Dark Hollow Road (Taryn's Camera Book 3) (2 page)

He smiled and reached out to her, brushing a stray strand of hair back out of her face. “You’re just using me for the good night’s sleep.”

“It’s true,” she admitted. Taryn had suffered from nightmares her whole life. They only grew worse as she grew older. Sleeping with another body in the bed made things easier. Even as a teenager she’d still crawled into the bed with her grandmother, taking comfort in the skin that smelled like Johnson’s baby powder and Icy Hot.

“Something’s bothering me, Matt,” she confessed after a few minutes of companionable silence. “I don’t know if it’s my nerves from being on a new job or something else. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“Can you describe it to me?” His nose was red and white puffs of air came from his mouth when he spoke. They’d have to go in soon but what she was feeling was better expressed outside, in the open.

“Dread, I guess. Like something bad’s going to happen or maybe already has.”

Matt studied her, his dark eyes shining through his thick lashes in the glow of the porch light. Cocking his head to one side, he considered. “I think I know what you mean. I am getting a little bit of a vibe myself but, like you, I can’t articulate it. Not yet anyway.”

“And you’re supposed to be the rocket scientist,” she teased.

“And you’re the ghost whisperer. Fine pair we are.”

“So what do you think it could be?” she began. “Do you think maybe we’re—”

Taryn’s words were cut off by a hollow, yet piercing, scream that cut through the night air and struck both of them, shaking Taryn to the core and sending Matt a step back from her. The sound echoed, seemingly coming from all directions at once, a thunderous sound that sent Taryn into a funnel of emotions. And then, as quickly as it had come, it faded into the darkness: a snowflake melting in a blaze of heat.

Gathering herself together, Taryn stared wildly out into the night. “Hello!” she called out in shock. “Who’s there?”

Thinking only that someone might be hurt, she forgot her fear and set off at a frantic pace towards the edge of the porch, ready to jump off and follow the noise. Matt, right behind her, grabbed at her elbow and pulled her back. “Wait,” he panted. “Just wait.”

“Why?” she demanded, her eyes confused and her heart racing. “If someone’s hurt…”

“It wasn’t real,” he panted, just a hint of terror in his voice. “Whoever screamed, they’re not here. Just stop. Can’t you feel it?”

And she could. With Matt’s hand on her arm and the warmth of his body so close, she
knew
. Like a bolt of lightning, the truth flashed through her mind: whoever had called out in the night was no longer alive and had been that way for a very long time.

T
aryn’s workspace for the next two months was bright and cheerful. The room was large and, with its position on a corner of the building, was surrounded by two walls of huge windows that poured in the sunlight. She was provided with oils, acrylics, and watercolors and all the brushes and canvases she could possibly need. Of course, she’d brought her own as well.

Each student would have their own easel and as Taryn stood in the middle of the room she envisioned setting the space up so all the students were in a semi-circle around her rather than in rows. It would feel more comfortable that way, like they were all in it together.

“I hope this works,” the woman who stood in front of her declared. She was a tall, fiftyish woman with short black hair and muscular arms that peeked out from her short sleeves. As the dean of the Art Department, Taryn would be working directly with her, even though the class technically fell under the community education program and was offered to non-students as well as those enrolled in the college.

“It’s great,” Taryn replied. “Works fine. So tell me about the kinds of students who have signed up for the class? I mean, are they art students, history students? Local people who are looking for a way to fill their time?”

“I can assure you,” the woman (her name was June) began with pursed lips and a little defensively, “they’re all very serious about the class. Even the non-official students.”

“Oh, yeah, I’m sure,” Taryn stammered. “I just wanted to get a feel for who I’d be working with.”

Thelma stepped up from behind June and took the reins. “Most of them are art students, although you have some history buffs, too, and even an Appalachian Studies student. All of them are interested in historical architecture so, of course, they’re thrilled to be working with you. They’ve all been shown examples of your work and what you do so they’re coming into the class at least a little familiar with you and your work.”

Thelma blushed at the end of her sentence, and Taryn understood. Undoubtedly, some of them would’ve signed up just to see what the big deal was with Taryn. Since the events at Griffith Tavern had unfolded, she’d been in several national newspapers and an entertainment show had even aired a piece about her–without her input or permission.

