While she waited, she replayed the rest of her conversation with Matt.
“So what is this place anyway?” he’d asked. “Was it a restaurant, an inn, a post office?”
Going into lecture mode, she’d responded in her best teacher voice. “Well, for the first fifty years it was in operation it was a stagecoach stop, or a weigh station for travelers. When the US Postal Service was created, a stipulation of the Act required the construction of roads to facilitate the mail movement. The stagecoach drivers operated on a relay system, with one traveling so many miles and then another taking over–at least on the longer routes. This let them move faster and was easier on the horses.”
“Makes sense.”
“Yeah,” she nodded, although he couldn’t see her. “The weigh stations offered this rest. Naturally, these new roads also opened up opportunities for travelers since it then became easier to travel from one point to another. Along with the new roads an influx of travelers came the inns. After all, people had to have a place to stay for the night. They were like little Motel 6s, only with alcohol. My kind of place.”
Matt laughed.
“The man who built it in 1838 ran it alone for a few years. Then he got married. He and his wife, together, more or less took it to the next level. They made the tavern part a little bigger, upgraded some things, and just made some general improvements. It was a pretty big deal around here.”
Taryn could certainly understand why the Friends of Griffith Tavern wanted to purchase the building and restore it. There weren’t many stagecoach inns left anymore and it was a vital part of American history, not to mention local history. A real shame it had been left to deteriorate. In Taryn’s business, she found most people didn’t recognize the true value of what they had until there was threat of someone destroying it.
Driving back through town with her milkshake resting on the steering wheel, she surveyed her surroundings. The B&B was located on Main Street, but the street was quiet this time of the afternoon. There were only a few shops open and no restaurants. The one diner was closed today. Mostly, the buildings wore lost, desperate facades with “For Rent” signs in their unwashed windows. When they built the interstate, it made bypassing many of these smaller communities easier and the recent recession had left some of the towns in the Heartland virtual ghost towns. Few things made Taryn sadder than an empty, neglected house. She’d passed more empty houses and “For Sale” signs on her drive up from the Indianapolis airport than she’d ever seen in her life. For awhile, on the lonely two-lane highway, she’d seen one empty shell of a house after another–and many of the homes were new. She could imagine that at one time, not too long ago, they were filled with children’s laughter, the smells of dinner cooking, sounds of the television drifting up the stairs as some silly comedy played. They’d been homes. Now they were shells.
Sitting on the front porch in a swing at her B&B, watching the sun sink down over the quiet street, Taryn flipped through her notes again. James Burke built the tavern in 1830. It remained in the Burke family until 1888. It sold at auction then to the Willoughby’s. They kept it for thirty years, until it changed hands again in 1919. It was still in that family.
Letting the swing rock her back and forth with its gentle rhythm, she closed her eyes and imagined all the things the tavern must have seen over its time: the visitors, the excitement, the noise, and even the sadness. It would have been a revolving door for people coming and going, always alight with something new. The people in town would have used it for the food and drinks, too, and to gather news from the travelers about what was going on in other parts of the country. The building had seen more than some places ever would. Why did we believe newer was better? She was hardheaded when it came to that–a very good reason why she’d majored in both art and historical preservation. Taryn had no head for business, but she appreciated the value of the past. And she could paint well.
Yes, letting Griffith Tavern deteriorate was awful. It deserved to be alive again, to feel the patter of footsteps on its floors, hear the sounds of laughter and music. The organization needed help. She’d do what she could.
It was late, but Taryn couldn’t sleep. Instead, she’d drawn herself a nice bubble bath. She didn’t have any actual bubble bath, but she always took hotel sample shampoos and soaps from her rooms when she traveled and her suitcase was full of them. Emptying out five bottles had produced a nice froth.
She let the water run as hot as she could stand it, Andrew always told people if she couldn’t boil a chicken in it then the water wasn’t hot enough, and let herself slide in. It was quiet. The other guests at the B&B were checking out as she was checking in. Nothing stirred; the only sounds were the soapy bubbles crinkling in the water.
I love my job, she thought, her mind feeling relaxed and a little mushy. I love being able to wake up every morning, feeling excited about going to work. I love being able to do something I enjoy.
She may have dozed a little. Her arms floated up to the top of the water and rested there, gently bobbing up and down. She knew she should get out, especially when the water turned tepid, but even the idea felt like too much effort.
Suddenly, a slight noise disturbed her reverie. It was a distinct creak from her bedroom and it had her sitting up straight in the water. She cocked her ear towards the sound, straining to listen. Someone was walking around in the room. She knew that creak; she’d been making it all afternoon as she unpacked. The bathroom door was closed almost all the way to, but she was sure a shadow passed before it and another creak in the floorboards confirmed it. She could feel the little hairs on the back of her neck stand at attention. Her arms chilled, goosebumps running up them.
The woman who owned the B&B? “Delphina, is that you?” she called.
With no answer in return, she quickly stood up and wrapped a towel around her.
