Dark Hollow Road (Taryn's Camera Book 3)

by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  She didn’t want to over-analyze anything or travel down the road of paranoia, but there was a tinge of apprehension nipping around the late autumn air. She was uneasy, but about what, she wasn’t certain.

  “It will be okay,” she whispered aloud. Matt shuddered beside her, and she patted him on the shoulder, comforting him in his sleep. Snuggling in closer, he cupped her face in his hand, and she rested her head against him.

  It would be okay. It had to be.

  The surface beneath her was hard and broken; even just a tiny movement made it creak. A whiff of something unpleasant rose from the grimy floor. She was starting to get a little nauseous but continued to clutch the red plastic cup filled with the bitter whiskey; she wasn’t drinking it any longer but having something to hold grounded her a little. She needed to leave soon, she kept repeating it, but she hadn’t yet been able to get up.

  The flickering candlelight cast grotesque shadows upon the wall, their forms growing and then shrinking again as the flames shimmered.

  Male laughter flowed around her; a dense, heavy sound that resonated through the sparsely furnished room and chilled her. She tried to smile along with them, but her face was numb and her lips wouldn’t move into anything more than a thin grimace. In the darkness, the familiar faces took on carnival funhouse shapes, their features distorted. She shook her head to clear it as eyes bled into mouths and clown hands slapped legs and waved frantically about in the air.

  She wanted to get up, leave, do something but the voices, the shadows–even the flames–were closing in on her. When she opened her mouth to scream, only the faintest of whispers slid through her dry, cracked lips.

  The dream left her cold and panicky. The feeling of almost immediate depression upon opening her eyes slapped her across the face; Taryn felt as though she were in the bottom of a well, seeing the world from far, far away. She didn’t know whether she should left herself go back to sleep or jump up and run downstairs to find Matt–her instant fix for human companionship.

  She opted to get up.

  Her head was pounding, full of something left over from her sleep. Her hip hurt, something that had been occurring more and more often, and she felt rattled. The hardwood floors were cold under her feet, and the chilly air gave her gooseflesh, but she didn’t stop to throw on her robe or pull on her thick socks. Instead, she went straight for the stairs. Below, she could hear the sounds of Matt in the kitchen as he banged around pots and pans and turned the faucet off and on. The noises were reassuring, a sign there was life in the house.

  “Hey you,” he smiled as she stalked into the room. Now that she was down there and looking at him, she felt a little silly at her sudden burst of energy and panic.

  “Hey,” she sighed. It was chilly down there and she regretted not throwing something on.

  “You okay?”

  “Bad dream,” she shrugged, trying not to let how upset she was show. “It’s fading.” She lied, but she didn’t feel like discussing it at the moment.

  “I’m making pancakes. I was going to wait and make them on your first day of school, but I was craving them this morning. Hope that’s okay.”

  She sniffed the air. “You putting chocolate in them?”

  “Of course.”

  “Sounds good to me!” Taryn wandered over to the refrigerator and took out a cold Coke. She opened it and downed half of it before she’d taken another step.

  “I don’t see how you can drink that so early,” he admonished in obvious distaste.

  “Not any different than people who drink coffee and put a lot of sugar in it. It’s just cold. And I need the caffeine. Believe me, you don’t want to be around me without it.”

  After they’d finished breakfast she gathered her painting supplies together and placed them on the dining room table. She was running low, but wasn’t in the mood to go into town. She’d try painting out on the front porch for a while, until it got too cold. Slipping her jacket on, she took what she needed and set her easel up on the wooden floors. It had been awhile since she’d painted trees, or a nature-based landscape of any kind, but she was looking forward to the challenge of finishing it. The sky was plain, devoid of color, and not a cloud broke up the monotony. But the dreariness gave the surrounding fauna an almost ethereal appearance, some branches and brown leaves still holding on fading into the whiteness with the evergreens stark against the sky, reaching into the white like claws. There would be fog tonight, she could smell it, but for now it was clear. The air was as silent now as it had been the night before, but thick. Heavy. There was a dampness, too, and it closed in around her and settled on her hands and hair, dragging her down until she felt rooted to the porch beneath her feet.

