Windwood Farm (Taryn's Camera)

by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  Off in the distance, a noise started. It was low at first, a faint thud. It sounded as though something might have fallen. She thought she might have imagined it. The heat was so intense waves of heat shimmered in the air and the house itself appeared to glow. She dropped the keys on the ground and shielded her eyes to peer at the house and get a better look and, as she did, the screams began. There was no mistaking this sound. She knew screaming when she heard it. It was loud and strong and most definitely male. And the voice was in trouble.

  Getting to her feet, Taryn rain the direction of the house but stopped short when she reached the porch. The sounds weren’t coming from the house; the scream was coming from under her feet, from under the ruins, in fact. Stopping, she sank to her feet and put her ear to the ground, listening, the horrible heat piercing into her and sweat rolling down her face in streaks and gathering onto her stomach and back. There was nothing. Now the sounds were coming from her left, from her right, like an echo. They were everywhere. As loud as they were, they faded in and out, growing louder and fainter with each shout.

  Taryn ran back and forth across the yard, pressing her ear to the ground, but each time she thought she found the source, it moved. “What do you want?” she yelled. “I can’t find you! What do you want?”

  Finally, in exhaustion, she dropped to the ground and cried. “What do you want,” she beat her fists on the ground, sweat pooling around her. Choking and gagging on hot air, dizzy and faint, she sobbed. “What do you want…”

  As she cried, the screaming slowly died down as well. The blistering heat was replaced by the cool breeze and it soothed Taryn’s skin as it lifted her hair and swept over her, like a balm. She cried and cried, not only out of frustration but for her own perceived lack of sanity and for a whole list of other things as well. She was tired, her head was throbbing, she missed her grandmother, and she didn’t know what to do.

  Soon, another sound joined her own cries. She became aware of the sobbing from the upstairs window almost immediately and as the weeping emanated through the afternoon breeze the two women cried together, each one in their own time, each one for their own reasons, and neither one able to help the other.

  “Under the house? Well, that’s different,” Matt mused.

  “Not just under the house,” Taryn explained, taking a bite of her McChicken, much to Matt’s disgust (he really did need to go up there and make her some decent food). “More like under the ground. At least I think it was. It kept moving. And damn, it was fucking hot.”

  Matt cringed. He wasn’t big on her language, either. But he’d learned to live with it. “The obvious answer is that someone is buried either under the ground or under the house, right?”

  “Of course,” Taryn shrugged. “I guess they’ll figure that out when they tear up the house. If there’s a mystery, Shaggy, then it will be solved.”

  Matt slouched on his futon in his shorts and T-shirt with his skinny white legs glowing in the pale lamp light, ate his gumbo out of a Pottery Barn bowl, and tried not to imagine what Taryn looked like in her nightgown. It was difficult. The first thing she’d said when she’d answered the phone was, “I just put on my nightgown,” and the rest of the conversation was just too hard to focus on.

  “So the daughter died of tuberculosis—” Matt began.

  “So Reagan told me when I first met him,” Taryn interrupted him, “but Tammy-the-waitress said her granny thought that was suspicious. Apparently people in town weren’t really sure that’s what happened. It checked out with the coroner, I guess, but other people thought something else might have happened.”

  “Okay, so Clara-the-daughter may or may not have died of TB, but she apparently died of something that looked natural. And someone, we’re guessing a man, is buried under the ground. Or at least died under the ground. And we don’t think it’s Robert-the-bad-dude since he’s buried in the local cemetery. Wait, are we SURE it isn’t Robert-the-bad-dude?”

  “What do you mean?” Taryn asked, popping a fry into her mouth. Matt would be mortified if he knew she was also drinking a large mocha. He just did not understand the beauty of McDonalds at midnight.

  “Okay, if people really didn’t like him and hardly anyone showed up at his funeral, what if some folks came out to his house, killed him, or didn’t kill him, and buried him under his house. What if his casket is empty? What if they buried him alive? What if he murdered his daughter and years later someone found out about it and they sent a lynch mob out there to get him and his whole funeral was just a farce?”

  Chills ran up and down Taryn’s arms. “Oh my God, Matt. That’s it! That’s perfect. That’s got to be it. That’s why there’s so much anger in the house. And they said he died in debt. He owed money to everyone in the county, he killed his daughter, and eventually someone was bound to find out. Someone, or a bunch of people, came out and killed him. They buried him in the front yard, part of the house eventually collapsed on that part of the yard, and now his ghost haunts the house and is trapped in it. And his daughter’s ghost haunts the house because she was also murdered there. You got it!”

  “Well,” Matt grinned, “I do read a lot.”

  Taryn wasn’t sure why she didn’t feel better.

  Long after she’d hung up the phone and settled down into her red flannel nightgown, picked up at some secondhand store along the way because she always shopped cheap and always froze to death no matter where she stayed, she let her mind drift back to the first time she really knew something wasn’t right.

