Taryn's Camera: Beginnings: Four Haunting Novellas Read online

  Too many people out walking the path this early in the morning, she thought with annoyance. “Go back to bed, you’re on vacation,” she whispered.

  Susan wasn't sure why they got up so damn early. Some were pushing fancy baby carriages, the kind that cost more than her first car. Susan felt a little pang every time she saw one, that little reminder that she was no longer a mother, not really, and might have missed her opportunity to be a good one.

  While they waited for their biscuits, Susan gently sipped on her coffee, trying to quieten the rumblings in her belly. Some of the little ones, must have been on the new wife's side of the family, were screeching and throwing food at each other. Susan couldn't stand that. She liked children, as long as they were well-behaved and didn't make a fuss, but these were too much.

  “You took off last night, Auntie,” Lucy said, but she wasn't scolding her.

  “I needed to get away,” Susan said, raising her voice over the racket. The park's dining room had won awards for its food but they couldn’t do anything about the screaming kids and the good acoustics certainly didn’t help. She would have rather been back in her bed.

  “I don't blame you. I almost took off myself. By the way, you have something on you.”

  “Oh?” Susan jumped a little, thinking it was a bug. She didn't like bugs.

  Lucy was reaching towards her back, though, and grasping at something that seemed to be stuck to her dress. “Here,” she said, presenting her with a red square. It was a large piece of cotton, soft as rain.

  “Where on earth did that come from?” Susan asked in bewilderment.

  “Maybe got stuck to your dress in the dryer?” Lucy suggested. “I walked around the store for two hours once with a pair of underwear stuck to the back of my leg.”

  “Maybe...” Susan answered dubiously. But she didn't think she owned anything like that. “Well, it's pretty. I'll just stick it in my purse I guess.”

  THE REST OF THE FAMILY had planned a boat ride down the Kentucky River. Susan had planned on going with them but after seeing the mess the children made with their breakfasts and listening to all the senseless chatter about politics and doctors (the only two things old people ever wanted to talk about) from the adults, she didn't think she could take another minute.

  “I've got to get back up to the store for a few hours,” Lucy apologized, excusing herself from the table.

  “Quitter,” Susan whispered and Lucy flashed her a smile.

  For once, Susan was able to play the age card and bowed out without making a scene. “You know,” she wheezed pitifully, “last night I must have just overdid it. I better get back and take me a little nap.”

  They all showed an appropriate amount of concern for her welfare but she didn't think any of them actually cared. One of the men offered to walk her back to her room but she politely declined. She was going to take it easy getting there, she promised them all, and she'd be right as rain in a few hours. After agreeing to meet up with everyone for an organized tour of the farm later she skirted off, making sure to add a little limp to her walk for effect.

  Susan wasn't planning on it, but she found her way back to the pond again. She was feeling better being out there in the fresh air and nothing really hurt, not like she'd carried on about. Tracing the man's steps from the night before, if there'd even been a man at all, she stood by the water's edge and gazed out at it. She had seen him, hadn't she? She wasn't losing her mind? And he had disappeared. What was he doing? What was he holding? She shivered just thinking about it.

  A cry caught her ear now, a shrill sound. It was the squall of a baby. She knew that sound, had heard it enough herself when her baby was a baby.

  There it was again, shrill and nervous. Sounded like a newborn to her, mad as hell at being yanked out of the place it knew as home. It was so close, too.

  Smiling, she turned, expecting to see a new, harried-looking mother perched on the bench, trying to juggle a bottle and a baby. But there was nothing. Not a soul for as far as she could see. Still, the baby cried once, then twice. It seemed to be coming from all directions. And then there was another sound, a gasping sound. The crying was weaker, fading, and then stopped.

  Frantic, Susan began to run. The baby was in trouble! Where was it? She climbed to the top of the rise and looked around but could see nothing but grouse waddling in the path. There was no baby, no mother, no carriage. She really was losing her mind.