  She painted for nearly a half hour without any distractions, lost in the pale world she created on her canvas. Matt was inside doing something, but she didn’t feel guilty leaving him alone. He liked his solitude as much as she liked hers, and he was never bored with his own company. He’d read, work, or play his guitar. He wouldn’t watch television because that wasn’t really his thing, but he’d find some way of entertaining himself. She’d talked to him earlier about her needing some time by herself, and he said he understood. With that being said, he’d left the curtains open so that he could look out at her.

  The wind was picking up, causing the branches to sway with more potency. Fallen leaves swirled around on the ground, a multi-color dance moving across the dead grass in a frenzy. Taryn’s hands were growing colder, her joints already stiffening and throbbing from the damp air. She was just about to start packing it in when she was once again struck by the scent of smoke. It wasn’t an unpleasant aroma as it wafted through the trees and curled around the porch, lapping at her. It smelled of fresh wood and something else–maybe aluminum or metal. She couldn’t see any smoke but it was so powerful she coughed a little, sputtering into the wind.

  “Matt!” she called in the direction of the window, hoping he would hear her. She was afraid to move, afraid the moment would be lost. “MATT! Come here for a second, please!”

  She could hear his footsteps coming towards the door and saw the handle turn just as a wail, loud and female, pierced the air.

  “I looked around,” Matt shrugged. “There’s nobody out there.”

  “You heard the scream,” Taryn declared as she paced back and forth across the living room floor. “It was closer this time. And there was smoke.”

  “I agree about the scream,” he drawled, a rare hint of accent creeping into his normally mild, controlled voice. He sat back on the small loveseat, his hands folded neatly in his lap. “It sounded like it wasn’t far from the porch. But there wasn’t anyone there. As for the smoke, I didn’t get that I’m afraid.”

  “It was a girl, though, right? And not something silly like a coyote or bobcat or whatever could be out here in the woods?”

  “I’m not up-to-date on my Georgia wildlife, but I’d venture to say it was a female,” he agreed.

  Taryn paused and gazed out the window. The fog was setting in now, like she knew it would. She could barely make out their car as the low clouds swooped in and covered everything in their path. “Do you think she sounded… scared?”

  “I don’t know,” he replied, studying her. She could see his uneasiness. “Maybe. It could’ve been a cry for help. Or…”

  “Or what?”

  “It could’ve been something else. We don’t know, Taryn.”

  “It’s happening again, I know it,” she muttered, mostly to herself. She felt keyed up, energized. There were sparks in the air now and they were coursing through her skin and veins. She felt like her entire body was on fire, pummeling her to something she was unsure of. “Miss Dixie…”

  “Yeah?”

  “I think if I took her out now, I’d catch something,” she declared with authority. She was aware that she still wore her old boots and Carhartt jacket. She hadn’t felt like taking them off, even though Matt had built a fire and they’d been inside for more than an
hour.

  “Do you want to?”

  “Yes!” she shouted with enthusiasm. And then, a little more subdued, “No. I don’t know.”

  “I’m here if you want to give it a shot. No pun intended.”

  Taking the stairs two at a time she raced up to their room and grabbed her beloved camera from the bureau. She was more than a little afraid of what she might capture, but she had to know if something was out there. If she took a shot and came back with a bloodied body on their porch or something then they were just going to have find other accommodations for the duration of their stay.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Matt called as she slid out the front door.

  “No thanks,” she hollered. “I’ll be fine!”

  The truth was, she wasn’t sure if it would work–this capturing of the past–if someone else was with her. It had with Melissa back in Vidalia but that might have just been a fluke. She’d never tried it again with another person standing with her.

