“I’d like to see those guest logs anyway, if it’s okay.”
A few minutes later Taryn found herself sitting on one of the low, floral pattern couches and flipping through pages and pages of signatures. The dates went as far back as 1835, which was impressive if you thought about it. She loved the feel of the old paper, the heaviness of the leather-bound records. Even the penmanship was sweetly antiquated. She lightly ran her finger across one name, signed with a flourish, and closed her eyes, considering the fact that she was touching something written more than one hundred years before. The signatures might not look like much, but they were trapped in time, proof someone had been alive.
Miranda was right, though; the inn had gone through dry spells. There were times when a week or more existed between the names. Most of the guests appeared to be single men, although there were a few families and couples. No single women. It would’ve been unlikely in those days that a single woman would’ve traveled alone, and so far, without an escort.
Taryn returned the books to Miranda when she was finished and stood at her desk, trying to formulate more questions. Unfortunately, nothing more was coming to her.
Tapping her long, manicured fingers on the particleboard desk, Miranda gazed ahead of her, lost in thought. Both women were at an impasse. Finally, it came to her. “I know! LeRoy Edwards at the Boain Center. It’s a nursing home,” she clarified. “He’s almost ninety-five years old and won’t remember her at all, of course, but he remembers everything else and his daddy would have told tales about her. He’s the man to talk to. Would you like to meet him?”
Taryn cursed herself on the drive to the tavern. Okay, so a huge part of her was a little peacocked at the idea of suddenly gaining some kind of sixth sense on her thirtieth birthday, like Rob had hypothesized. But even she had to admit that at Windwood Farm she almost surely wouldn’t have felt as drawn to the house and events that took place there if she hadn’t felt somehow connected to Clara. Her own story with Andrew wasn’t equivalent to Clara’s suffering, but her grief was still bubbling at the surface and surely that had something to do with the house’s energy drawing out her capabilities.
She should have seen the same with Griffith Tavern.
Two single women trying to run their own businesses, both lost their husbands at a young age, both trying to make it in a man’s world (historical preservation and architecture was still a man’s world–regardless of the strides taken). She and Permelia: two peas in a pod.
“I’m not who you think I am,” she muttered aloud when the tavern came into view. “You’ve picked the wrong girl. I can’t help you.”
The tavern remained quiet. She attempted to paint, but she was too distracted to concentrate. None of her colors were mixing correctly and it was mostly her fault for not paying attention. Her hands were shaking and she messed up more than once. After the third attempt at shading a downstairs window, she finally gave up for the day and put her supplies away in frustration.
It was muggy and sticky and there weren’t even any cars on the road to break the monotony. She’d eaten all her snacks, mostly out of boredom and stress, and picked at a hangnail until it bled. Now she had nothing left to do. In a bigger town, she might take a day off and go to the movies or hang out at a book store. The closest town with either one of those was an hour away. The doctor she was seeing back in Nashville was treating her for depression and anxiety, sure those were causing her headaches and nerve pain. She could go back and pop one of those little pills and knock herself out for a few hours but that didn’t sound enticing, either. She didn’t get any kind of high off that like some people did and just woke up feeling disoriented and angry she’d missed out on half the day. And they didn’t even help the pain.
I even fail at being an addict, she thought bitterly as she shoved her last duffle bag into the trunk. Taryn was feeling sorry for herself but figured she deserved it. A pity party was something she thought served a purpose on occasion and Taryn was down with that.
This was supposed to be an easy job, something that would be finished within a few weeks and help her catch up with her bills.
It didn’t help that since arriving she’d had Andrew on her mind a lot and her sleep hadn’t been the best. True, she’d never been what you would consider a good sleeper, but now her dreams were just stupid: a lot of running around and doing silly things. She felt worn out by the time she woke up. She couldn’t focus on her work. Even her painting wasn’t the best she’d done and painting was usually the one thing she could count on pulling through.
“I need a best friend,” she confessed aloud, her hands on her hips. “Someone to take me out and listen to me complain.”
As if on cue, a loud crash rang from inside the tavern.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” she shouted, irritated. “Great, just what I need. A BFF who’s rooted in the afterlife.”
She was still muttering to herself (and occasionally waving her hands in the air) as she stomped across the yard towards the tavern, the weeds brushing at her legs and leaving thin scratches.
Even Taryn hadn’t possessed the gall to take a step inside the dilapidated building up until that point, it did look like it was on its last legs, but this this time she didn’t hesitate. Not even stopping to pick up a snake stick in case she met a creepy crawlie inside, she hoisted herself through one of the front windows (careful not to touch the broken glass) and found herself standing in a shadowy entry. Once inside she could see the hoisting hadn’t been necessary: the front door wasn’t barred in any way and was almost rotted through. The boards creaked under her weight and she could hear something scurrying. It sounded too big to be a mouse.
“I’m here,” she called, hands on her hips. “Now, how can I be of service?”
Chapter 9
The inn, of course, was silent.