  Shaking, Susan returned to the pond but something bright caught her eye. On the bench under the maple tree, a piece of cloth fluttered in the light breeze. It was bright and sunny yellow– a piece of a baby blanket perhaps, no bigger than her hand.

  Kneeling, she tugged it free from the nail it was caught on and studied it. Three times today she'd found the fabric. What did it mean? She wasn't sure but Susan was unsettled in a way she'd never been before. Sighing, she stuffed the cloth in her purse along with the one from the restaurant.

  A NAP WAS EXACTLY what she needed.

  In the cool quiet of her room Susan stretched out on the comfortable bed and closed her eyes. The Shaker furniture, with its clean lines, and the almost Spartan feel to her surroundings helped ease her. Her mind was usually full of clutter. Susan let herself fall into a comfortable slumber, neither fully asleep nor fully awake, and felt her body gently release from the pressure and stress of the weekend.

  At first, she thought it was a dream. The footsteps in her room were heavy, purposeful. Susan’s husband had passed on ten years earlier but she knew a man's footsteps when she heard them, just as she knew when one was on a tear.

  This one paced back and forth, troubled. The air changed just a fraction, got a little chillier, a little heavier. She cracked open one eye and gazed around her; the shadowy figure who stood at her window was tall and well-built. It was the same man she'd seen the night before.

  Closing her eyes again, Susan took a deep breath and counted to ten.

  I am asleep, that is all, she thought. Asleep and dreaming.

  But then the crying started up. The baby was in distress. The cry echoed throughout the room, came from under her bed, out of her wardrobe, inside the mattress underneath her. The soft whimpers of the infant filled the air, cutting her down to the quick. The utter helplessness she felt at not being able to go to the tiny one was overwhelming and almost more than she could bear. Susan yearned to reach out, hold it, gently rock it back and forth, and soothe its cries. It had been so long since something or someone depended on her. So long since she'd cared for anything other than herself. That she could die and it wouldn't matter to anyone– that the world would keep on turning because nobody truly needed her or depended on her, was awful.

  Tears began rolling down Susan's wrinkled cheeks, pooling under her head and soaking her pillow. She wanted to get up and move, wake herself up, but she was rooted to the mattress.

  And then the man's voice. “Breathe,” he whispered urgently. “Breathe!” But the baby's whimpering had stopped and the room was quiet once again.

  SUSAN COULDN’T STOP SHAKING. She was glad she'd picked up smoking. It gave her something to do and was a lot easier on her stomach than drinking. She made it through the rest of the day without incident but was jumpier than a frog on a school playground. Every time a child screeched or a baby cried she would startle, whipping her head around in a panic to make sure they were really there. She was sure the rest of the family thought she was off her blood pressure medication or in the early stages of dementia. And maybe she was, going crazy that is.

  The tour of the park, and dinner that evening, were long but uneventful. She smiled and cracked the jokes people expected of her and stood on the steps for what seemed like forever while everyone lined up to take pictures with the historical relic (that would be her). But it all seemed fairly normal.

  After dessert had been cleared away and the men stepped outside to talk basketball and smoke (if only she could join them without causing a scene) Lucy leaned over to her. “You okay, Aun
tie?” she asked softly.

  Susan, who had been lost in thought, jumped a little. “I'm fine. Just tired I think. I'm going to head back.”

  “I’ll walk with you,” Lucy said. “I need some air myself. And a break.”

  They said their goodnights and headed out into the night, neither one saying much. It was Susan who broke the silence.

  “Lucy, I think I might be going crazy,” she admitted. She stopped in the middle of the gravel path and gazed up ahead of them, in the direction of the pond.

  “Why? What's the matter?” Lucy looked curious, but not overly concerned. She was used to her aunt being a little eccentric and sometimes overly dramatic. It's why she liked her.

  Lighting up one of her Virginia Slims, Susan sighed and began talking, alternating her words with quick, short puffs of smoke. She quickly told Lucy about the man at the pond, the figure in her room, the baby cries, the pieces of cloth she kept finding...Lucy listened with interest, letting Susan finish before asking any questions.

