Dark Hollow Road (Taryn's Camera Book 3) (4 page)

“
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.

T
aryn 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 couple, 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.”

“And an urban explorer.” The statement came from a petite redhead with a long, peasant skirt and a leather jacket. She smiled shyly at Taryn when she looked at her. “I’m sorry. I Googled you.”

“I’m not as much of an urbex as I used to be,” Taryn admitted. “The cost of gas and too many spiders put a stop to that. But I do love exploring old buildings and taking pictures. I like to imagine what a place used to look like, before it became neglected. That’s why I went into this job.”

The redhead smiled in agreement. “Me too. That’s why I signed up for your class. I love your photography, especially the pictures of the old mental institution up in Danvers.”

Taryn noticed other students making notes now.
Great
, she thought wryly.
Now they’re all going to go home and Google me for sure.

The hour and a half passed by faster than she’d expected. Most of the students came up to her afterwards and welcomed her to the college. The redhead was the last to leave and held back a little, waiting for everyone else to leave the room.

“Hi,” she offered hesitantly as she made her way up to Taryn. “I’m Emma. I’m an Appalachian Studies major here. I just wanted to introduce myself and say how much I’m looking forward to this.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Emma,” Taryn replied, a little thrilled someone was excited about actually coming to hear her talk. “Do you enjoy painting?”

“I dabble in it a little. I’m not that good,” Emma laughed, “but it’s therapeutic. To be honest, I’m here because of your…” Emma let her sentence drop as her face flushed red and she looked down at her scuffed boots.

“My what?”

Emma shrugged, her thin shoulders small in the heavy jacket. “Because of what happened to you in Indiana. I saw it in a chatroom. I’m sorry, I know you probably don’t want to talk about it, but I think it’s amazing.”

“Oh.” Feeling awkward now, Taryn perched on the edge of her desk. “Well, I don’t know what to say. I mean, I don’t know if I did that much. I was just kind of there, you know?”

“With your camera,” Emma nodded. “It must be wonderful to see the past through it like that.”

“Sometimes,” Taryn admitted sardonically. “But I don’t seem to have much control over it.” She thought about the night before–the smoke, the scream.

“It’s not just because of the ghost stuff,” Emma continued in a hurry. “I also love old houses, exploring, and what you do is amazing. I mean, your actual work is amazing. So I couldn’t pass up this opportunity.”

“Well, I’m glad to have you, whatever brought you here,” Taryn resounded warmly. She
felt
awkward, but Emma looked it, and she didn’t want her to be uncomfortable. “Can we kind of keep what happened between the two of us, though? For now?”

“Yeah, yeah, no problem. I understand. See you Thursday!”

Taryn was left alone in the quiet classroom, the circle of desks staring at her.

M
att prepared a “first day of school” feast for her back at the cabin. It consisted of her favorite foods: mashed potatoes, macaroni and tomato juice, salmon patties, and peanut butter pie. She was going to gain forty pounds if she continued to eat like that, though. She’d have to cut him off at some point.

Sitting around the fireplace afterwards, her feet in his lap so he could thoroughly rubbed every inch of them, they talked about their days. Or rather he talked and she tried to respond, as waves of relaxation coursed through her feet and legs pulling the thoughts right out of her brain. “It’s a nice town,” he concluded. “Small, not a lot there other than the college and a few stores, but you can tell it used to be really something. I saw a couple of old homes you’re going to want to go back to and take pictures of. I made notes.”

“I hope,” she gasped out the words as he ran his thumb down the middle of her sole, “you’re not going to be,” she reached again as he massaged the center carefully, “too bored hanging around here while I work,” she finally finished somewhat discomfited at his effect on her ability to talk coherently. “

I’ll be fine,” he declared with a wave of his hand. “I do have to go back next week for two nights and when I do I’ll pick up some more books for myself. Get my marble slab.”

“What’s that for? You planning on whacking somebody in the head?”

He looked as her like she’d grown two heads. “To make candy,” he sputtered.

“Oh, uh, yeah…”

For nearly an hour they sat without talking, the radio set to an oldies channel, both reading their own books (his:
The Forever War
, hers:
Flowers in the Attic
) and enjoying the warmth from the fire. It was cozy and intimate, and Taryn’s belly was still full from supper. She had no reason to feel insecure or unsettled. Yet, she did.

“Something’s wrong,” she declared after a while, looking up from her book. It was the same statement she’d made on their first night but it hadn’t gone away. She’d read the same paragraph half a dozen times, not a big deal since she practically had the book memorized, before she’d given up on it.