Feeling naked and vulnerable, Taryn tiptoed to the door, her heart pounding so hard she could see the skin pumping through the towel. The creak came again; this time it sounded like it was close to her dresser. “Who’s there?” She hoped her voice wasn’t trembling. Despite the fact it sounded as though someone was obviously walking around on her floors, the air was eerily calm and quit. She couldn’t detect any breathing.
The closest thing to her was a tall can of shaving cream so she grabbed it and held it over her head, her arm shaking. With her other hand, she clutched at her towel.
Deciding to go at it all at once, like ripping of a bandaid, she flung open the bathroom door with her foot, ready to pounce on whoever might be lurking in the darkness.
The room was empty. She was sure she’d left the lamp on the dresser on. Still, even in the dimness she could tell nobody was in there. Her bedroom door was shut and locked from the inside.
“There’s nobody here,” she muttered. “I really must be going crazy.”
But there was a feeling in the air that tugged at her, a feeling that she’d just missed someone. The air currents were still moving, still alive with electricity. She wasn’t alone; she knew it. Whoever was there was gone, but there had been someone there.
Stomping over to the dresser, she switched on the bordello-style lamp. The light flickered for a moment, like it might not come on, and then the area was illuminated in a sea of gold. She was just about ready to turn around and head back to the bathroom to get her robe when the mirror on the dresser caught her eye. “Oh shit!” she yelped, stumbling backwards and losing her grip on the towel.
The large oval mirror was covered in steam. In its opaqueness she couldn’t make out her reflection or the rest of the room. In the very center, however, in large letters, the words “Help me” were written in a shaky hand. As she watched in dismay, they slowly faded until the glass was clear and she was staring back at herself, her mouth open in horror.
Chapter 2
In the early light of day, the poor tavern looked even worse than it had in the pictures Daniel sent her. In fact, it looked worse than it had the day be
fore. She was almost sure it was leaning to one side.
“We got an architect to come in and do a survey,” Daniel had beamed. “It’s structurally sound!”
Taryn had her doubts.
Two stories high, the front looked like a house. A large porch wrapped around the front and down one side and she could imagine chairs set out, welcoming visitors and offering relief on hot, stuffy days. Off the back there was a one story extension running at least fifty feet if she were to estimate. A peek in a back window (lots of cobwebs, but no spiders) showed her one large room with wood floors and a coal burning stove. More than likely, it was the restaurant section of the house and would have been filled with tables and chairs. Throughout the year, they might have even pushed some of those out and held parties and dances in the room. If she closed her eyes for a moment she could almost hear the stomping of feet on the floor, the walls vibrating with the sounds of fiddles and guitars as laughter trailed out the windows.
As for now, the only sound was an angry bee buzzing around her head. She must have disturbed it with her trespassing. Nature had taken over this place. Two of the doors were completely blocked by ivy and there were more wasps’ nests than she cared to think about.
She was now itching to get inside and take pictures, despite her prior nervousness, but notwithstanding Daniel’s zeal regarding the structure, the floors she could see didn’t look too promising. Some were even caved in. And then there was the worrisome bit leaning to one side.
Still, that didn’t mean she couldn’t window shop!
The porch held her weight and those windows revealed a beautiful staircase, two large front rooms, and an elaborate fireplace with what looked like marble mosaic–if the dust and grime on the glass weren’t playing tricks on her eyes. A walk around one side of the house revealed too much poison ivy for her to get close enough to peek in but when she went on around she managed to hoist herself up to another window without any glass. Inside, she saw a set of smaller rooms that might have been a parlor and sitting room at one time. Overall, the front part of the building appeared sounder than the back.
Miss Dixie meant a lot to Taryn. Other than Matt, she was the only constant in Taryn’s life. Her parents were gone but even when they’d been around they weren’t exactly the warm, lovable folks you wanted to run to and confide in. They were nice people, but brittle; they were often lost in their own little worlds and those worlds didn’t even include each other most of the time. She could never imagine them being warm with one another, comforting each other, having sex…not that she frequently tried to imagine her parents’ sex life or anything. Good God.
She’d met Matt when she was a child. Back then he’d just been a boy. She was too young to have racing hormones or develop any kind of crush on him. He’d had skinned knees, shaggy hair that hung down in his eyes, and always wore a jacket that was about four inches too short in the sleeves. He’d told her he was Indian and that his grandfather had been a chief. She’d noticed his slanted eyes and dark skin but had just thought he was Chinese.
Over the years their friendship changed and developed; it grew into something almost magical. She couldn’t remember a life without Matt. It was comforting to have someone in her life she could turn to and ask, “Hey, remember when we were ten and…” or “When you were eighteen and I…”
Miss Dixie was almost the same. She was nearly a decade old and Taryn had spent more on fixing her than it would’ve cost to buy a new one. Over the years they’d gotten to know each other’s quirks and intricate personalities. And Miss Dixie did have a personality; she had to be babied and taken care of as much as any person.