Taryn’s official job capacity was as a multi-media artist. Individuals and organizations called her in to reconstruct houses and other buildings in poor condition. Of course, she reconstructed them on canvas. In some cases the building was going to be demolished, and her clients simply wanted a beautiful reminder of it. In other situations, however, funds were procured for remodeling and restoring it, and Taryn’s paintings were instrumental in helping the architects and contractors “see” what it would’ve looked like in its prime. This wasn’t always as easy as it sounded since Taryn had worked with houses that were missing several key structures–everything from the front porch to an entire wing. A lot of her job consisted of research; she had to be well-versed not only in historical architecture but also in a variety of time periods so she could gain an understanding of paint colors, décor, and adornments. She spent nearly as much time in libraries and online as she did with her paintbrush in hand.

“I’ve seen your work and it’s phenomenal,” June divulged, a little of the ice thawing in her voice. “You reconstructed an entire Main Street from the early nineteenth century in that town in Mississippi and most of the buildings were wiped out from the tornado. How
ever
did you do it?”

“A lot of research,” Taryn laughed. “Luckily, there were several people in town who had letters and other documents from ancestors from that time period. I used those to piece together some information I already had. And then, well, the rest was using samples of architecture from other surrounding towns that still maintained their downtown buildings. Of course, my imagination helped.”

“So I imagine you’ll be doing a lot of lecturing, as well as painting,” June mused.

“That’s what I was counting on,” Taryn agreed.

Her classes started soon. After they left the classroom Taryn let June and Thelma show her around the liberal arts building and the “grill” where students ate. The campus was small, but the buildings were historical and Taryn loved the mountains surrounding them and valley it set in. The town itself only had ten thousand people.

“Apple Valley is basically a college town at this point,” Thelma explained. “Of course, some people go on to Atlanta for college, but many of the young people stay here. They continue to live at home and attend school. With the price of higher education being so much these days…”

“Yeah, I understand. I’d probably live at home, too, if I were them.”

“The largest portion of our students come from out of town, however, for our diverse programs and low-cost tuition. We’re top rated in the south and have a terrific work-study program to help out with costs. We’re a small town, but since we’re right off the interstate we are starting to get built up a little more. There was a time, not too long ago, if you told me the name of a street I could tell you where it was. Now, though, we’ve grown so much and there are so many suburbs here they seem like they pop up overnight,” Thelma said with a hint of sadness, a shadow passing over her face.

“What’s the industry here?” Taryn asked. They were outside now and had stopped under an oak tree, its leaves blowing around them and then sailing off into the gray sky.

“Just the college and a few retail spots. Two factories. We’re basically a bedroom town for some of the bigger places now. We used to have a thriving downtown area, a theater, and lots of farms, of course. Those are gone. One of the reasons my husband and I built the cabin out on our land was because we were trying to get away from all this ‘progress,’” she laughed. “We’ll eventually move out there full-time, but as long as I’m working here we need to be closer.”

“What does your husband do?”

“He’s an engineer. He commutes to Athens. He used to work at the Linklater factory here. Worked there twenty years until it closed a year ago.”

It was a sight Taryn had seen over and over again, and one likely to get worse before it got better. Small towns were dying out and becoming bedroom communities of the larger cities. They were losing their businesses and character and, one day, there would be nothing left of them. Taryn’s grandmother lived in Franklin, Tennessee and that’s where she considered “home” to be, even though she technically grew up in a middle-class suburb of Nashville. Franklin was one of the few places that had retained its downtown area and local flavor. She hoped it held onto it.

“Do you need anything out at the cabin?” Thelma asked as she walked Taryn to the parking lot. Matt was already waiting for her, the car idling.

“No, we’re fine. My, er, friend went grocery shopping while I was here and stocked up. He’s anxious to sink his teeth into that fabulous kitchen.”

Thelma laughed. “I do love a man who will cook.”

“I wanted to ask you something, though,” Taryn began timidly. This was only the second time she’d met Thelma and she felt awkward to bring up any of her other “talents,” but she had to know…

“What is it?”