  “I think that about covers it. I don't even believe in ghosts, not much at least. I've certainly never seen one,” Susan insisted, “but I can't deny what's going on. You think I'm nutso?”

  “I do believe in ghosts, Auntie, and I totally believe in what you're seeing,” Lucy assured her. “Do you think the man killed the baby? Threw it in the pond perhaps?”

  Susan shuddered, the image dreadful. “Oh, I wondered that at first but I don't think so. I think he was...trying to save it,” she said at last. “And despite the fact I was startled and a little nervous, he didn't seem like a scary figure.”

  Lucy nodded, considering.

  “Why me?” Susan asked. “Why am I the one seeing this?”

  Lucy shrugged. “Maybe he feels a connection to you. Maybe it's your maternal instinct.”

  “Maternal,” Susan snorted. “I wasn't that maternal when I had a child. You wouldn't believe the things that go through my head when I see kids these days. I can barely be in the same room with them when I eat.” But she thought of that baby crying, her desire to hold it and soothe it, and she softened. Maybe it was just getting older but she felt different these days.

  “You have a different kind of maternal instinct,” Lucy said. “You care about people, you worry about them. You fret, I guess is a good word. Maybe he feels that.”

  Susan nodded. Maybe her niece was right. She wished she was more motherly, like the women she saw in movies or in magazines. There were pieces of her son's life she'd felt like she'd missed out on, either because she was too busy working or just didn't feel like it. Other mothers had volunteered for Boy Scouts, gone on camp outs, baked scores of cookies for the PTO bake sale...Susan had never been that kind of mother. Her “me time” had been important to her. In a time when women were just starting to get their feet wet in the “women's movement” Susan had dove right in headfirst. She'd marched, rallied, and staged sit-ins. She'd worn her miniskirts, burned her bras, and even spent the night in jail. But she didn't let Steven have sleepovers because all those kids made her nervous.

  She had been a good mother, though. She always listened to him, treated him like an equal almost. He never did without. She'd taken him to museums, out for ice cream, on fabulous vacations to the beach and amusement parks–mostly because she liked the rollercoasters as much as he did. But when he needed help with his homework she'd hired him a tutor so that she could have the evenings free to work on her paintings (one of her hobbies) or watch her evening shows.

  She often wondered what their lives would've been like if she had those missing pieces, the pieces other mothers seemed to possess without effort.

  “I want to see the pond,” Lucy said, interrupting her thoughts.

  Susan marched on, leading the way, feeling braver with Lucy at her side. Lucy was a slight woman, a little athletic, but no more than five feet tall. Still, she was tougher than most men Susan knew. She'd seen Lucy tear out fireplace mantles in antebellum houses, remove a window without breaking the glass, and pick up a birdbath like it didn't weigh a thing.

  It was starting to sprinkle so the pond wasn't as calm as it had been the night before, or even earlier that day. The water was angrily lapping up against the sides, trying to break free of its containment, and the ducks were huddled in a corner under a tree, watching it warily and ruffling their feathers in their sleep.

  “It looks okay now, if just a little spooky,” Lucy murmured. Susan didn't think it looked “okay” at all but she kept her mouth shut.

  They couldn't have stayed more than a couple of minutes but Susan was already feeling chilled to the bone, the night air seeping through her light jacket and digging into her bones. Something didn't feel right. A nagging feeling clawed at the back of her neck, making the tiny hairs rise. She could feel her stomach tying up in knots and was afraid she'd lose control of her bowels if she stayed there any longer. She was uneasy about something she couldn't put her finger on.

  “Come on,” she said lightly, tugging Lucy on the sleeve. “This old woman is tired and ready for bed.”

  As they turned around and began walking through the wet grass, however, the noise began again. It was the unmistakable sound of a baby crying weakly, only this time a woman's sobs were mixed in with it to the point where Susan had difficulty telling one apart from the other. “Oh!” she cried in alarm, grasping Lucy tighter and shrinking into her. “There! You hear?!”

