“It's a good place to get some peace,” she chattered brightly. “Pretty, people friendly, good food. I've enjoyed being here.”
“Yeah, well, they pay for you to stay here. I'm paying the regular tourist rate so I don't get much of a vacation,” he stated with pronounced bitterness.
Taryn smiled uneasily, not knowing how to respond. She wasn't going to apologize for working. The food and lodging was part of her salary and she could go months without working at all.
“Well, it's a working vacation for me,” she responded at last.
“You'd think they'd be able to find someone around here who could paint a picture,” he mused. “So they wouldn't have to pay someone to stay here and eat.”
What could she possibly say in response to that? If she agreed it was going to sound like she didn't think she should've been hired. But to say anything else would be argumentative. She just decided to let it go. Luckily the food arrived soon after.
They weren't but a few minutes into their meals, however, when Andy began ruminating again. “So you don't really believe that ghost nonsense do you?”
“Yes,” she stated without apology. “I do.”
Andy laughed, an unattractive sound coming from him. “Really?”
She concurred, unperturbed.
“But you went to college didn't you? Don't you have a degree?”
Taryn studied him with interest over her fresh fruit. “Yeah. I did. But what does that have to do with it? You know there are degree programs out there that study mythology, paranormal studies, religious experience, cultural anthropology, folklore...”
“Yes, but from a scientific viewpoint for the most part. In an observation kind of way. I think most intellectually evolved people these days wouldn't be giving in to supernatural explanations when science is reason,” he argued.
“And yet you're writing a book on the Shakers?”
“But not because I believe in what they experienced,” he stated. “I'm writing about the opposite.”
It was no wonder they weren't paying him to stay there. She kept this thought to herself. It would go over like a lead balloon.
“Do you go to church?” he pressed. “Have you been baptized, saved?”
“Am I washed in the blood of the lamb?” she asked mildly. “No. I'm not religious. I don't subscribe to any one particular faith. But I believe in something and I respect those who do, as long as they don't go out of their way to press their beliefs on me.”
“Some would say that's hypocritical, that you can't straddle both sides of the fence,” he remarked.
“I'm not so concerned with what others think. All I can worry about is myself.”
“So how much money do you make at things like this?” he asked, changing the subject.
“Not as much as I really need, but enough to get by,” she replied. Taryn had always thought it was rude to talk of politics, money, or religion with someone she didn't know. He'd almost covered all three.
“So you're doing this until...until what?” he pressed. “What's the ultimate goal? You know, what kind of job are you waiting for?”
Taryn was confused. “What do you mean?”
“Well, artists can't really make a career out of painting. Not unless you're teaching or finding another way of supplementing your income,” he replied primly.
It was difficult for people to see what she did as a real job, with a bonafide income. Taryn imagined it was that way with any freelancing business.
“I manage okay,” she said simply.
“But back to these ghosts,” he continued. “It's clear to see what's really going on.”
“Yes?”
“Well,” he rubbed his hands together, as though excited. “Let's say someone sees an apparition in a costume. It's a ghost! They've time traveled! Whatever. It's obvious they've just caught a glimpse of a docent or employee. And as for the person disappearing or being able to see through them? A trick of the light maybe. The mind sees what it wants to see.”
“And the noises? The singing, the laughing, the talking when nobody's there?” Taryn asked, fascinated.
“Old pipes, the wind carrying voices from the other side of the park, people in another room...” he supplied, obviously quite pleased with himself.
“What about the people who wake up in the middle of the night and see a ghost in the room with them?”
“Dreaming, of course. Maybe a night terror, sleep paralysis. The power of suggestion because they've already come here believing the place is haunted.”
Andy leaned back in the chair, causing it to creak just a little, and drummed his thick fingers on his ample stomach.
“I guess you have it all figured out then,” Taryn mumbled wryly. She stood up and grabbed her knapsack. “I hope you have a good stay here and get lots of research done.”
And I hope you get an eye full in the archive room, she thought to herself as she sauntered out of the busy dining room.
She might have been avoiding the archive room, but that didn't mean she had to stop researching. She was going to get to the bottom of the mystery, no matter what. It seemed clear to her that whoever was haunting the park liked her (why else put out the fire and rescue her cell phone) and probably died a violent death there. Taryn thought it was the young woman she saw from her window and that maybe she'd been attacked and killed, either in the archive room or schoolhouse. She didn't know how the Shaker Town murder fit into the scheme of things, or if it did at all. Neither Rob nor Julie could be certain the elder who was murdered was male or female, or what decade it had happened in.
None of this gave Taryn much to work with. Still, the Shakers had been excellent record keepers and many of them kept diaries and letters they'd saved. There was a very good chance that she'd find a clue somewhere.
She also knew she wasn't asking the right person. Someone had to know more.
It took her three days and being a lot more social than she was used to but she finally found her man in Eddie Jay, resident horse wrangler.
