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

know when you’ve had a breakup or felt like nobody loved you and your world was ending?” Tammy stopped talking and waited for Taryn to concede.
    Not knowing quite how to answer, Taryn glanced down at the table and fiddled with her straw wrapper. “I know what you’re talking about. Hey, I was a teenager once, right?” She said the last part hurriedly, hoping Tammy would continue. She did.
    “ I heard that and wanted to cry along with her. I couldn’t move. But then I did move because right after that, this figure appeared in the kitchen door. It was solid black and it wanted me. Don’t ask me how I knew—I just did. It was coming for me. It felt evil. You know what I mean? I turned and ran out of that house as fast as I could but I could feel it watching me all the way to the car. I will never forget it.”
    Tammy shivered again and rolled her eyes. “Sometimes, in my sleep, I still hear that cry. You know, the shadow, the evil thing? It bothered me, it scared me. But it was that cry, it was that sound that still bothers me. I’ll never forget it as long as I live. I still don’t know what my boyfriend saw. He won’t talk about it.”
    She gazed absently out the window at the passing cars and Taryn studied her. She had no reason to doubt her story, especially since it rang familiar. In fact, Taryn figured most people believed in the stories they told you, and there was a little grain of truth in everything.
    The two women sat in companionable silence for a few moments, each one last in their own thoughts. A bell at the window rang and Tammy jumped up and brought Taryn’s pancakes to her. “There are others in town that might be able to tell you their own stories. There has been stories about that place for years, ever since my mom was a little girl.”
    “Did anything happen there? I mean, is there a story? Did anyone die?”
    “Not that I know of,” Tammy replied. “I mean, not tragically or anything. Just old age and stuff like that. But I can talk to my grandma. She knows most of that stuff. Here, I’ll give you my email.” Hurriedly, Tammy jotted her information down on a slip of paper and then went back into the kitchen again.
     
     
    O bviously, it wasn’t the first time Taryn had heard a ghost story about the place she was painting. All old houses were meant to be haunted. It was almost an insult if they weren’t. She had found that if there weren’t any real tales to be told about the place, people were generally happy enough to make them up.
    Tammy had seemed perfectly reliable and honest. But there were many reasons why a person might see or hear something in an old house. Taryn explained similar stories away for years. She had to. If she didn’t, she might never step foot inside some of the places she worked in.
    But she couldn’t deny that Tammy’s story had given her chills, similar to the ones she herself had felt inside the house. There was something going on inside and apparently more than one person had picked up on it. She needed to remember that. This house was different. She couldn’t shrug these stories off like she had the others. Not after what she saw on her camera.
    Once, on a job site in Georgia , she’d been painting a picture of an old plantation home. Most of it was no longer erect, but the local historical society received a grant to restore it. They had brought in Taryn, along with an architect, to create images of it.
    Taryn didn’t care for working with other people , but the architect was a young man her own age, just out of college, and he was friendly. He, too, preferred working on his own, so their paths didn’t cross much and, when they did, it wasn’t unpleasant. They’d both shared a love of history and the antebellum style of the home. Both were equally glad it was being restored.
    Two weeks into the job, Taryn arrived onsite and found him standing outside, staring at the crumbling porch. He had a look on his face that was a cross between bemusement