  Taryn didn’t go far as she steadily walked the cabin’s grounds and took her pictures. The sound had been so close she was almost certain that if anything was there it would be captured within a few feet of the house. She slowly made a loop around the perimeter, taking shots every few seconds. She aimed the camera at the house, at the ground, and off in the distance, towards the tree line. The fog was even closer now and her flash was distracting as it ricocheted back at her. She turned it off for better results and kept moving, trying to take as many as she could before it got too dark and too foggy for anything to come out.

  The scent of smoke was gone now; it had disappeared as soon as they’d heard the scream. Now, the only scent was that of the cold. Her grandmother had possessed a sense of snow and rain. She could smell it as far as two days in advance. “It’s coming, a big one,” she’d say as they walked out of the shopping mall, her eyes not even casting a glance at the sunny skies above them. “I can smell it.”

  Sure enough, two days later Taryn would wake up to several inches of snow, a freak storm by the weatherman’s account.

  Taryn’s own sense of smell wasn’t really developed. She’d always possessed terrible eyesight to boot. A little ironic considering what she was now picking up.

  She was aware of being alone as she walked around, aware of being cut off from everyone despite the fact that Matt was inside, only a holler away. The remoteness of the cabin and property felt more pronounced and a big part of her was conscious of her vulnerability–a small figure walking through a desolate landscape miles from civilization. Shuddering, she turned Miss Dixie off and wandered back to the porch. Matt was waiting inside for her, a mug of cocoa in his hand. “Thought you could use this, adventurous one,” he smiled sweetly.

  They walked into the living room together, her hands warmed by the mug, the steam rising to her cheeks and prickling them.

  He already had her laptop up and running and while she shrugged off her coat and boots Matt popped her memory card into the slot and waited. While the pictures uploaded, she sipped on the cocoa. “Thanks. It’s good.”

  “No problem. Thought it might add to the festivities.”

  “You think this is fun,” she accused, but a smile played at her own lips. It was a lot different with someone else there with her.

  “A little,” he admitted. “But it also freaked me out. I’d say I’m about half scared, half excited.”

  But the pictures revealed nothing. She hadn’t captured a single abnormality in her shots of the cabin and property. Whatever had been out there earlier was gone.

  Chapter 4

  Taryn got to her classroom a little early, nervous about her first day at school. She hadn’t excelled at school when she was a student, at least not until she got to college, so being back in a classroom was a little intimidating. In true Matt fashion, he’d packed her a lunch (in a vintage tin Scooby Doo lunchbox, as a joke) and kissed her on the nose before he pulled away. On most days she’d drive herself in, but he was in the mood to bake and wanted to do some exploring. She felt like a little kid being dropped off by her daddy, but it wasn’t a bad feeling.

  They hadn’t spoken about the previous day’s adventure, nor had they smelled or seen anything suspicious since. Indeed, had Matt not heard the sound himself she might have thought she was hearing things. She did have terrible headaches that concerned them both and despite her best intentions of going to a doctor and having them checked out, she hadn’t yet. Maybe she was having some kind of petite seizures (she DID occasionally, use the Google) or a crazy parasite eating at her brain.

  But then, Matt would have to suffer from the same thing and that wasn’t likely.

  While she waited for her students to arrive, she arranged the chairs and easels in a semi-circle, placing herself at the top. She wanted them to feel like she was a part of the group, and not necessarily an instructor. Taryn was a little confused as to why she’d been asked to do the job; she had zero teaching experience. She was no stranger to speaking in front of groups, though, so she hoped she could just fake her way through the actual teaching part.

  While she set up the computer and ran through her PowerPoint presentation the first wave of students began trickling in. Most appeared to be in their late teens and early twenties, although at least two had gray hair and appeared decades older than their counterparts. They all wore comfortable looking, casual clothes: sweaters, jeans, tennis shoes, and hoodies. Some had wet hair while others wore dirty, faded baseball caps.

