Windwood Farm (Taryn's Camera) by Rebecca Patrick-Howard

make everything , so it’s all okay. Well, except for anything with fruit. That usually comes in a can unless it’s summer, like now. I like the pancakes myself.”
    Handing her back the menu, Taryn nodded. “I’ll take those then. And some sausage. And hey, are you from around here?”
    “All my life, why?”
    Taking a moment, Taryn described the house she was in town for. “Let me go put your order in and I’ll be right back.”
    The restaurant was empty and she busied herself going through the pictures on her digital camera, still marveling at the images that shouldn’t be there, until the waitress came back. Sliding into the seat across from her, she leaned into Taryn and started chatting. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”
    “I didn’t know anywhere still let you do that .”
    “Well, they don’t,” she said. “But nobody around here says anything or cares.”
    Taryn waited patiently while her waitress sat back and blew a few puffs, the white rings drifting off into the aisle and floating toward the empty counter. The sounds of dishes and silverware rattling back in the kitchen were the only noises in the otherwise quiet room. She must have missed the lunch crowd.
    “I know the house, of course. Everyone does. It’s kind of the town haunted house, if you know what I mean. Some people called it ‘the Devil’s house’ growing up or just ‘the stone gate to hell’ because the gate out front is made of stone. Well, you know. We used to dare each other to go in there as kids. As teenagers, really. I’m Tammy, by the way.”
    “Taryn.”
    “Nice to meet you,” she smiled, revealing her braces again. “Why you asking about the old place? You thinking of poking around in it?”
    “Well, actually, I’m working there for a while,” Taryn explained. “I’ve already poked.” She took a few minutes and explained what she was doing and then laughed when Tammy shuddered.
    “Better you than me, girlfriend, better you than me.” When Tammy smiled , her face lit up and she possessed the kind of easygoing all-American beauty that Taryn envied. Even in her waitress uniform and braces, she managed to be pretty and perky. In contrast, Taryn still felt tired and haggard and her wrinkled khaki capris and buttoned-down western shirt (a size too big) made her feel dowdy.
    “You ever go in there?” she asked, sensing a story waiting to be told.
    “Once,” Tammy answered conspiratorially. “But never any further than the kitchen. I was with my boyfriend at the time. We were sophomores. He’d just gotten his license, you know? Second day. It was the Friday after Thanksgiving and it was kind of cold like. There was a group of us and everyone else was poking around the property. Smoking, walking around. Just being kids, really. We decided to go in the house. Nobody else would. Lots of stories about that place, you know? Everyone daring everyone else to go in, but not too many people really did it. Anyway, we were going to be all brave and do it. So we walked up to the door, my boyfriend being all macho, and he pushed it in. We stepped inside and he pulled out the flashlight. He goes in first. It is dead quiet. Steps in, looks around. Says it’s okay. I go in. He’s all the way in the other room by the time I go inside. I’m halfway through the kitchen when he starts running back through the house and he’s out the door. I have no idea why so I just stand there, kind of frozen like. Then I saw it. Well, first I heard it.” Tammy shivered at the memory and snuffed out her cigarette into a saucer.
    “What was it?” Without realizing it, Taryn leaned forward.
    “A cry. It was the longest, saddest cry I’d ever heard in my life,” Tammy whispered. “It came from upstairs. A woman. Well, a girl, really. Maybe my age. Like it was just breaking your heart. It shook the whole house. I felt it all the way down to my toes. I knew that cry. I’ve cried like that myself when my own heart was breaking. You