at all, he disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Nicki asked.

  “It wasn’t as though he faded away or turned into a thousand different particles,” Shawn explained. “It was like one minute he was there and the next minute he wasn’t. It was very quick. After that I shut the door, locked it, and went upstairs. Didn’t sleep for most of the night.”

  Nicki gave him another squeeze and then returned to the stump where she’d been sitting. “That’s all so horrible. I am so very sorry.”

  “So you really think it was a ghost?” Taryn questioned him timidly.

  “Don’t know what else it could have been,” he muttered. “I went into town the next morning. Stopped at the bakery. I’ve made friends with the woman who stays on until noon. I wanted to tell someone about it and didn’t want to bother you ladies. There was a lull in the crowd, so I told her.”

  “What did she say?” Nicki asked.

  “She said it sounded like a man named Rice Walters. He was apparently the main gardener. Lived in the garden in a little cottage. I guess they had someone living there full time to act as security?” He directed this at Nicki and she nodded. “Supposedly, he was accidentally killed by a garden rake in some kind of freak accident. Betty wasn’t completely sure.”

  “Let me guess,” Taryn sighed. “It was during Iona’s time?”

  “Yep,” Shawn replied. “Lots of people seemed to die around her.”

  “That’s why they killed her,” Nicki said. “Because she was a witch.”

  Taryn snorted. “Witches don’t kill people. That’s only in stories.”

  “What about bad witches?” Nicki asked innocently. “You hear about stories all the time. With witches and their satanic rituals.”

  “I know a witch,” Taryn snapped. “And she’s one of the best people I know. She and her sister both. Liza Jane and Bryar Rose wouldn’t hurt a fly. Besides, witches believe that whatever they send out into the world comes back to them times three. The last thing they’d do is come up with creative ways to kill people.”

  Shawn cast Nicki an affectionate look. “Love, the stories you’re referring to are just old legends that frightened people created to explain things they didn’t understand. They needed someone to blame and the witches, and most of the time innocent people who’d never done anything to resemble witchcraft, were the scapegoats.”

  “Morgaine was a witch,” Taryn added. She looked over at Shawn. “From The Mists of Avalon.”

  “So did you finish it?” Nicki looked excited again. She was able to switch from one subject to the other, from one mood to another, in the blink of an eye.

  Oh, Taryn thought, to be young and full of energy again…

  “I did,” Taryn grinned. “And if you want to come hang out in my room tonight, we can discuss it within our two-woman book club.”

  “I’ll bring the wine,” Shawn said. When both women turned and looked at him in surprise he laughed. “What? I like to read too, you know. You girls weren’t planning on leaving me to Paul, were you?”

  “Hey, if we’re meeting tonight then maybe you can drink the rest of this juice I bought,” Taryn said. “I’ve been drinking on it since I got here and it’s just too strong for me. I can’t finish it.”

  “Oh yeah?” Shawn asked. “What kind is it?”

  “It’s called Squash.”

  Shawn began laughing. “You didn’t just pour you a glass and drink it did you?”

  “Well yeah,” Taryn replied.

  “You don’t drink it like that love,” Nicki smiled. “You mix it with water.”

  Shawn threw his arm around Taryn again and squeezed her. “Man, no wonder you didn’t like it. That stuff is crazy without diluting it.”

  “How can a country that looks so much like ours and sounds so much like ours be so different?” Taryn grumbled. Squash with water. Well, at least now she knew!

  ***

  Taryn was almost convinced that the EDS was screwing with her mind. Before she’d gone outside to work earlier, she’d rinsed her paint brushes and had left them drying on the sink in her bedroom.

  Now they were gone and Taryn was not amused.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked the room. “Why are you sabotaging my things?”

  The bathroom light flickered once, then twice, and the small stream of water that had been running from the faucet suddenly turned to a waterfall, soaking her shirt and pants. As she scrambled to use all her st
rength to turn it off, the small closet door slammed shut behind her, the rusty hinges squeaking painfully from the motion. Taryn jumped and yelped, taken surprise by the noise.

  She walked over to the little door and looked down. Something was peeking out from under it, something white and flat.

  Taryn studied it for a moment before she understood what she was looking at. It was the backside of a photograph.

