“Could it be the EDS?” Matt asked, his voice shaky but always quick to find the logical explanation when there was one. “Sometimes it’s hard to regulate your body temperature.”
Taryn nodded dully and walked out into the grass to gather her torn garments. Maybe she’d had a type of seizure or something. Didn’t people sometimes smell smoke when that happened? And maybe it was a medical thing. The EDS caused all kinds of weird stuff. She was still learning about it herself.
“I’m okay,” she whispered again. “Let me call you back in a little while. I need to get another drink and lay down.”
But, as she let herself back into the house, she couldn’t forget the last thing she saw before it had all come to a screeching halt: a wall of flames, towering over her, and drawing nearer at a dizzying speed.
Chapter 3
“I hope you enjoyed your first night on the island,” Ellen Russo said.
Taryn was sitting in Ellen’s office, a spacious room furnished with Art Deco style furniture. Once again, despite the crushing heat, Ellen sat before her looking cool as a cucumber.
“Yes, it was fine,” Taryn smiled, trying to hide the shakiness she still felt at remembering the previous night. “The house is very nice. I’ll enjoy staying there, I’m sure.”
“Good. Well, I’m afraid I don’t have a lot of time so I thought I’d give you a quick rundown of the hotel and then drive you to the locations you’ll be working at. Amy was meant to be here but had to take the day off.”
Taryn thought she noticed a note of impatience in Ellen’s voice and she wasn’t surprised. Ellen herself hadn’t hired her; rather, the board of directors had. Out of all the cottages that were still standing, all but two had been renovated and were either open for tours or for meetings and accommodations. The last two cottages, Ivy House and Adena Cottage, would be renovated in the fall. Taryn would be working with the architect to come up with renderings.
She had a feeling that Ellen, like many people, probably considered Taryn’s part of the project an unnecessary expense. After all, architects were paid to come up with sketches to show the big picture. What could Taryn possibly have to add to that?
Taryn may have suffered from nerves and the occasional annoying habit of wanting to please people too much, but she was confident in her abilities. She knew that what she offered was something more. She didn’t just sketch or paint landscapes–she brought the buildings to life by recreating details and features that had been lost through the years. She showed what the structure would’ve looked like in its prime, when it was full of life and new. And, more than that, she captured the souls of the objects she painted until they were no longer objects at all.
Taryn was the closest thing they had to a vintage photograph which, incidentally, didn’t really exist of the two cottages before their ruin.
Ellen and Taryn began their walk through the hotel first, with Ellen pointing out sights and details that were of both architectural and historical significance.
In the Riverfront Lobby Ellen paused. “The lobby bar here is something that everyone just loves,” she remarked drily. “However, it’s not original to the hotel. It was created as a set for a movie that was filmed here awhile back.”
Taryn nodded and looked around. She’d seen The Legend of Baggar Vance and had liked it. And she could understand why people would like the lobby bar, regardless of its authenticity. With its fine wood finishing, old-fashioned bar top and stools, and chipper bartender in suit and tie she felt like she’d stepped back into the 1920’s.
“This here is the Grand Dining Room,” Ellen gestured proudly a few minutes later. “Meals are served here throughout the day, as well as a formal tea. There are three fireplaces we keep lit during the winter months, a pianist who comes in during the dinner meal, and impeccable service.”
Taryn admired the large room with its beautiful crystal chandelier, grand piano covered in a display of roses, and delicate place settings on each table. Although a hostess stood at attention, there were only two tables inside with guests.
“It gets busier in the evenings,” Ellen remarked. “And during special events, of course.”
A long walkway took them past a courtyard, a deli with walls covered in movie posters of films shot there on location, and a ballroom. To Taryn’s disappointment the ballroom was simply a large room with tables set up for a meeting. She was hoping for marble floors, an orchestra pit, and chandeliers everywhere. It did, however open to a nice courtyard.
“Well, we decorate it very well for events. It doesn’t look like the same place then,” Ellen laughed when Taryn questioned her. “You should see our New Year’s Eve and Christmas parties.”
Back in the golf cart with Ellen again, Taryn took a moment to admire the exterior of the hotel. The stark white paint set against the bright blue sky, expansive porch filled with rocking chairs, and strikingly curved walls made it look so much more glamorous than the nondescript interstate hotels she was used to seeing. The two wings spread out gloriously amongst the stunning oaks draped with their Spanish moss, and the imposing turret rose proudly into the sky, a symbol of wealth and prestige for those staying in the impressive Presidential Suite below it.
There was even a croquet court on the front lawn.
It was a short ride to the first cottage and Taryn took the time to appreciate the breeze. She’d have to learn to deal with the heat if she was going to work outside all summer. She’d also have to do something with her hair. Previously washed and styled, now it rested in limp curls against her wet neck and back.
Their first stop was Ivy House.
Ivy House was around 3,000 square feet, making the word “cottage” ironic. Construction began in the mid nineteenth century, making it one of the oldest cottages. It had once been a stately imposing structure but it had fallen into disrepair in the 1940’s and had only been touched once since.