“I got a feeling last night. I can’t describe it. I just… I don’t know,” she shook her head. “Maybe it’s nothing.”

She turned to get in the car but was stopped when Thelma placed her hand on Taryn’s shoulder. Thelma’s eyes had lost their luster and now she was looking at Taryn, almost pleadingly. Her dark hair whipped around her face and her bottom lip had the faintest of quivers. She looked forlorn, lost. “Did you
see
something?” she almost whispered.

“No, nothing,” Taryn answered, a question in her voice. “I just felt something. Did, did something happen there?”

Thelma dropped her hand and looked away. “I don’t know,” she replied, her voice trailing off. “I just don’t know.”

“
I
’m telling you, Matt, something’s up,” Taryn insisted as they carried the groceries into the house. He’d gone a little overboard, but at least they wouldn’t starve. It was the first job she’d ever worked in which she’d have real food and not have to depend upon chains and processed stuff. Matt didn’t even know what a Hot Pocket was.

“What do
you
think it is?” he asked, hands on his hips, surveying the cabinets. She wouldn’t have to put anything anyway. The kitchen was his domain, and he had a system for where things went.

“I’m not sure,” she mused. “Maybe just a local ghost story? An urban legend? I would’ve pressed harder but, to tell you the truth, she looked haunted herself. It didn’t feel like the time.”

“Do you feel scared?” His concern was palpable and it sent a twinge of guilt through her. Was she just being too dramatic? Too paranoid? She certainly didn’t want him to think of her as a problem child–someone he’d always need to rescue from something.

“No, not scared. Unnerved. That’s the word I keep coming back to. Have you felt anything?”

Matt didn’t share her talent with the camera, but he wasn’t completely shut off from the energies around him. He considered himself open to all possibilities, it’s what made him more pagan than anything, and he believed in a greater energy–something bigger than himself.

“A twinge. Just a twinge, I suppose you’d call it. But, if you’d like, I could try harder,” he grinned.

She threw a loaf of bread at him, and he caught it behind his back with one hand with the deftness of a dancer. “Oh, stop it,” she laughed. “You don’t have to go down the crazy road with me.”

“I’d go down any road with you,” he winked. “Even if it involved a straightjacket.”

With the last of the groceries in he set about to putting things in order, and Taryn went up to her bedroom and began unpacking her suitcases. She’d already taken most of her art supplies to the college, but she’d left her personal supplies there at the house. Since waking up she’d been overcome with the strongest urge to paint; it had been a long time since she’d painted for pleasure and not just for work.

With her satchel of brushes and paints under one arm and her canvas under another, she stepped outside the bedroom to the balcony overlooking the forest and lawn. It was a gray day, the fog from the morning gone but leaving behind a slate-gray sky without sun or clouds. The leaves were off the trees, leaving them stark and naked. Their pointed branches were brittle daggers against the sky. She could hardly see the gravel drive from where she sat so it looked as though the house and bare lawn were an island, the surrounding trees a river of thorns.

It was peaceful. Even with the chill she felt an inner warmth, just knowing she had an interesting job to go to and that Matt was down in the kitchen, puttering around, and doing his best to make the house as cozy and comforting as possible. She occasionally thought of Delphina and Permelia from her last job, but she tried not to dwell. Their stories made her sad. She wasn’t thinking of Andrew as much these days and that had to be good for her. It was almost as if she’d left the biggest part of her grief behind in Indiana. Thinking about him anymore might give it a roadmap back. She’d eventually have to focus on her Aunt Sarah’s death and determine what was to be made of her house and property up in New Hampshire, but that could wait. She was also not ready to think about that yet. A little bit at a time…

With a portable CD player beside her, Taryn cranked up Jason Isbell and used the late afternoon to paint a landscape of the surrounding area. She loved the bleakness and solitude of their location and pored those into her brushes. Painting was therapeutic to her. If she was totally honest with herself, she preferred taking photographs, but she wasn’t ready to pick Miss Dixie back up and try her out here. The camera picked up the truth, without judgment. Sometimes, to keep her mind still, she needed the canvas. She didn’t want to see the truth as it was; she wanted to see the truth as she wanted it to be.