Eddie Jay, who went by both names, was in his early sixties and had worked at Shaker Town for more than twenty years.
“I figure I know just about any time somebody farts around here,” he bragged to Taryn. Incidentally, that's what everyone else had told her about him, too. He sounded perfect.
Taryn followed him around the barn, like a little kid, as he fed and brushed down the horses. They were big, beautiful beasts. She'd thought they were Clydesdale at first but he'd taken the time to explain to her that they weren't. And then he'd given her the long-running story on their history and how he was certain that the Budweiser horses weren't true Clydesdale, either. Taryn was itching to get on one of the horses and ride but her orthopedist back in Nashville had told her that with her Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome it could seriously injure her hip or back. She wasn't sure how hard she was going to take that advice yet.
“So you must know a whole lot about the history of the place,” Taryn maintained, encouraging him to speak further. It didn't take much to get him talking, though; she'd already learned that.
“Oh yes. Know just about everything there is to know about this place here,” he agreed. Unlike most of the other employees, he didn't wear a costume but his tattered jeans and short-sleeved flannel shirt were a different kind of uniform. She hadn't seen him wear anything else since she'd been there.
“So I was kind of wondering about the guy who was killed here, back in the 1800's,” she added, just in case there was more than one.
“Uh huh, yep,” he smacked his lips, a dry sound that made one of the horses shake his tail with vigor. “Hit aside of the head with something. Lived a few days before passing on. Never able to talk, though.”
“So they don't know who did it?”
“Naw. Most likely someone from town come in and done it, trying to steal something. There was some lean winters around here, some folks didn't have much. Lots of jealousy of the people up here. They might have thought 'em quacks but wh
en their food supply was low and their feet was cold they'd come a runnin,” he grinned.
“So maybe somebody wanting something and they got caught?” Taryn pressed.
“Yeah, I'd say they got caught in the act and then clobbered the feller to keep him from blabbin.' They didn't take kindly to thieves back then,” he added.
“There was a girl here about that time, too,” Taryn badgered him, thinking of her ghost. “Maybe she was murdered, too. Or killed herself?”
Eddie Jay scratched the stubble at his chin and then ran his hand through his gray, but thick, head of hair. He considered her question as he studied the goats in the pen, like they might have the answer. Finally, he shrugged. “No, don't know of any woman dying. Leastways, not of anything unnatural. Maybe sickness or something. Ought to be in the record books, though.”
“A suicide maybe?” she offered.
“Well, those happened, of course, but they weren't talked about. Wait a minute, are you talking about the white lady?”
Taryn nodded.
“Yeah, I seen her once. Kind of skipping around. Don't know who she is, though. Awfully young. I'd say she was somebody who got the lung fever. It happened.”
Taryn was relieved to be speaking to someone who took ghosts in a matter-of-fact manner.
After thanking him for his time and giving both horses a quick petting, she started out of the barn and then stopped. “Hey, one more thing. Have you heard anything about babies in the pond?”
Eddie Jay snorted. “That's horse shit. They'd a been more likely to be pulling them out of the pond, not throwing them in. The more the merrier.”
Looking at the schoolhouse now, it was hard to imagine that it had ever resembled the sound structure in her photographs. Each time she stood before it, however, she couldn't help but see the young woman running towards it and disappearing into its walls. As she painted, she let her mind create a story. It was not only a way of entertaining herself while she painted and listened to Jason Isbell sing “Alabama Pines,” it was a way to see the building as something it used to be, so that it would hopefully comes across through her painting.
A little girl grew up here at Pleasant Hill, taken in by the Shakers because she was an abandoned orphan. She grew up following strict rules, like not talking during meal times, and never knowing the love of just one mother. But she had a good childhood, too; one that let her get an education in the summertime and run through the fields when nobody was looking. She had plenty to eat, a warm bed to sleep in at night, and an extended family larger than most children her age. Her life was regimented, but secure. She was always safe.
The schoolhouse was her favorite place. There, she learned not only scripture but how to write, how to put her thoughts on paper. She learned where different places on the map were, how the animals in nature differed from one another. The schoolhouse was her favorite place in the whole world and she looked forward to the days when she could sit at the uncomfortable desk and listen to her teacher talk about all the wonderful things she never knew existed. And sometimes there were children from the other world who came, too. The world's people. She was just as curious about them as she was the bullfrog or the oxen.
The little girl grew up and, as an adult, took the oath to become a Shaker herself. She had that choice, after all, and could've chosen to leave the village. But why? It was all she knew. Although she was schooled in herbs, in care, in meal making, in laundry and dyeing and spinning and was a little good in all those things, she was still drawn to the schoolhouse. So she became a teacher herself.
Each morning she would walk through the damp fog, excited about the day ahead. Maybe she would hum a little tune to herself as she crossed through the cold grass, the spider webs catching her ankles and the cattle calling in the distance. She'd make sure the desks were arranged properly, that her lessons were ready. She was happy and content that she had a calling she loved, and was allowed to do it.
