Shaker Town (Taryn's Camera Book 4) Read online

  Shaker Town

  Book 4 in Taryn's Camera

  Rebecca Patrick-Howard

  "Oh mother, mother, make my bed

  Make it soft and narrow

  Sweet William died, for love of me,

  And I shall of sorrow."

  -Barbara Allen, traditional folk song

  “Though sad fate our lives may sever

  Parting will not last forever,

  There's a hope that leaves me never,

  All through the night.”

  - All Through the Night, traditional folk song

  “Sweet spirits do surround us now

  I feel them gathering near.

  I can perceive their lowly bow

  And hear their heavenly cheer.”

  -Celestial Choir, Anonymous

  “Clean your room well; for good spirits will not live where there is dirt.”- Mother Ann, Shaker founder

  Want MORE from this book? Read all the way to the end for a FREE companion short story!

  Prologue

  The water below was brown and muddy, swollen from the rain the night before. It rose above the creek bank and lapped at the poplar and spruce trees, threatening to drag them down to its murky depths. Off in the distance the bees buzzed furiously, awake and busy after a long winter. Clusters of daffodils grew in the sunny spots, their bright yellow faces peeping up from the brown, neglected clumps of dirt.

  The sobs that escaped from parched lips were dry now, beaten. Most of the tears were long gone and what were left were raspy and slid down cheeks, red and chapped from the salt and wind. It was difficult to believe a person could have anything left after spending most of the night in sorrow.

  Loose branches had torn at clothes, leaving them hanging from the body in shreds in some places. A small puddle of blood pooled on the ground and dried, staining the earth with its vulgar shade of red.

  They would be coming soon; someone would be there to coax the lost soul back. There would be murmuring, praying, but very little nurturing. What happened when the person was beyond redemption? Beyond saving?

  There, caught in the spring breeze, was the light trickle of voices–mostly men. They would be irritated to leave their work, to search for someone who didn’t want to be found. But it was their duty and they’d see to it.

  There wasn’t much time now.

  The rocks were heavy and caused tired hands to ache. But they weren’t as heavy as the stones in the pocket. Those were the important ones.

  Up on the ridge, in the tree line, the voices grew closer. Now the outline of bodies was visible. They’d be there soon, just as soon as they caught the quick flash of fabric in the naked tree branches.

  Before another voice could call out, the world disappeared in a flurry and there was nothing but the feeling of soaring through the air, like the bird who sought a taste of freedom. And then, the pull of the water–sweet, dark, and cold.

  Chapter 1

  The spring air was delicious; Taryn could almost taste the newness. After a bitter, solid winter her skin preened in the morning sunlight as a light breeze ruffled her hair and softly lifted it off her neck. Despite her slight misgivings about returning to an area where she’d almost been murdered, she found herself surprisingly elated at being back in central Kentucky again.

  Her suitcase’s wheels didn’t care for the gravel road, and pulling it across the stones was almost as hard as actually lifting it up and carrying it. A matching pink carry-on bag was slung over one shoulder while her laptop case and purse were balanced on the other side. Her shoulders and back were already aching and she’d pay for that later. She couldn’t park very close to her room, however and unless she wanted to make several trips she’d have to grin and bear it–or at least bear it.

  Shaker Town was officially called Shaker Village of Pleasant Hill but most people shortened it. All the Shakers were gone now, having dissipated for the most part in the early 20th century, but the park had been restored and re-enactors led tourists through the historical buildings. The Shakers, formally known as the United Society of Believers in Christ's Second Appearing were a mysterious lot, with their loud and eventful worship services, strong work ethic, and tidiness. What set them apart from other religious groups, however, was their unwillingness to either engage in sexual activity or have children–they gained new members through recruiting techniques. And who wouldn’t have wanted to live with them in the nineteenth century? In a period when times were tough, the Shakers offered stout, well-made buildings, three full meals a day, heat, and work.

  You just had to move in accepting the fact that your husband was now your brother.

  Taryn was going to be in Shaker Town for a month and was looking forward to every single night. One of the original dormitories and shops had been converted into a small lodging building and she had a semi-suite, complete with small sitting room and large bedroom. Although it included the Shaker-style chairs, bed, and pegs on the wall in which to hang things to keep them organized, it had also been upgraded to include Wi-fi, satellite television, and an iPod charger.

  Best of all, she got to eat in the park's restaurant three times a day–for free! She could already taste the mashed potatoes, green beans, homemade rolls, and pie. Pie. Lots of pie. Now, as she lugged her bags up the stairs to the second floor, she was hungry.

  The winter was a confusing season for Taryn. She’d spent part of it in Florida with her longtime best friend and sort-of boyfriend Matt, the rest in Nashville at her dinky little apartment. It wasn’t much, sure, but it was home and she’d actually enjoyed putting up her sad little fake Christmas tree, tacking stockings on the wall that she filled for herself with things from her favorite stores, and hanging garland over everything that didn’t move. She’d inherited all of her parents and grandmother’s Christmas decorations and usually just stuck with those, but this year she’d gone to Target and actually bought new ones. On a small table-top tree in her bedroom she’d put up a “themed” tree and hung little snowmen on it. She liked sleeping in her room with the Christmas lights on at night, fire hazard be damned, and was thinking about turning it into one of those primitive trees and just keeping it up year-round. People did that, right? She was almost sure she’d seen it done before.