  Obviously, the pictures of Windwood Farm startled her. Who wouldn’t be taken aback by them? She wasn’t crazy. She’d about had a heart attack when she’d seen them pop up on her computer screen and she’d looked at them a hundred times since then, going over their details. And she’d taken even more since the first day, although her images since then had all been normal.

  But Matt knew her truth, her real truth.

  This wasn’t the first time something had happened.

  When Taryn was six and still living in Nashville, she’d lived in a perfectly normal subdivision on the west side of town. New houses were being built and the kids in her neighborhood liked to play in them, despite the fact their parents told them to stay out of them. Back in those days, it was perfectly safe to ride your bikes after dark, even in her neighborhood in Nashville. It felt more like a small town back then and everyone watched out for each other and she played with a group of kids that felt like a posse. They stayed out together until suppertime until someone stepped out on their front porch and cried for a kid to come in to eat and they all scattered. It was never one of her parents, but she’d always scatter with the rest of them, never wanting to stay out by herself.

  One evening, a new kid joined the posse. He was skinny with dark hair and dark eyes and glasses. A head taller than the rest of them, the others made fun of him because he instantly started talking about the solar system and bugs. He introduced himself as Matt. She liked him immediately and felt a kinship with him but wasn’t sure why. When the others wanted to pick on him, she threatened to beat them up, even though she was nearly a foot shorter and a grade below most of them.

  A family had just moved out of a house on the street and the front door was standing wide open. It was a big house and this was a change. Normally, they explored houses that were just being built, but this one was different: it was already finished. Why not explore it? Taryn wasn’t sure. After all, wasn’t that more like breaking into it? It had a roof and everything. Matt felt the same way, but it was his first day in the neighborhood and he wanted to fit in.

  Giving in to everyone else, and not wanting to ruin his chances at making new friends, he talked Taryn into going along with the gang. Silently, the ten of them crept into the foyer and sneaked through the rooms. It was a large home, nearly 4,000 square feet. Taryn didn’t know the family who lived there before. They’d had two young children but the girls were toddlers, too young to play with her. She’d only seen the wife taking
them in and out of the car. Once, she’d waved to Taryn but she’d looked nervous and frazzled. Not approachable. Taryn’s dad called her “skittish.” She thought the husband always seemed mad. She didn’t know what he did for a living, but his voice was always loud and he had a car phone. He was the only person she knew who did. It had only taken them one day to move and they’d hired a moving company to do it.

  The house was impeccably clean. There wasn’t a single stain on the carpet or walls. Everything smelled like bleach and it stung Taryn’s eyes a little bit. She mentioned this to Matt and he went into a long speech about how bleach was often used by cleaning companies to help eliminate odors, especially after a family moved and the carpets needed deodorizing. Taryn was impressed by his knowledge, especially since he was only eight.

  Eventually, Taryn and Matt got separated and he ended up going upstairs where there was an actual hot tub in the bedroom. She found a little door that led down to the basement. There, she discovered another small staircase that she thought would take her outside. Instead, it took her to a small room where she found another even smaller door. Curious, she tried to open it. When she did, she was startled to see a little girl lying on the floor. It was one of the little girls who lived there. She was wearing a flowered dress and her hair was covered in red paint. “Are you okay?” she asked. But the little girl’s eyes were closed. The room was almost black, except for a faint glow that hovered over the child’s face and body. She was motionless.

  Taryn suddenly had chills on her arms and legs. Her grandmother would say that a goose walked on her grave. Something wasn’t right. Why would the little girl be here when her family had moved? “Do you want me to call someone?”

  As she watched in horror, the little girl seemed to actually sink down into the ground until all that was left was the floor. Even the glow disappeared. Tentatively, Taryn reached out and touched the floor and discovered that it was hard, packed dirt that was cool to the touch. With a little shriek, she ran out and up the stairs and flew out of the house.

  When she got home, she told first her parents, who didn’t believe her, and later her grandmother, who did. They all chalked it up to a combination of food poisoning and bad dreams. Her parents talked to the other parents, however, and that put a stop to the exploring. The other children blackballed her from the neighborhood expeditions and from that day forward, she only played with Matt, which was really just fine and dandy with the two of them. She’d never gotten much out of playing with the rest of the lot, anyway.

  Years later, a developer bought most of that subdivision and tore down a great portion of those houses and built condominiums. They were awfully surprised to find the body of a two year old child buried under the house. Taryn, on the other hand, unfortunately, was not surprised. That incident taught her something, however. There were certain things one should just keep to one’s self. After that day she rarely shared anything with anyone but Matt. And most things she just preferred thinking were in her head. It was easier that way.

  Chapter 7

  The call from the Stokes County Historical Society was not a surprise. Frankly, she’d been expecting something a little sooner. An Edna Washington, with a thin, kind of warbled voice, apologized for her lateness and asked if she could come in this morning. Apparently, the Society only met on Saturdays. Taryn planned on going to Lexington and walking around the big bookstore she’d heard good things about, but resigned herself to spending the afternoon with the ladies of the Society. After all, it was their grant money that was paying her. And if she didn’t then, she was just going to have more of them wandering out to the job site, poking their noses into her painting.