“We did try to renovate it two years ago,” Ellen explained as they pulled up to it. Yellow tape surrounded the house, an attempt to keep trespassers out.
Taryn beheld the old cottage with sorrow. Built in a Queen Ann Style, it was as prissy as a wedding cake and boasted a charming turret. But one entire side had caved in, making it look like a giant had given it a good kick. It was difficult to tell what the original paint had been, although Taryn assumed it would’ve been colorful. Now it was a dull gray, bleached by the sun and salt air. The steps to the porch were overgrown with weeds, the floorboards caved in, and all the windows either road mapped with spider cracks or missing altogether.
Taryn, who believed houses had memories and some sort of soul, was saddened at the sight.
“What happened?” she asked, resisting the urge to whip out Miss Dixie and start working right then and there.
“Well, workers went in and began installing support beams in the parlor and…”
Ellen’s voice trailed off, a bright pink blush coloring her cheeks.
“Yes?”
“Do you believe in ghosts, Miss Magill?” she asked curtly.
“I do,” Taryn said. No reason to be coy about it. Besides, if they’d Googled her at all they would know what she’d been involved in. She’d developed a bit of a web presence after Windwood Farm.
“There are many locations on this island that are allegedly haunted. I am an educated woman but I don’t shrink against the idea of there being something out there bigger than us. This,” she gestured to the cottage, “is one of them. Workers spent three days in the house and it was nothing but chaos. Paint cans flew around the room, heavy footsteps could be heard tramping around upstairs when nobody was able to access it, and the men heard so much female laughter ringing through the walls that they said it was hard to hear each other talk. At last, the upstairs caved in on them. Injured two people. Nobody ever went back.”
“What do you think it is? Or, whom, I should ask?”
Ellen pursed her lips. “The house was originally built by Steryl Lewis, a railroad magnate. His daugh
ters inherited it upon his death and continued to live here until 1935. Apparently, before the eldest died, she informed everyone on the island that no matter what they did to it, it would be hers.”
“I guess she doesn’t like anyone touching it then,” Taryn mused.
“Well, she best get over it because we have the money to fix it and we’re going to,” Ellen snapped.
As if in response, a shard of glass fell out of one of the upstairs windows and broke into a million tiny pieces on the ground not far from the women’s feet. Taryn jumped back in surprise but Ellen just frowned and shook her head. “Oh, snap out of it Louisa,” she barked. “We’re not going to bother you. Yet.”
Taryn looked at Ellen in growing admiration.
Adena Cottage, constructed in 1899, was in much worse shape. Although a photograph of it from 1953 did exist, it was only a partial view. And, regrettably, a tropical storm had almost ruined it completely three years later.
Taryn would have her work cut out for her with it.
“Are there any ghosts here?” she asked as they stood on the lawn and studied it. It looked peaceful enough, but you just never really knew.
“Not that we are aware of,” Ellen answered. “We’ve never had any trouble with this one.”
Back at the hotel Ellen had bottled water brought up for them while they went over the final paperwork. Once Taryn had signed all the contracts Ellen rose to her feet. “If there is anything you need, please let me know.”
“Actually, I was going to ask about supplies. Groceries, paints, stuff like that,” Taryn said. “Where do I need to go?”
“You’ll find most of what you need in Brunswick, although if you need something specific you might have to travel down to Jacksonville,” Ellen replied. “To be honest, however, if you’re looking for good dining options I’d head over to St. Simon’s Island.”
“How long does it take to get there?”
Ellen laughed. “Well, not very long if you have a boat. Since you have a car, about half an hour if there’s traffic. Two miles by sea, fifteen by land.”
Taryn couldn’t wait to get started on the initial photographing of the cottages, but first she needed to organize and then she needed supplies. She’d brought very little with her in terms of food, thinking there’d be a grocery store she could pop out to as soon as she arrived. She needed her late-night munchies; Taryn tended to stay up late working, and the night before had been brutal without something disgusting to snack on.
A seasoned gypsy, she packed light when it came to clothes. The majority of her summer clothes were lightweight and thin. They could easily be rolled up into her suitcase. She’d also brought her laptop, her external hard drive, and several lenses for Miss Dixie. These she set up on the dining room table, making herself a makeshift office.
To personalize the living room a bit she laid a handmade afghan, a birthday present from her grandmother, over the back of the couch. Her collection of sandals and boots were tucked away in the large closet in the house’s only bedroom and her assortment of prescription medications and supplements she stored in the bathroom’s medicine cabinet.
The last thing she did was place three photographs on the small dresser in the bedroom. The first was of her and Matt, taken when she was eleven. They’d bicycled to the lake that day, something she couldn’t imagine kids that young doing outside of Nashville now, and had set up a little picnic. A stranger stopped and took their picture. Taryn was wearing a red T-shirt, blue jean shorts, and her messy red hair was in a side ponytail. Matt wore his usual somber expression with clothes that were a size too small.
The second was a photograph of her parents and maternal grandmother, all gathered around a Christmas tree. It was the last Christmas her parents had seen.