  But it was obvious from the look on Lucy's face that she was listening to it as well.

  On and on the baby cried, getting weaker and weaker until the sound was muffled out and both women were left in the quiet, nothing but the ragged sounds of their breathing disrupting the darkness. Lucy was shaking and Susan was stone cold. The feeling of unease wasn't gone yet so she didn't move; instead, she stood still and waited with baited breath, not sure she wanted to see what was to come.

  It didn't take long for the figure to appear over the rise again. He was there, moving slowly but with intent, the bundle in his arms. He carried it carefully, his face lost in the shadows but the bundle was outlined by the lanterns behind him. He didn't see either woman as he walked towards them, moving like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders. He came within six inches of Susan and Lucy, looking straight ahead. Up close, Susan could see a handsome face lined by brown curls. A cloak was pulled around his neck and his mouth was firm, grim.

  They watched him stop at the edge of the water, the bundle in his hands. From the little hand that peeked out from under the cloth it was wrapped in, it was obvious then that it was an infant.

  As the women watched in horror, the man opened his mouth and with a sound Susan would take to the grave with her, let out a cry of despair that had the ducks flapping into the darkness.

  THE BABY CONTINUED TO HAUNT SUSAN. She woke up again to its cries, so distinct that in her dream state she actually got up and began looking for a bottle in her sleep, despite the fact it had been more than forty years since she'd had that particular chore.

  She heard it on her way to breakfast on her last morning, right before she nearly tripped over the green cloth stuck in the ground in front of the restaurant door.

  It followed her through the Centre Family Dwelling on the last part of her tour and echoed through the meetinghouse while she waited for the re-enactor to start her singing.

  SUSAN COULD NOT LOSE THE BABY; it wouldn't let her go.

  She began mourning for her own son, her lost child. The man she knew now as an adult was a completely different person from the baby she'd burped on her knee, planted flowers with in front of their house, watched as he climbed a tree. Pieces of her life with him floated before her eyes each time she heard the baby cry. Pieces of what she had been, of a life that no longer existed. Slowly they came back to her, settling her into a melancholy that sank her deeper and deeper into depression. Had she been a terrible mother? Could she rectify her past? There was never enough time, had never been enough of anything–enough money, enough house
, enough work, enough energy...He'd only had pieces of her as well.

  She'd thought she was content, was happy with her life. But now she knew she was not. By keeping so much of herself away from him, she'd lost something. There was a part of her gone that she hadn't even known was missing.

  THE BABY CONTINUED TO CRY, to gasp, to sigh. She couldn't help it and it was tearing her apart.

  ON THE MORNING SHE PACKED, Susan was astounded to discover she'd gathered more than eighteen pieces of material, material she'd picked up all over the park. Some looked antique, others were cheap polyester and obviously modern. They burned her hands and wouldn't let her go.

  She thought she'd do better at home. After all, it was her own turf. She'd always felt safe in her little shotgun house. It was cluttered, but had all her stuff and she liked being surrounded by her things. On her first night home she unpacked her suitcase, placing all the material scraps in a basket. This, she set by the fireplace (it didn't work but she thought it was pretty). Then she settled into her recliner to watch “7th Heaven.”

  And the baby cried.

  AT 3:00 AM, SUSAN AWOKE, panicked. Where was the baby? What was she doing, sleeping? The baby needed her. The mewling continued, feeling her with guilt. How could she possibly sleep with such a racket? Didn't it know that she needed her rest? She'd never wanted to be a mother in the first place. She wanted to be an artist! It was her husband who'd wanted the baby; he'd pressured her. She didn't like being pregnant, didn't bond with it after it was born. And now it was keeping her awake.

  Susan realized then that the baby wasn't hers. It was the ghost baby again. It had followed her.

  Weeping, Susan turned over in the bed and buried her face in the pillow. Was this her penance for not being a whole mother? For not giving enough to her family?