Shaker Town (Taryn's Camera Book 4) (23 page)

By nightfall she was finished.

She would set up her easel in her room and let the painting dry overnight. There was nothing to do, however. Her job was done.

W
alking back to her room, supplies in her knapsack on her back and her canvas tucked neatly under her arm, Taryn hummed a little to herself. The song, “Barbara Allen,” about the hard-hearted woman who'd shunned the man who loved her, causing him to die of heartache.

“'Sweet William died for me today/I’ll die for him tomorrow',” she sang under her breath. It was the same song she'd heard Evelyn singing. Matt had recognized it as soon as she'd offered a few lines to him.

“It's a death ballad,” he'd complained. “He ignored her when she wanted him and then, on his death bed, she ignores him. He dies from heartache, and probably fever, and in despair she dies the next day for not being there for him in his time of need.”

“Well that's depressing,” Taryn remarked. A lot of those old folk songs were. The majority of them seemed to be about death or unrequited love.

“Kind of a beautiful song, too,” he shrugged. “It's a double-edged sword to be in love.”

She could see the light on in her second story room as she approached the path that would take her to her building. Matt's shadow passed in front of the window. She felt guilty for leaving him alone all day but Matt was an introvert; he liked being on his own. Maybe they could go into town and celebrate. She liked to treat herself when she finished a project and, introvert or not, he might like to get out.

Taryn was parallel with the site of the old ice house when the fog began rolling in again. “Oh shit,” she mumbled.

Picking up her pace, she curved away from the group of trees that encircled the hole in the ground and pile of rubble, trying to get as far away as possible. To an outsider it simply looked as though the river fog was rolling in from the fields, up from the water, and had somehow thickened in that one area. Taryn knew the fog was there because it was a living, breathing thing and was drawn to the darkness that lived underground.

Although she was moving as quickly as she could, the dirty fog found her and grabbed at her feet, pulling her. She tried to fight it, to kick at it, but it clung to her and tugged. She was being dragged to the ice house against her will and there wasn't another soul in sight to help her. To protect her work, she dropped her canvas and easel to the ground. The soft thud was a reminder of the physical world and somehow comforting. For a second the fog broke up around her feet, the icy fingers retreating. And it might have been okay. She might have been able to move on from it and return to the safety of her room.

But she needed to know. It would follow her and eat at her until she did.

Like a ghost herself, Taryn glided towards the darkened indention. The trees rose up menacingly, taunting sentries. The warm night was replaced with a chill that was not of this world. Lips chattering, shoulders shaking, and exposed skin turning blue Taryn pressed forward, heading straight to the thickest part where she had no idea what was waiting for her. Her left hand throbbed painfully at her side, sending jolts of pain up her arm. Her legs from the knees down ached, like something was eating her from the inside out. She imagined an army of little aliens, all inside gnawing on her and ripping her tissue and muscles apart to shreds. She faltered a little then and stumbled, threatening to fall to the ground. She caught her balance, though, and straightened. She could do this.

The bubble of smoke down below was so thick she couldn't see the bottom. White with stringy muscles of gray coursing through it, it reminded her of sausage gravy, thick and creamy. It bubbled, as though in a pot, and pulsated. Alive.

Taryn knew fear; she'd had more than one experience with things not from this life. She'd been so terrified she could barely move, both from the dead and the living. But this was different. Whatever was down there wanted her, it was seducing her. The bottomless pit of evil was part of her doing, a combination of her jealousy, her love, her anger, her frustration, her sadness. She knew it because it was like looking in a mirror. Each time a bubble rose to the top and dissipated she recognized something from her past, something she'd tucked away. There was the guilt of arguing with Andrew before he'd gotten into his car, the anger at the cheerleader girls from high school who had not been mean to her but ignored her as though she didn't even matter, the grief of seeing her life flash by without any real ties to anything around her...and then there was the despair. The overwhelming feeling that she was meaningless in the world, that her existence was unnoticed and pointless. That nothing she'd ever done or would ever do would have a single effect on the world around her.

The fog, a living breathing thing, seemed to nod. It understood. “Come with me,” it seemed to chant. “Come down to me and you'll be a part of me. You'll never feel this way again. You'll know more power than ever possible in this life.”

And for a brief moment she considered it. She saw the uselessness of her life, the fact that she was an orphan in the world who had never truly been loved for who she was, but what she offered others. And she wanted to go to it.

But then she heard the humming. Someone had taken up the words to “Barbara Allen” and was singing it, someone walking through the open meadow. Taryn could see a flash of hair, a wayward ribbon streaming from a bonnet. “Oh Mother oh Mother, go make my bed,” Evelyn sang sweetly. “Make it both long and narrow...”

Taryn shook her head, chasing off the bad thoughts and feelings with one movement. The fog retreated then and grew smaller. It was angry with her and scratched at her legs with its nails of barbed wire, but it slithered away, retreating.

The long, pale arm appeared then, as it did before. It waved helplessly from the hole, the painful moans circulating around her. He was beyond help, and perhaps shouldn't have been helped at all. She couldn't save Morgan and didn't want to. Julius, or maybe even Evelyn herself, had killed him a long time ago.