The third was one Taryn was still trying to process and wean herself from, but had failed as of yet. It was a single shot of Andrew, her fiancé, standing in front of a dilapidated antebellum home in Mississippi. His boyish grin lit up his face, the excitement he always felt around houses he loved evident through the lens. His car crash had been just weeks later. Sometimes she still told people he was her husband, and not her fiancé, as though rewriting history the way it should have been.
Taryn had spent most of the day trying to forget what happened the night before. Now that it was dark again however, and she was all alone, it was impossible to let it go.
Now, as she sat by herself in her temporary living room and tried staring at the television screen, she let herself remember another part of the hotel’s history–the thing that nobody ever wanted to talk about.
The fire was the disaster that had almost brought it all to an abrupt end. New Year’s Eve, 1907. During the celebration in the ballroom there were more than two hundred people inside dancing, drinking, and laughing. Nobody saw the flames or smelled the smoke until it was too late. A fire that started upstairs in one of the apartments quickly spread through the wooden walls. With the main door engulfed in flames, partygoers had smashed through windows to escape into the fresh night air. More than seventy-five people were seriously injured. There were forty deaths in total, including guests and staff. It was still considered one of the greatest tragedies in American history.
The majority of the original hotel burned to the ground, nothing but ashes. The apartments were all destroyed. Investigators determined that William Hawkins, a forty-year old attorney from New York, had started the fire in his apartment over the ballroom. The reason? To cover up the murder of his young wife, Rachel. William was tried for both the arson and the murder, found guilty in both cases, and sentenced to death. The story still resounded with historians, not only due to the nature of the tragedy but because a white man was hung. Fifteen of the deaths from the fire had been prominent businessmen and their wives. That fact had not boded well for William.
The hotel was rebuilt a year later, an exact replica of the original, although it would never be the same.
Chapter 4
Taryn had already been on Jekyll Island for four days and had yet to visit a beach.
It was official: she was pathetic.
It was funny how she had almost zero problems when it came to her professional life and yet her personal life was just one big procrastinated effort after another.
Although she needed to get over to the cottages and start taking her pictures she decided that today was the day she must explore at least one of the beaches. Her best photographs were taken in the morning or late afternoon and since she was rarely up for the morning light she still had plenty of time to take herself for a walk in the sand.
“This is why I took this job, remember?” she reminded her bathing suit as she fished it from her dresser. “To relax.”
Taryn had honestly never been much of a beach person. Her mind never slowed down enough for her to kick back on the sand and zone out. Within minutes there would be a weird juxtaposition of song lyrics, movie reels, and bank figures dancing through her head. She loved watching the water, though, in all its forms. She’d never let her fear of what it could do detract from her enjoyment of watching it.
There were several beaches on Jekyll Island and the information pamphlet and map she’d picked up at the island’s gate had recommended Great Dunes Park as a good place to start. When she pulled into the parking lot, however, it was packed. After circling it twice and nearly hitting a man carrying two folding chairs on his back and dragging a cooler she decided to take it as an omen that it wasn’t the beach for her.
Getting back on the road she headed for Driftwood Beach
Driftwood Beach was named for the very thing it contained–driftwood. With visions of a normal sandy beach littered with a bunch of sticks, Taryn’s expectations were low as she pulled over the side of the road and parked her car behind two minivans. Driftwood didn’t have an official parking lot; you just kind of had to pull over where you could.
To reach the beach Taryn had to walk through a heavily wooded area. The narrow sandy path took her thr
ough a thick mess of trees, vines, and shrubs while mosquitoes and sand gnats flew around her head. She could barely see the ground for the undergrowth and had there not been a path there was no way she’d have been able to walk through the thicket. It looked like a jungle and for the first time since arriving Taryn had a better idea of what the original settlers might have been up against. She tried to imagine landing on the island and being met by the dense vegetation and sweltering heat, the mosquitoes swarming their heads and the fire ants below.
Had it looked like a paradise then, or hell?
Taryn was panting and swiping at the sweat burning her eyes when the trees opened up. Before her lay the Atlantic, wide and calm with just a hint of blue. A barge floated peacefully in the distance, its massive size barely a blip on the horizon. Straight in front of her, though, was something unlike anything she’d ever seen.
When she heard the word “driftwood” she expected logs, sticks, and pieces big enough to pick up. What she saw were the size of vehicles. It was as if entire trees had washed ashore and landed naked on the sand, creating a skeletal jungle. Their bare branches protruded upwards like emaciated arms reaching for the sky. They rose and twisted in impossible shapes, each one its own work of art, the shadows they left across the sand an intricate board game that made her feel like Alice in Wonderland.
Taryn walked amongst the monsters, stopping to examine tide pools and watch the dozens of sand crabs scurrying from her probing lens. When she got too hot she peeled off her tank top and walked around with her bathing suit sticking out of her shorts.
The beach was almost deserted. Although there were a few stragglers picking up shells and wading in the water, they were on the far end and nowhere near Taryn. She thought she had her part of the beach to herself so when a shadow loomed over her while she knelt to get a shot of tube worms covered in tiny shells, she flinched in surprise.
Jekyll Island: A Paranormal Mystery (Taryn's Camera Book 5) Page 3