“I see, playing it coy are we?” Taryn asked, dusting off her legs from the cobwebs she’d caught on her way in. Now that she was actually inside she could get a better look around. She cursed the fact she’d brought neither Miss Dixie nor a flashlight but she hadn’t exactly planned this little adventure.
The foyer floors, at least, were in better condition than she’d reckoned. They were noisy when she moved but felt solid enough and didn’t appear to have any visible rot or soft spots. She’d still tread carefully. A staircase ran up the wall to her right and disappeared onto a landing. The bead board at the bottom was more detailed than she’d expected to find and the bannister appeared to be mahogany. It was in excellent condition; she could tell that even from under the layers of dust. A few hearty shakes didn’t make it move. At some point someone had decided to make the unfortunate decision to carpet the stairs and mice had made good work out of the material. Hardwood peeked through where the carpet was worn away. What was left of it was covered in rodent droppings, dust, and leaves. In fact, from where she stood, she was almost certain she could see the carcass of what had once been a possum on the sixth step up.
A few cautious steps to the left took her into a parlor. It was small and empty but the curling wallpaper made her smile. When she touched it, bits crumbled into her hand. By the thickness there must have been at least three or four layers. She used to collect wallpaper samples from old houses. She’d been a child when wallpapering had still been popular; her grandmother claimed it was a pain in the ass but Taryn liked it a lot more than paint.
A fireplace was gathering more rodent excrement and dried leaves but she could still imagine weary travelers coming in from a long wagon or carriage ride and warming up by a blazing flame while they waited for someone to take their money and ready a room for them. The space was small but cozy and she was already mentally decorating with a chair, small table, and bookshelf.
A long, narrow hallway ran the length of the building but it was incredibly dark and she was only able to peek into the other rooms for fear of running into something she shouldn’t (she was more afraid of spiders at this point than ghosts). There wasn’t
much to see. The rooms were empty and covered in dust and it was difficult to tell what they would’ve been.
She wasn’t afraid inside, especially since by all accounts this ghost seemed to like her and want her there, but she didn’t want to risk tripping over something silly like a board and end up breaking her neck. She wasn’t the adventurer she’d been in her teens and early twenties.
Taryn cautiously made her way to the end of the hallway where she came to a small, narrow back staircase and the actual tavern. Of course, she’d seen the tavern from peeking in through the windows outside but it was different from this angle. Now, with the murky shadows and dimming light it felt less abandoned and more like it might be sleeping.
Because the room was empty, its openness was a testament to the number of people it could have held. It was bigger than it looked from the outside. For a moment Taryn allowed herself to imagine it alive and bursting with energy. She could hear the clinking of glasses, the stomping of feet and rustling of skirts as men and women walked back and forth across the pine floors. She saw maids in dark uniforms scurrying up the back staircase, taking some boarder his nightcap or a bowl of soup to warm his bones in the middle of a cold night after everyone else had gone to bed. She smelled the yeasty aroma of beer as it flowed across the tables and filled the bellies of both travelers and locals who had come out for the night to enjoy the company of others. There was probably a lot of music and dancing when the occasion called for it. On those nights she could see the tables pushed back, a makeshift stage set up in the corner, and hear the clapping and laughing as the patrons spun in wild circles around the room, filling the entire building with the sounds of their merriment, the walls vibrating with their vitality.
Now, the only sounds she heard were the faint scuttling of mice feet as they climbed up the walls and the chattering and hissing of what she thought might be a raccoon.
Taryn was more hesitant about climbing the stairs, especially since a large portion of the roof was missing which meant at least some of the floors were exposed to the elements, but since she’d already come this far she was game to give it a try. Still, the back ones looked a little rough for wear so instead of pressing her luck she made her way back to the front of the house.
These stairs didn’t look hazardous, just dirty. She’d been on worse. She hoped if the building did get torn down someone would at least come in and save the bannister. It could be reused.
Her gut instinct about the second floor proved to be valid. She didn’t trust her luck to go much further past the landing at the top of the second flight of stairs. The floor was completely rotted through in several places in the hallway and she could see sky through the roof. Birds had built their nests and forgotten them in the rafters. Still, from where she stood she could make out at least four good-sized rooms, possibly five. Permelia and her husband probably would have slept up there, unless she’d missed a room down by the tavern end, and that would have given them at least four guest rooms. Not bad for a small bump in the road.
But a big place to run on your own.
Well, she’d satisfied her curiosity of the place. It would take some work to get it back in shape, but nothing was impossible. Taryn had seen worse, but just barely. Permelia hadn’t manifested or given her a list of people to visit who might want to donate to the cause so Taryn wasn’t real sure where to go from there. Still, she always enjoyed seeing the inside of a new place so it wasn’t an altogether wasted trip. To be fair, she hadn’t been sure what to expect; she’d just gone in on a hunch.