  Taryn gently sat back on her haunches and gave the edge a tug. Little by little, the photograph was freed from the clutches of the door. When she turned it over, however, she gasped.

  It was the photograph she carried of her Nana. The one that had gone missing from her suitcase.

  Although she couldn’t see or hear anything, a calmness floated over her, a mothering sensation that placated her and made her yearn for an embrace. Taryn understood then that the picture was a gift from the house, an apology for something it had done.

  “Thank you,” Taryn said softly as she rose to her feet. “Thank you.”

  Now, where the heck were her rain boots?

  Chapter Twenty One

  ALTHOUGH TARYN WAS STILL TECHNICALLY recovering from her hip and knee injuries, she’d biked into Lampeter for provisions.

  For the first time in her life, Taryn found herself in a place that had multiple shops for different kinds of food: she went into the bakery for little cakes and fresh bread and the butcher for little steaks. She’d never been to an actual butcher before and though she was nervous talking to the guy with the thick brogue and blood-stained apron behind the counter. As an American shopper, she was used to the anonymity of simply picking up a plastic-covered Styrofoam package from the refrigerated shelf and walking to the self-checkout line without ever having to speak to anyone). There had a been a moment in which the two had some trouble understanding one another, what with her thick southern accent and his thick Welsh one, but in the end she was almost positive she’d ended up with what she wanted.

  After shopping, she’d slipped inside a little café called Sosban Fach and had tea and little pancakes stuffed with apple sauce.

  Taryn was surprised at how independent she felt, even without a vehicle. At home she would get in her car and drive to Kroger or Wal-Mart, grab something to eat at a local restaurant near her apartment, and go back home. There were many more steps involved there in Lampeter. For fruit, she visited the market by the university. Then there was the butcher and the bakery. Riding her bike to and from the town. Learning how to use the foreign ATM machine and mentally figuring out the exchange rate every time she bought something. It should have felt complicate and yet, it didn’t. It felt freeing. Like she was truly taking care of herself.

  As Taryn rode back to Ceredigion House, her parcels rattling around in the white wicker basket Miriam had firmly attached to the front, she took a moment to enjoy the brisk air and stunning scenery. She couldn’t see the moor from town. Instead, she was surrounded by the gently rolling hills, fields of cotton ball sheep, and dark patches of forest. She rode past a pub called the Cwmanne and saw a signing proclaiming the “lockout is 1:00 am.” Someone was busily dusting off the entryway with a wooden broom and they threw up their arm in a wave as Taryn rode by.

  Everything about Lampeter and the surrounding area felt so old. She didn’t know how to explain it. Intellectually, she knew that its history stretched back for a thousand years or more. That it had seen more rulers and stages of history than her own relatively young country could comprehend. It wasn’t just on an intellectual level that she understood these things, however-she could feel them. The air felt heavier, dense. There was a fullness all around her that spoke of music, war, and pride. She felt it everywhere she went. The history was all but carried on the wind; she could smell it.

  Taryn’s sense of smell had always been strong. She couldn’t smell a rotten vegetable in front of her, but she had always been able to pick up on the distinct perfumes that a place and time carried. Taryn could, for instance, tell the difference between Franklin and Nashville just in the way they smelled. Franklin had a delicate way about it, a freshness and lightness. Like an angel food cake topped with strawberries. Nashville, on the other hand, had a strong scent. Concrete with perspiration and dust.

  She was still enjoying her ride when she pulled up to the front of the house and started unloading her basket. When Paul stomped through the door, however, she paused. He had such a dark energy about him; just being in his humorless presence dampened her mood.

  “The others say they didn’t do it so I am imagining it was you,” he growled, scrutinizing her with his hard eyes.

  That was another thing about Paul; he always seemed to come at her as though they’d been in the middle of a conversation all along. Taryn rarely knew what he was talking about.

  “What did I do?” she asked innocently. She honestly had no idea what she’d done to gain his disapproval this time around. Hell, she’d hardly seen him all week.

  “The milk? In the kitchen floor?” he demanded. “It will brings rats, you know. They claim we don’t have them but they’re here all right. I clean up their messes every day, don’t I now?”