  She felt overdressed in her red layered skirt, black sleeveless shirt, and white cardigan. She’d spent an extra half-hour trying to tame her hair and even applied makeup in an effort to make herself not only presentable but professional-looking. Taryn, used to working alone, had forgotten what it felt like to care about her appearance on the job. Matt had “oohed” and “aahed” over her and playfully tried to tug her back to bed with promises of delicious things he’d like to do, but she’d swatted him away, secretly pleased at the lavish compliments.

  Feeling awkward and shy, she busied herself with the computer screen until the last student settled themselves into a desk and the clock showed her it was a minute past class time.

  “Hi everyone,” she looked up and smiled, raising her fingers in a small wave. “I’m Taryn Magill. Not ‘Miss Magill’ or ‘Professor Magill’ or anything like that. Just Taryn. Just so you guys know, I’ve never really done anything like this before. This, uh, is my first go at it. I’m very excited to be here, of course, and, uh, hope you enjoy the class…” She was rambling and knew it and could feel her face grow red and hot. The sea of college kids gazed back at her with polite interest. Some had notebook paper out and their pencils were raised. Good Lord, she thought. I hope they don’t expect me to say anything interesting…

  “So, um, today I thought we’d just go over what I do a little bit. I’m going to show you some pictures I’ve taken, along with some paintings I’ve done of those places. Of course, yours don’t have to look like mine or anything. Yours will probably be better!” Her joke fell flat, though, as only a few people cracked good-mannered smiles. “Um, anyway… Let’s get started!”

  The first few images she showed them were of older houses she’d taken pictures of early on in her career. She was careful to avoid using any examples of places she’d worked on with Andrew. Although she felt like she’d come to a better place in regards to her grief, she still felt fragile enough that she didn’t want to rock the boat. Besides, there were enough images that she didn’t have to rely on those.

  It was easy talking about the buildings, why she’d taken on the jobs she had, and what creativity she’d needed to use to “reconstruct” them. She was in her element.

  “See this house?” she asked, pointing to an American Foursquare in Nashville. “Nothing structurally wrong with it. As you can see, everything is still intact. Well, the inside was a little rough, but that’s another story,” she smiled. The students laughed.

  “I was hired by a co
uple, newlyweds with money, to do this rendering.” She flipped to the next image, which showed her painting. “They wanted to restore the house, which was looking tired and worn, to its original splendor. And they wanted to be as historically accurate as possible. So, as you can see, in my painting I added the shutters, mended the porch and columns, patched up the roof, and repainted it. They knew the original color was this dark green and my painting helped them see what the final result would be.”

  A young man directly to her left raised his hand. “So after you did this, did an architect or contractor come in and make the changes based on your painting?”

  “That’s normally what happens,” she replied. “But in this case the couple was a DIY pair who loved HGTV and they did most of the work themselves. I should add, too, that this was a very quick job for me. They only wanted the front of the house done. It took me about two weeks and since I live in Nashville I didn’t have to leave town. Not only did they want to see what the finish product would look like, they wanted something nice to hang in the foyer, too.”

  “So you’re kind of like a plastic surgeon,” a girl with honey-colored hair called. “Except instead of showing ‘after’ images, you show ‘before’ ones.”

  The other students laughed, Taryn along with them. “You can look at it like that, yes.”

  The young man who’d spoken earlier gazed at her thoughtfully, his chin resting on his hand. “I imagine you have to have quite a bit of historical architectural knowledge to be able to do this job, right? And know about a LOT of different time periods and house styles.”

  “Yes,” she nodded. “I’m constantly researching and learning something new. I’ve worked in Arizona, New Mexico, San Francisco–places where the architecture can be vastly different than what I grew up with in Nashville. After all, I grew up in a subdivision where all the houses looked the same. So yeah, there’s a lot of research involved. I’m not just an artist; I’m also a historian to an extent.”