  Matt had wanted her to stay with him in Florida. “Give up your apartment,” he’d pleaded with her. “It’s just a stopover point for you. You’re hardly ever even there anyway.”

  And he wasn’t wrong. It was true that she was rarely home and just used it as a base. But still… it was hers. All her life she’d mostly lived with someone else–first her parents, then her husband, and then with a slab of grief so powerful it might as well have been another person. Now that those things were gone, or fading as it may be, she was ready to get on her own two feet and try it alone. She’d tried to explain that to Matt but she didn’t think he’d understood. He'd looked hurt and confused but, in typical Matt fashion, hadn't shown it. Instead, he'd quickly changed the subject and began talking about a recipe for rhubarb pie he'd found online.

  At any rate, she was there now. In Shaker Town. Her suitcase unpacked, the toiletries and makeup from her carry-on bag littering the bathroom sink, and her laptop charging she grabbed Miss Dixie (her Nikon), threw on a light jacket, and stuck the room key in her pocket.

  It was time to go exploring.

  Upon checking in, she’d been met by the park curator, a tall willowy man in his sixties by the name of Virgil Bailey. He proudly proclaimed he’d been at the park for more than thirty years; he’d started there as a demonstrator in the main building and could still make butter in a pinch. Although his pallor was gray and his hands thin and bony, the Ich
abod Crane thing he had going on was offset by his jovial smile and warm eyes. The general manager was a vibrant brunette in her thirties. Just a year or two older than herself, she gave Taryn a hurried background of her museum qualifications, boasting that she’d first worked at neighboring White Hall State Historic Site in Madison County as curator and then moved up to Shaker Town the year before. “They needed someone young and fresh,” she murmured, but stated it loudly enough so that Virgil heard her and shrugged.

  Carol confessed that before taking the job she knew little about the Shakers. “You probably know more than I did when I started,” she quipped as they strolled along the sidewalk to the site she'd be painting. “I read your dissertation on them. All I knew when I started here was that they were loud and couldn’t have sex.”

  Well, that was one way of putting it.

  “So what do you think now?” Taryn asked, genuinely interested in the young woman’s take on a religious group she, herself, had been fascinated with since childhood.

  Carol shrugged, her bobbed hair dancing in the breeze. “Pretty much the same thing. Oh, there’s more to it, of course. They were hard workers, industrious, inventive people. Very passionate in a controlled kind of way. I would’ve been tempted to join them myself. But I wouldn’t have,” she added hastily. “I love my husband and kids too much.”

  “It is interesting that when whole families joined, if one of the members was to leave it was usually the woman,” Taryn admitted. “You’d think it would be the man, unable to hack it without sex and intimacy but it was generally the women who couldn’t stay.”

  “Probably because they couldn’t take being separated from their children, you think?” Carol asked. “Because once they joined, their kids became kind of the group’s kids and not their own anymore. And their male kids were taken from them altogether.”

  “I think that might be part of it,” Taryn agreed. Of course, she didn’t have children of her own but she could just imagine showing up and having her babies almost ripped from her arms, all in the name of God. The idea was horrifying on a primal level that Taryn didn’t really understand.

  The park was peaceful that early in the morning, an hour before the official opening time. The April sun was bright and cheerful and washed everything with a fresh cleanliness that made it difficult to remember the dingy, gray winter that had just recently passed over. Up ahead Taryn could hear the braying of the goats and sheep and off in a field a costumed man was hooking up a horse and wagon, getting them ready for the rides they’d give to tourists. A few stray chickens wandered into the road, saw the small group walking towards them, and tottered off again clucking their disapproval.

  The park was kept exceptionally clean, organized, and well-maintained. Beautiful landscaping boasted flowers, perfectly groomed shrubbery, small gardens, and shade trees with comfortable benches parked under them along the path. The grass was evenly mowed, the fields freshly cut, and the trees perfectly trimmed. The Shakers would’ve kept it the same way in their day. They believed in keeping everything neat, tidy, and maintained. All belongings had a place, hence the pegs in the wall that kept everything from ladder-back chairs to dresses off the floor. They relied on built-ins when they could to keep their surface areas at a minimum. Their heavy furniture was well-made, solid, and plain and still coveted today. They’d perfected the straw broom design that could still be found in your local Target and Walmart. She was sure they would’ve appreciated the effort the park workers went to to keep up the appearance of the grounds today, although they might have been aghast at the tourists with their blue jeans, flip flops, and pajama bottoms. Taryn, for instance, was wearing a skirt that showed off her calves and a short-sleeved shirt that dipped low enough in the front to show the tiniest bit of cleavage. Scandalous.