The schoolhouse took on a cheerful appearance now, as Taryn painted. It was no longer the depressing ruins. Taryn could see the children filing in, some orderly and some not so much. She could hear cheerful chatter ringing out the windows, the sound of a soft but stern voice telling everyone to take their seats. As she tuned out the voices of the tourists around her, and the occasional ringing of the bell that signaled events and programs, she could sometimes hear the recitations, simple songs, and laughter.
This was a happy place.
The woman had been happy. She'd danced across the lawn, singing. She'd smiled. Surrounded by many, she was still alone in the world, but she was happy. Taryn could understand this.
It had all ended, though, and abruptly. Did another member attack her? Perhaps she'd been in the archive room, or whatever it was back then. A Shaker brother, or maybe even an outsider since the Shakers did do business with the people in the surrounding communities, came in on her. He'd been struck by her beauty, her innocence. Had come on to her. Maybe been angered by her refusal, her piousness. So he'd what, raped her? Killed her?
And then what? Her death was covered up? She'd been completely forgotten about over the years?
It wasn't a nice story but it was one that made a certain amount of sense. Her spirit was awfully happy, though, to have been brutally attacked and killed. That didn't make sense so much.
And Taryn couldn't forget the fact that when her fire had started, the shadowy figure had definitely been that of a man, not a petite woman.
The schoolhouse looked back at her expectantly. She could all but see it nod its nonexistent head in encouragement. She was on to something. She just wasn't sure what, yet.
Chapter 10
The pond spread out before Taryn like a sheet of glass. The day was overcast, the sky slate gray. It was reflected on the water's surface, making it opaque. Taryn couldn't paint outside, since the threat of rain was so great and sprinkles kept escaping, so she was using the day to answer emails, research, and balance her checkbook. The business end to what she did was soul crushing. She wished she could hire a Virtual Assistant, or at least a bookkeeper, but so far her budget would allow her neither.
When she needed a break she found herself down at the pond, perched on a wrought-iron bench, staring at the water. She tried to imagine Shakers stealing down to the water in the darkness, throwing children in it, but the image was at once so horrifying and funny in an ironic way that she didn't dwell on it. They were a peaceful people; they weren't murderers.
Her solitude was soon threatened by an old woman wearing pink polyester pants and a George Strait T-shirt. She looked to be at least eighty but moved with the grace of a teenager, her tiny feet barely touching the ground.
“You mind if I sit with you?” she gestured to the space next to Taryn. Her voice was strong and crisp.
“Sure, I'll share,” Taryn replied, moving over to make more room. “Kind of a dreary day out today.”
The woman, whose name tag read “Della,” patted her blue-tinted hair. “Well, it's a little ugly but every day I actually wake up is a pretty good one to me. The first thing I do every morning before I even get out of bed is move all the body parts. If something hurts then I know I didn't go to heaven in the middle of the night so I know it's okay to get up and make a pot of coffee.”
Taryn, who had also started doing a little of the same, laughed. “I always move all my joints, to see which one is going to hurt the worst that day. I don't care which one it is, but I like knowing in advance.”
“That a girl,” Della patted her in approval. “Get a grasp of the situation before moving forward.”
That was some advice Taryn could apply to most areas of her life.
“Are you here with a tour group?” she asked politely.
Della snorted. “Yes. Something my daughter-in-law signed me up for. Said I needed to get out more. I wanted to do that damn bike ride up here. You know, the Bike to Shakertown event? But my son said I was too old, might fall over in the road. They signed me up with this group a
s a consolation prize.”
“Are you having fun at least?”
Della shrugged, George's face moving up and down with her arms. “The park's nice but everyone in my group is just so damn old. They move slower than Christmas and we have to keep stopping so someone can pee.”
This was positively the most fun Taryn had had in a long time.
“So what are you doing here? Are you hiding, too?” she asked Taryn, peering at her from the corner of her eye.
“I guess I am, in a way,” Taryn replied. “But mostly hiding from work, from bills, from having to do things I need to do.”
“Those are the best things to hide from,” Della concurred with approval. “But always the hardest. They find you, sooner or later.”
The two women sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, both watching the water. It was as still as a painting, as though it was waiting. For something.
“I come here sometimes, with my family, you know?” Della whispered softly. “I know it's just a pond and you can see those anywhere, but something about it always drags me back.”
“I like the water myself,” Taryn agreed. “I think it's from growing up in a city that was so far removed from the ocean. And maybe because I'm a Pisces.”
“So am I,” Della grinned. “Great minds and all. There's a sadness here, though. I've never been able to put my finger on it.”
“It's meant to be haunted,” Taryn explained. “I've just been sitting here thinking about that.”
“Oh, the baby story. Or babies, I imagine. Yes, I've heard that as well.”
“I don't think it's true,” Taryn vowed with passion. “I don't think they would've done that. Sometimes those stories float around and we forget how they started in the first place.”
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