  She paid special attention to her attire. No short-shorts or wet hair. Makeup. Older women appreciated it when your clothes matched and you didn’t show too much skin. She didn’t normally dress raunchy, but she always tried not to let her bra straps show or her underwear hang out when she was around them. She really wasn’t a jean shorts or sweatshirt kind of gal anyway, but she was likely to throw on whatever was handy and these days she hadn’t had the chance to get to the laundromat.

  The Stokes County Historical Society was housed in a doublewide trailer at the end of Main Street. Two wheelbarrows on either side of it held violet pansies. Window boxes were full of flowers that Taryn couldn’t name, but they were certainly colorful.

  She wasn’t sure whether she should knock or go on in, but while she was deciding, a thin, reedy gray-headed woman opened the door for her and ushered her inside. An air conditioner was going full blast and she was met with a glaring fluorescent light and a plate full of chocolate chip cookies. “We’ve got lunch ready for you, too,” someone called from behind a partition as she was led to an overstuffed couch.

  The room was large with a big conference table and there were about a dozen women, mostly elderly, seated around it like they were the Knights of the Round Table. Each one had a photo album or scrapbook in front of them, studying it with serious expressions on their faces, many taking notes and muttering under their breaths. Some were even speaking into small tape recorders. One lone man was at a computer, staring at a long list of names.

  The walls were adorned with posters, photographs, historical maps, and charts. Other than the one partition that separated what she assumed was the kitchen from the rest of the room, the rest of the walls were removed so that the double wide was one big space. Glass display cases filled the area and she could see coins, tools, and other memorabilia from days gone by lining the walls. It was actually pretty interesting and she wouldn’t mind looking around, but before she could get up, a plate full of sandwiches, cookies, and something that resembled a casserole was placed in her lap by the same woman who showed her in. “Eat,” she demanded. “You need some meat on those bones.”

  “Okay,” she whimpered. After all, she wasn’t one to turn down food.

  “Girls, Leonard, she’s here.”

  With that, all the women looked up, as if on cue. The man slowly turned away from his computer gazing. The books all snapped shut and the tape recorders were turned off. Taryn closed her mouth around the sandwich and then stopped. Was she expected to give a speech now? She hadn’t prepared anything.

  A pleasant looking woman with snowy white hair smiled kindly at her. “Priscilla says your painting is beautiful. She’s sorry she can’t be here today, but she’s with Sally at the hospital. We’re all taking shifts. She says it’s just what we are looking for. We can’t wait to see it. We’ve wanted to know what the rest of that house would look like for years. We saw what you did with the governor’s mansion…just breathtaking.”

  Taryn swallowed. “Thank you,” she replied, sincerely.

  “I’m Shirley. Are you liking it here in Vidalia?” This came from a heavyset woman in a bright pink polka-dot dress and green sandals who was systematically making her way through a large glass of sweet tea. She vigorously nodded her head as she asked her question, as if she already knew the answer.

  “Yes, I am, although I haven’t been able to see much of the town. I’ve been working a lot,” Taryn said with regret. “It’s very pretty, though.”

  “What do you think of the house? Aren’t the stones beautiful?” The question was from a little woman who really looked to be no more than a child. She was thin and her features small, like a bird. Her face peered over from the top of the table and the horn-rimmed glasses that perched on the edge of her nose made her looked as though she was playing dress up. Taryn couldn’t help but smile.

  “Well, it’s interesting….”

  “Ha, she’s talking about the ghosts,” Shirley snorted.

  “Now, Shirley,” the bird admonished.

  “Don’t you ‘now Shirley’ me,” Shirley chastised. “We all know it is.”

  “Do you really think it is?” Taryn asked with feigned innocence.

  “Oh, honey,” the ancient gentleman with deep blue veins running through his hands and liver spots on his arms spoke softly to her. �
��There’s no need to be like that with us. We all know it is. We’d be shocked if you hadn’t seen or heard something. It’s probably that son of a bitch himself doing it. There are so many tragedies in this town, the whole damn place is haunted.”

  Everyone laughed good-naturedly and for a while the mood was relaxed and the matter was forgotten. Taryn got caught up with stories about Vidalia and the time during the Depression and later during the baby boom. They were also interested in her stories as well and she found herself telling them about places she had painted in the past. There were rarely audiences as captivated as those who belonged to a historical society and with these folks she felt amongst kindred spirits. After all, they shared a love of old homes and buildings and didn’t want to see anything torn down any more than she did. She might not have enjoyed genealogy like they did, she wasn’t even sure who her great grandparents were (to this group’s horror) but they could all agree that there ought to be an organization like PETA for the ethical treatment of old homes and structures.

  She wanted to ask them Matt’s theory about Robert being murdered but it just never felt appropriate to bring it up. Perhaps if she could get one of them on their own, but in front of the whole group…

  She was talking to Shirley and in the middle of eating her fourth cucumber sandwich when she heard someone mumble, “And, of course, let’s not forget about what happened to little Donald Adkins…”