But another figure appeared then, one who stood opposite her. This one did not appear to see her or know she was there at all. Instead, this small, lithe body stood looking down at the ground, rivers of blood streaming down his skinny little arms and legs. He was covered with it, from the top of his curly blond hair to the tips of his old-fashioned shoes. He was a child, but the look of disgust on his face was purely adult.

With one fluid movement, Edward raise the ice pick in the air and threw it as hard as he could, the point slicing Taryn as it flew through her and tumbled into the pit. She felt a stinging where the object had touched her heart.

Edward was smiling now, something grim and satisfied, and walked away.

“
I
'm okay,” Taryn insisted. “I actually feel a little energized.

Matt frowned at her, his normally smooth olive face lined with worry. “I don't know about that. I feel that with every time this happens to you it's eating away at something. Maybe I'm just overreacting.”

This time it had been different, Taryn knew. But she didn't want to get into that with him.

“The painting are finished,” she said brightly, changing the subject. “I might have to put a few more touches on them tomorrow but I think they’re done.”

“Well, that's good.” But he didn't look convinced. In fact, he was looking at her like she'd grown two heads.

“I can't forget the blood on his face, on his arms and legs,” Taryn said at last. “He didn't look scared or guilty. He looked...proud, almost.”

“It was his sister after all,” Matt relented. “But, man. I guess he didn't learn to be peaceful here.”

“I think it happened more than once. And Matt? There was more.”

“What else did you see?”

Taryn hesitated. “It wasn't tonight, but when Melissa was over here visiting she used Miss Dixie and took a picture after I fell and dislocated. Julius was there. Of course, we thought he was Morgan at the time...Anyway, seeing me on the ground, crying, I think it confused him. He thought I was Evelyn and he...” She trailed off, unable to finish the sentence. Just remembering it made her flush a little from embarrassment.

“He did what? He came onto you?” Matt pressed.

Why, he's jealous of a ghost, Taryn thought in surprise.

“No, no. He d-delivered my baby.”

Matt's mouth dropped open in surprise.

“I know, it sounds crazy. Believe me, if you'd been there it wouldn't have been any less crazy. But the baby wasn't alive when it was born. He had this terrible look of grief on his face.” Taryn shuddered just thinking about it.

“Oh dear,” Matt murmured. “That's awful. And he really is the park's protector. Although he seems to have taken a unique liking to you. The fire, the fall...”

“Why do you think that is?” Taryn asked.

“Maybe because you can see him, sense him. Or maybe he really does think you're Evelyn.”

“I don't look anything like her,” Taryn mused, taking a chunk of her red curly hair and studying it. Evelyn had been a small, lithe brunette with a creamy complexion and sweet face. Taryn was thin enough but she was soft, neither fat nor delicate. Her hair hung down to her waist and alternated between being lush, thick, and silky to being frizzy and limp. She played around with cutting it off but liked wearing it in a ponytail and braid too much.

“I don't mean physically,” Matt explained. “But you can see him and feel him. You're good at observing people. She must have been, to be a teacher. And you're both orphans.”

He stopped then and closed his eyes. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring your parents up.”

“Evelyn wasn't an orphan, though. Her parents were here.”

“There are different ways of being orphaned. She was abandoned to the world here by the people who brought her into it. And he didn't have anyone himself.”

“Like us,” Taryn pointed out quietly.

“Like us.”

S
omething deep in the night woke Taryn up but she'd never remember what it was. She rose out of bed, slipped on her house shoes and bathrobe, and tiptoed to the window as though sleepwalking. She wasn't surprised to see Evelyn on the lawn, her long hair flying behind her, void of her bonnet. She wasn't dancing this time, or singing. She was struggling to walk now, her legs moving slowly with the effort. Taryn recognized the pain on the other woman; it's how she often walked herself.

She watched as Evelyn detoured around the schoolhouse and headed to her side of the park. As she grew closer, the soft glow around her body nearly as bright as the lighting bugs, Taryn could see that she hand a hand placed firmly on her stomach. The small mound was barely detectable through the pale nightgown, but Taryn was sure someone would've noticed. Another woman, maybe. It was difficult to hide those things, even in the loose-fitting dresses back then (the Shaker clothing was out of style even for its own time period).

Evelyn would've lived with other women, worked with other people in the order every day. You didn't get alone time as a Shaker. There wasn't a lot of isolation, at least literally so. She must have had friends, mentors, someone...

And yet now she was alone, creeping through the grass with struggle, shaking hands alternating between rubbing the small of her back and stomach. From time to time she stopped, her face contorting with a painful grimace, and then moved on, each time a little more slowly.

She was in labor and all by herself. Taryn could think of few things sadder.

She wanted to go down to her, to help her, even though she knew the outcome and had no idea how to help a birthing ghost. She would've gone, too, but the moment Evelyn neared the barn closest to Taryn's building she dissipated into the air, her ghostly tribulations over with for the moment.

Taryn was not going back to bed, however.

Now, as though pushed by an invisible force, she moved to her supplies. Ignoring her paints, brushes, and extra canvas she pulled out her sketch pad and a charcoal. Sitting in a pool of light formed by the moon shining in through the window, Taryn began to draw.