She knew most people would think she was crazy for naming her camera, but this one felt female and had a mind of her own sometimes. They’d been through a lot together, even before Windwood Farm. Although she was known for her paintings, she always shot with a camera first to get a feel for the place; that’s how she learned about its nuances.
When Taryn walked back to her rental car to take Miss Dixie out, she felt good. It was a crisp morning and the cars whizzing by on the highway behind her were close enough to make her feel protected but not uncomfortable. Even after what went down at Windwood Farm, she still preferred working alone. Now, however, she tried to be a little more practical about it. She did almost die, partly because of her own foolishness.
But Windwood Farm had felt “off” from the beginning; at least a little. She could be honest with herself about that now. Griffith Tavern was peaceful. Sad, sure, but the lingering energy was a good one. The house was already reaching out and grabbing at her with its tentacles, its energy engulfing her and slowly pulling her in the way all her favorite jobs did. But she didn’t feel scared. She felt exhilarated.
But that didn’t mean she’d forgotten about the night before. In fact, she’d barely slept. She’d kept both the lamp and television on the rest of the night and slept in snatches, regularly opening her eyes to peer around the room, convinced someone was watching her. She’d made it through the night, though, and in the clear light of day felt better. Perhaps it had only been her imagination. Perhaps they’d only looked like words…
Perhaps she was just trying to be rational and not completely freak herself out.
She wouldn’t start her painting today. Today would be devoted to getting as much of the inn and tavern photographed as possible. She would start by walking around, taking general photographs of the outside. From there, she’d zoom in on the details and return to the things that caught her eyes. She wouldn’t actually use any of the photographs she took, they were just for her own personal use, but the shooting of the place was an important aspect of what she did. Miss Dixie often worked as her second set of eyes and sometimes picked up on things that she couldn’t see…in more ways than one.
Two jobs since Windwood Farm and not a single picture had come back bearing anything it shouldn’t have. No ghosts, no ghostly furniture, and no scenes from the past. Maybe a couple of things that could be classified as “orbs” but they could just as likely been dust. Or bugs.
She was divided on how she felt about this. On one hand, she almost felt like she’d had enough excitement to last her a lifetime. On the other hand, she’d experienced a sense of achievement and peace for what she’d accomplished at Windwood, especially when it came to finally solving the mystery of the old house. She was uneasy about her “gift” (or whatever you wanted to call it) but that didn’t mean she didn’t want it.
But the night before…that was different. Something had been in her room. She was sure of it. And it wanted her to know it was there.
The day passed in a blur and Taryn was able to take more than two hundred photos of the tavern in all, even without venturing inside. It took several hours and would have been faster, had she not stopped and checked her LCD screen after every shot.
The pictures were all normal. The building might look like something out of a Dark Castle film, but it appeared to be harmless. Whatever had happened in her room may not have anything to do with the tavern. That was a charming thought, of course. A haunted B&B might draw tourists but it didn’t exactly make her excited to return. She wasn’t necessarily afraid of ghosts, but she didn’t relish the idea of something watching her while she slept.
When her phone started vibrating she knew it was time to pack it in and head back to the B&B. Matt always called her around suppertime and even though the sun was still out and the day had grown warm with the heat still hanging on, it was time to leave.
While she waited for the pictures to upload on her laptop back in her room, she ran herself a nice warm bubble bath and sank into it. She would talk to Matt while she soaked. This time, however, she left the door wide open and made sure both lamps in the bedroom were on.
As usual, he was cooking something. That’s just what he did. Tonight it was homemade pizza: vegan, just because. He liked trying new things. She was glad she wasn’t there to try it with him. Vegan cheese didn’t sound like real chees
e to her, no matter how much he insisted she wouldn’t be able to tell the difference.
“You’re ruining your body with some of the stuff you put in there,” he chided.
“But I love Velveeta,” she mock-whined.
“Don’t you think there’s something unnatural about cheese the supermarket doesn’t have to refrigerate?”
“Well, what about the cheese in those fancy markets that they wrap in wax? Those aren’t refrigerated, either,” she pointed out.
“And they’re also not irregular shades of yellow and orange,” he retorted. “Or have the word ‘spread’ in them.”
So the cheese conversation continued for the next half hour and when she hung up she felt light and invigorated. Talking to Matt was one of her favorite things to do most nights, even when it involved inane things like Velveeta, cancer, and chemicals.
A glance at her laptop showed her the pictures were all successfully uploaded. Most of them were quite good and she told herself this with pride. She was getting a little better with every job.
But they were all normal.
It wasn’t the tavern then, it was the B&B. But who was there and why did they want her help? She was just barely able to take care of herself these days. How could she possibly help a ghost?
Chapter 3
Taryn had met with her clients in a variety of settings–from swanky boardrooms with secretaries who brought coffee and sandwiches to penthouse suites in casinos. This was the first time, however, she’d ever met with one (or a group to be more accurate) in a storage unit.
Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2) Page 2