  “So here’s where you’ll mainly be working,” Carol pointed as they came to a stop in a meadow. Here, there were three buildings in various states of repair. The largest was only one story, but the brick structure fanned out in a large rectangle and looked as though it had once held several rooms. The roof was currently caved in on one side, the windows completely gone, and the entire left side of the building was flattened. It looked as though it had been burnt in a fire. Two smaller buildings flanked it, also brick, although the one to the right was barely more than a pile of rubble. The whole section was cordoned off with rope and the grass inside was thigh-high and unruly.

  “Kind of an eyesore right now, huh?” Virgil chuckled, sticking his hands in his pockets.

  “So tell me what I’m looking at,” Taryn prodded. “Other than a few buildings.”

  Of course, they’d already told her what she would be painting when she took the job but now that she was seeing the site in person, she needed to hear it again.

  “So that one in the middle,” Carol pointed, “was the school. It was intact, up to about a year ago, and then lightning struck it. It’s taken us this long to procure funding to get it fixed. Insurance would only cover so much. Even before it was destroyed, though, it was never historically accurate. It wasn't in much better shape when the state took over in the sixties and there wasn’t a lot of research done to recreate it. So what we want is something that looks good and is accurate to the time period.”

  “That little ‘un there to the right, it’s never been fixed,” Virgil pressed on. “It was a weaving building, a ‘loom room,’ if you will.”

  Taryn smiled as he raised his eyebrows at her and wagged them.

  “We’d love to get it fixed and have a demonstrator in there with their loom, making things for the gift shop,” Carol agreed. “We have one now, but she’s in the main building. You know those looms take up a lot of space and she needs it. She needs somewhere she can spread out with everything. It would make an excellent addition to the park.”

  “And that other one?” Taryn asked.

  “Just a dry house,” Virgil shrugged. “Nothing much. But it’s an eyesore and we might as well renovate. Getting it done would mean every single building on the grounds has been improved and is historically accurate. We’d be the only one in the country that has that.”

  “So we’re talking recreating the buildings–“

  “Inside and out,” Carol interjected.

  “Right. Inside and out. As well as the landscaping?” Taryn prodded.

  “Yep,” Virgil wagged his head emphatically. “We want to see the whole picture. Give the architect and landscaper something to work with and maybe even hang the painting up in the dining room. Use it for postcards even. The school was one of the most important parts of the place,” he confided. “It’s a pity it’s in ruins.”

  “I’ll do it,” Taryn smiled. “And you can use it for your postcards, if you want. I have to say, too,” she added with honesty, “that I am looking forward to this job more than anything else I’ve ever done. It’s almost a dream come true.”

  Both Carol and Virgil nodded in unison–something they both apparently agreed upon. Taryn studied them now, standing in front of them with their backs to the sun. And she wondered if she was the only one who could all but smell the acrid scent of diabolical darkness that permeated the tranquil, well-maintained grounds and spring-fresh sky.

  Now that she was alone and able to wander on her own accord, Taryn had more time to gather her thoughts and explore. She'd been there before, of course, as well as to some of the other Shaker villages, but she was looking at it through different eyes this time, an artist's eyes. She wasn't researching the religious aspect of the order like she did for her dissertation or simply there to enjoy a weekend away (like she and Andrew had done a month before his fatal accident) but was there to work. Her paintings would be faithful reproductions of the original structures and these would help the architects and builders. They'd also be works of art to be reproduced and sold on a smaller scale. It was a big job and Taryn was honored to have won the bid for it. She'd worked hard at getting them to take her seriously, something that was becoming increasingly dif
ficult thanks to the attention she was getting for her...forays with the paranormal. She'd Googled her name last week on a whim and wouldn't be doing that again–there had been more than fifty websites of forums and blogs all commenting on her supernatural skills with her camera and speculating her findings. It had really freaked her to be talked about in that manner–something she had no control over.

  Now she was almost giddy at the thought of being able to live there for a month, working around the old buildings and history. Her heart thumping wildly in her chest, her belly fluttering–she was like a little kid at Christmas. This was her element. She'd babbled to Matt on the phone the night before, overcome with excitement at the thought of waking up every morning and being in a place she already loved. Matt had listened to her with patience, letting her ramble, but she knew the idea was lost on him. He wasn't a history person, had only indulged her all these years and been her chauffeur during their old-house expeditions because he adored her, and had no real understanding of what it was like to gaze upon a structure from the past and visualize the life it used to have. Although he could quote Star Wars, all six films, verbatim.

  There were nearly forty buildings in all including a poultry house, laundry shop, tannery, dairy, barns, private dwellings and, of course, the meeting house. The dwellings and meeting house were perhaps the most important structures of all, at least as far as the tourists were concerned, and these were the first to be renovated. Before their renovations they'd served other purposes; for awhile the meeting house had been a mechanic's garage, something that made Taryn shudder. Those poor floors...

  There were smaller dwellings, located on opposite sides of the village–one for the men and one for the women. They were tall, spacious structures with wide corridors and dormitory-style rooms. (Guests could also stay above the restaurant but she'd never been in those rooms.)