  Something finally clicked for Taryn. “Oh! The milk. Well, I set that out for Freckles. I didn’t know where you fed him, or her, so I put it in the kitchen.”

  Something incommunicable crossed over Paul’s face, but his expression didn’t change.

  “I put it out of the way, by the door,” she said, feeling her body stiffen in defense.

  “I have no idea what you’re going on about, but alls I know is that I had to clean up spoiling milk today,” he said. His voice dropped down an octave, the anger slowly starting to dissipate. Now he was looking at her as though she had two heads.

  “The cat?” Taryn ventured.

  Paul shook his head and sighed. He must have thought he wasn’t going to get any farther with her because he turned and started to stomp back inside the house. Something occurred to Taryn just then and she felt her heart sink.

  “Paul?”

  He stiffened at the sound of his name and turned, looking ready to attack.

  “Did, um,” Taryn began hesitantly. She hated initiating a conversation with Paul but he was there and she had to know.

  “Yes?” It was obvious that he was annoyed by her presence and simply wanted to get far away from her.

  “Were there lots of pets here at the house?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yes. Big house, lots of animals.”

  “Horses maybe?”

  “Horses. Dogs, cats. They were all buried here on the property if you want to get up close and personal to them,” he retorted.

  A pet semetary, Taryn thought to herself.

  It made sense that there would’ve been lots of pets over the years. After all, a gentry’s life usually called for hunting. They undoubtedly would’ve had horses, and probably hounds. As Taryn walked in the general direction that Paul had pointed her in, she tried to imagine children gaily running after beloved puppies and kittens. She had no idea if the vision was a practical one but then, children were children regardless of the time period.

  “It’s there, on the other side of the lake,” he gestured vaguely. Before she could reply, he was taking the stairs in a single bound and disappearing back inside the house.

  ***

  The pet cemetery was located between an old mulberry tree and holly tree. Taryn walked around gently, slowly reading some of the inscriptions on the tiny stones.

  After she’d put her groceries away, she’d slipped on a heavier jacket and gone outside. Nicki’s rain boots, shoes she called “Wellies” were waiting by the back door and Taryn had slipped them on. Nicki had offered them to her earlier and since it had rained for a few minutes while she was in the house, she borrowed the boots now. The grass was high in some parts and the wet grass brushed her waist in some places. When she reached the moor, her feet sunk into the gooey mud, making her think of walking through chocolate pudding.

  “Pink
pig paradise,” she mumbled to herself, remembering what she and Matt had called the big mud hole behind her house when they were kids. They’d been expanding her subdivision and the whole backside was a mess. And although, at eleven, they’d really been too old for such childish ventures, they’d still sneaked into the off-limits area after everyone went home and played. Matt could put any sandcastle to shame with the edifices he’d erected in the sludge.

  Now she stood in the cemetery, a dismal place with homemade monuments carrying beloved names scrawled in stone with no regards to penmanship or design. Other than the two trees, the cemetery was bare of foliage. The flat and barren moor surrounding it made it appear as a mirage in the vast, endless sand.

  “Rags, Hermit, Vagrant, Mayfly, Bellman,” Taryn read aloud. Sometimes she followed a name with a chuckle; the noise sounded heartless in such surroundings.

  Raised in the south, death had never been hidden from Taryn as a child. She’d attended every funeral of every distant relative, unfamiliar neighbor, and hapless co-worker that kicked the bucket. She’d had to sit through long and tedious services-both those in the chapels and those that occurred later at the graveside. She’d posed for photographs with dead bodies in caskets and, later while the adults were visiting, had played in the graveyard. Once, when a distant cousin had died and Matt was allowed to accompany her to the funeral, he’d even kept watch while she’d peed behind an oak tree in the far corner of the cemetery.

  Taryn had never been afraid of cemeteries or found them chilling or even depressing places. She’d always kind of thought of them as little parks. Parks that some people never got out of alive.

  This one, however, was different. Stuffed so far away from the rest of the house, in the middle of a desolate land, with unkempt graves of family members that nobody even remembered anymore…there was something poignant about that.

  Still, there was also humor there. She could appreciate that, too.

  Taryn lingered at one stone and found herself grinning. “’Poor John the coon and Jenny his wife’,” she read aloud.