The hands that created the lines were hers in that she could see them and feel them. The images she created were someone else’s.

She drew with a frenzy, going on for hours without stopping for bathroom break or drink. Within minutes she would fill a page and turn to the next, urged forward by an unseen force hell-bent on telling its story. Sweat broke out along her forehead, pooled under her arms and ran down her back and chest. Her mouth dried out, her lips cracked and bled. Several times her vision wavered, grew blurry, and she was all but blinded. Still, she didn't stop. She wasn't finished.

Though her hands and arms tingled and burned, and her back stiffened from her hunched-over position on the floor, she drew with a mania she'd never known. The voices of the past grew around her, the sounds of singing, dancing, feet banging on the floor. Snippets of songs flew past her, small birds seeking an exit and battering themselves against the walls and windows in the process. Laughter, chanting in prayer, crying, moaning, pleading...the Shakers were alive in the room with her, their history engulfing her and smothering her until she could barely breathe. She panted, her heart racing and threatening to jump right out of her chest, and her blood ran cold.

Nearly delirious by the time she finished, with one final stroke she completed the last drawing and then tossed the sketchpad to the floor in exhaustion. She'd filled almost twenty pages of highly detailed images. The room was quiet at last.

“Taryn?” Matt asked groggily. The sketchpad hitting the floor had woken him up. “You okay?”

She couldn't answer.

“What's wrong?”

The sight of her sitting in the floor, her eyes wild, her face pale, and her mouth slacked open would haunt him for the rest of his life, although Taryn would never know that.

“Oh God! What's wrong?” He was at her side in two seconds flat, smoothing her hair back from her forehead, gathering her in his arms and rocking her back and forth. “Baby, are you okay? What happened?”

She still couldn't speak but was able to lift her hand with effort and point to her discarded sketchpad. When he turned and saw the thing she pointed out he nodded and her arm fell limply back into her lap.

Shifting her, Matt pulled her onto his knee and then reached forward, grabbing the binder with his free hand. Neither spoke as he opened it and began to flip through.

The first few sketches were general landscapes she'd done upon arrival. There were sketches of the meeting house, Centre Family Dwelling, several of the barns, a re-enactor at the spinning wheel, another one churning butter. Matt smiled at them and the care she'd taken, despite the fact nobody would ever see them but her.

There were perhaps half a dozen of these first ones and they were all drawn lightly, some with charcoal and some with colored pencils. She took her time with shading, details, and depth. Some were good enough to sell. And then he got to the recent ones.

There was a young girl, holding the hand of a woman with a stern but compassionate face. The little girl was crying, the tears streaming down her face, her small arms outstretched towards a tall, broad-shouldered man. Without compassion he was walking away from her, his back turned, his eyes forward.

And then a young woman, lying in bed, blanket brought up and covering most of her face. A lantern glowed beside her, shedding a tiny amount of light on the book she had clearly sneaked under the covers with her.

The woman a little older now, standing in a classroom, smiling at the children, her face radiant. A young man peered into the schoolhouse window, watching her adoringly.

Dinnertime, long tables full of Shakers who were eating quietly, ignoring those around them. They looked down at their plates of food, lost in their worlds, except for the young man and woman. On different ends of the dining room but both looked up, caught the other's eyes. Small smiles.

Standing together in a field of corn, hands on a stalk. Nervousness etched on the man's face, excited fear. Compassion and love on the woman's, her hand covering his.

Dancing in the meetinghouse. Feet flying so fast they were a blur. The woman with her head thrown back with laughter, elation on her face. Her bonnet broken, a ribbon alight. But someone new in this picture. Hardened features, stern, gaunt. His eyes bore into her from a window upstairs. She didn't know.

A classroom, desks overturned. A clay vase smashed on the floor. The woman a panicked animal, trapped against the wall. There was no face, no body, no legs...only tangled hands that grasped at her, tore.

And the last one. Sitting by the river, water racing below. A hand on her stomach, but not her own. The young man knelt with her eyes closed.

Shakers rarely prayed aloud; they didn't believe that God needed to hear spoken words and thought that communicating with Him through silent pleas worked just as well. They wanted to “walk with God” like they might a friend.  Still, it was clear in the last image that both were deep in meditation.

M
att went through these, one by one, and when he was finished he looked up and searched Taryn's face. Her breathing had returned to a few breaths short of normal and now she fell against him limply. Something angry and foul beat against the window outside, something trying to claw or scratch its way in. They both ignored it. Nothing could touch her when she was with Matt; they created a wall together. It's what they did.

“I need to get you back to bed,” Matt whispered. “Come on, try to stand.”

Taryn let him help her up but then she made no act of moving forward. “I’m not finished,” she said. “There was one more. It's not finished.”

He realized then, that she was still halfway in the trance state she'd drawn in. She still felt like she was sleepwalking; she had no recollection of doing any of the sketches.

Still in her house shoes, Taryn walked towards her door and turned the locks. “Taryn? Where are you going?”

She didn't speak, just turned and looked at him with sadness. Matt was too innocent, too trusting. He really didn't belong in a world where such bad things happened.