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.
Chapter 2
Taryn’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.
Taryn’s mind often ran a mile a minute, as her grandmother used to say, and painting was the only thing that had ever really been able to steady and control it. As she painted she told herself stories and kept a running dialogue in her mind. It wasn’t always an important or serious conversation; a few days ago she’d finished a painting by lamenting the state of modern horror and having a completely one-sided argument with the director of the latest slasher film.
It was beginning to grow dark now, though, and she knew she’d need to pack it in. As she wrapped up her brushes and gathered her linseed oil, being careful not to spill it, her nose caught a whiff of something strong.
It was the scent of a large fire, the flames powerful and rich. Someone was burning leaves, perhaps, or garbage. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, and it reminded her that it was late fall, when the warmth of a bonfire cut through the cold air. But when she straightened and looked around she couldn’t see any black smoke drifting up through the trees.
Oh well, she shrugged. Someone was burning something somewhere. Maybe, along with her newer sixth sense, her other senses were becoming stronger as well.
Not giving it another thought she went back inside and closed the door behind her.
Chapter 3
The house was so quiet Taryn thought she could’ve heard a mouse sigh. After spending a few weeks in Matt’s condo with the close proximity of people around her and the heavy noise of traffic and the occasional airplane, it felt odd to be out in the country again, tucked away from everything.
He was so still beside her that she reached over and touched his back to make sure he was still breathing. The softness of his pajama top was light as a feather under her hand. She was sleeping in a nightgown and it had bunched up around her waist; now the fleece of his pants brushed against her naked leg. She could feel the heat of his skin through the bottoms, and it was somehow comforting.
He snuggled with her in his sleep without even realizing it. Whenever she needed to turn over or get up and go the bathroom in the middle of the night it always took a few seconds to unwind an arm or leg and slide out without waking him up. They’d made love (that’s what he called it–she still didn’t know what to call it) twice that night. She was exhausted. For some reason, being physical with him always left her feeling drained in ways she’d never experienced before. When she came out from under the flurry of activity Taryn found herself feeling parched, dry, dehydrated. She needed to drink and to drink long. Sometimes, before even getting dressed, she found herself in the kitchen, downing an entire can of Coke or drinking juice right out of the bottle. Her stomach turned into a bottomless pit.
The first time they’d been physical it had been awkward. She didn’t know who started it, since they were more or less asleep at the time, but her money was on herself. In typical Matt fashion they’d actually talked about it first,
several days ahead of time. He wanted to; she wasn’t sure it was such a great idea. They were both already a little confused as to what they were doing with each other. Her very presence was confusing to Matt. But they were both lonely and underneath the weirdness of having sex with someone you remembered when they were a genderless child, it didn’t sound like an ultimately terrible idea.
She’d told him she’d think about it.
Being a practical sort, he took thought as a step in the right direction and had gone out and stocked up on candles, massage oil, condoms, and lubricant–all of which he proudly brought back in a Walgreens bag and showed her over dinner. She’d tried not to laugh and failed.
Two nights later she’d woken up to find herself topless with her leg hooked around him and his face buried in the softness of her stomach. That time it was quick and to the point but early the next morning, as the sun was just starting to chase away the shadows of the night, they’d tried it again and this time taken their time. It was sweet, slow, and gentle.
Now, it wasn’t always slow (or gentle) but it remained sweet. Taryn was afraid of breaking his heart, if not his back, but she didn’t think she could stop.
She was nervous about starting her new job but hoped once she got started she’d find her groove. And she was excited about being there. Matt was staying with her for two weeks and then returning home for a few days for a meeting he couldn’t miss. He promised he’d be back, though, right after. They had no problem with him telecommuting for a while; it was the first time he’d taken an extended period off from work in seven years.
Although Taryn should have, by all accounts, felt content, the gnawing feeling continued. She still couldn’t put her finger on it. The house was beautiful, the grounds picturesque, the college staff welcoming… she had Matt there with her. And yet…
Something was off.
Dark Hollow Road (Taryn's Camera Book 3) Page 2