Turning, she started back down the steps and was halfway to the bottom when a sound caught her ear. It could have just been the wind, or an animal, but for a second it sounded like laughter or perhaps music coming from the back of the building. Pausing mid-step, Taryn held her breath and listened again. There, she thought, I’m not hearing things! It was ever so slight, but it was definitely the hum of an old piano followed by the tinkling of laughter. It echoed through the empty house with a hollow resonance, a radio from far away. Picking up her pace, she hurried down the rest of the stairs in an attempt to catch the source of the sounds before they disappeared.
And landed flat on her face at the bottom.
“Damn it!” she cried in frustration, cursing her clumsiness.
Irritated with herself, as she rose up to her now skinned and aching knees and pulled her foot out from under her, she glared at the last step–the one that caught her. There was nothing on it to make her trip; in her hurry she’d merely been careless. Now, her clothes were caked with dirt and God knew what else and the sounds of the house were present-day, the laughter and piano gone. She’d missed whatever ghostly party was happening.
Standing up, she dusted herself off as best she could and grimaced at the sight of blood starting to run down her calf. She’d have several more bruises by the time evening rolled around.
“Now I just need to go back and get myself a bath,” she grumbled.
As she climbed back through the window and let herself out, she couldn’t be sure but thought she might have heard the faintest sigh of longing.
When Taryn arrived back at the B&B she was surprised to find she had three voicemail messages flashing on her phone. She usually had a pretty good signal at the tavern. The calls must have come through while she was creeping about.
The first one was from Matt, just checking on her. He’d followed up the call with a text and some silly joke about baking bread. She wasn’t sure she got it, but she appreciated the attempt to make her laugh. The second call was from Daniel who sounded rejected and defeated. “No good news to report,” he spoke forlornly into her mailbox. “Just keeping you updated.”
The third call was from Miranda at the historical society. “Hi Karen!” she called cheerfully. Taryn rolled her eyes. “I just wanted to let you know I spoke to LeRoy up at the nursing home and he said he’d be glad to talk to you and tell you what he knows.” Her message rambled on as she left the facility’s phone number and directions and then ended up with jovial “Toodles!”
Taryn was excited to go up to the nursing home and pay LeRoy a visit. She didn’t know what to expect, but any lead was worth exploring at this point. It didn’t feel right, however, to leave Daniel out. After all, this was his project and his organization that was so intent on saving the tavern–he had the right to know as much about it as she did.
Daniel picked up on the first ring and didn’t sound any happier than he had on her voicemail. “I really thought something might come through at the last minute; you know, like in the movies,” he complained.
“It still could,” Taryn hoped she sounded positive. “You never know.”
They spent a few minutes talking about grants and funding until Taryn was finally able to bring the conversation back around to her original purpose. “Listen, I’ve been doing research on the tavern and a woman at the historical society hooked me up with an older gentleman down at the nursing home. Miranda thinks he might be helpful. I was going to try to go tomorrow and talk to him. I know it’s last minute, but are you interested?”
Daniel didn’t even hesitate. “Sure! Let’s do it! It will need to be in the morning because I’m working tomorrow afternoon but I’d love to. We’ve talked to a few people here and there and looked at all the records, but nobody down there at the rehab and nursing home.”
“Did you go to the historical society here?”
“Yeah, that’s one of the first places I started at,” he conceded. “They had a little bit, but mostly just financial records and stuff like that. A guest log.”
A quick call to the nursing home let her know LeRoy was up and ready for the day every morning for breakfast, at 7:00 am sharp and that he loved having visitors. Taryn assured the nurse she wouldn’t be there, up and ready for the day, at 7:00 am but that she and Daniel would be there by 10:00 am.
“That’s just fine, sweetie,” the nurse spoke with sugar into the phone. “And I’m sure he’ll be excited to see you. He loves
having young people come over to talk, especially about the old days.”
Daniel hadn’t questioned why Taryn had developed such an interest in the tavern, especially since she knew virtually nothing about it before arriving, but she was sure he’d eventually ask her. She was preparing an answer for him along the lines of helping her get in the right frame of mind for painting and visualizing the way it would have looked in the past.
Something told her he might have understood the ghost thing a little easier than some. But, as much as she wanted to talk about it, she was also leery of spreading the good news with just anyone. She still felt a little crazy herself.
Nevertheless, she’d been surprised at some of the reactions she’d received. Before her experience at Windwood Farm, she didn’t know so many people were accepting of the ghost stories and hauntings. She should have realized it, of course. With all the shows on everything from the SyFy channel to the local cable access channels hosting ghost hunting shows and interviews with mediums, the paranormal was “hot” at the minute and it seemed, from her vantage point anyway, that these days it was more couth to share a ghost story than to admit you didn’t believe in them. Almost like a reverse Salem witch trial.
With a “Real Housewives of Atlanta” marathon on, Taryn settled into the rocking chair by the window in her room and booted up her laptop. She was probably going to lose some brain cells, but she’d always thought it was best to mix up the worries of the day with something brain-numbing and mindless and there was nothing that did it better than listening to women she didn’t know screaming at each other in posh settings.
Griffith Tavern (Taryn's Camera Book 2) Page 8