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

and horror. She touched his shoulder and he jumped into the air in shock.
    “I’m sorry,” he apologized. “I must have been thinking.”
    “Is everything okay?” she asked, feeling foolish because everything was obviously not okay.
    He led her to a weeping willow tree and both sat down under it, the house in plain view in front of them. It was a beautiful structure with four large columns (signs of wealth) and a porch that had, at one time, stretched the length of the front. Even in its decay, she saw beauty in it and what it could be again one day.
    “I crawled in through one of the back windows this morning,” he said softly. “I know it’s not safe, but well, you know…”
    She nodded. Of course, she did it all the time. She had also done it here to this house, too.
    “It was so quiet and peaceful. I walked around to the front of the house, real careful with my footing, and stayed where I knew the foundation was solid. There’s a mantle in there that just blew my mind. Can’t believe how perfect it is, considering that half the house is falling in.”
    Taryn let him talk without interruption, despite the fact that he kept taking long breaks in his speech.
    “I wasn’t inside for more than ten minutes, when I heard this sound. I wasn’t sure what it was at first. It sounded like music. I thought maybe you were here and had your car radio on. I don’t know. But something didn’t feel right about it. Then, I realized it was coming from inside the house. And it wasn’t a radio at all, but a piano.”
    The house was devoid of furnishings. There was no piano anywhere near it. They were at least five miles from the nearest inhabited house.
    “Are you sure?” Taryn asked tentatively, but she knew he was certain of what he heard.
    He nodded. “It went on for a few minutes and I just stood there and listened. It was maybe the most beautiful piano music I’ve ever heard. It felt as close as if I could just walk into the parlor and see someone sitting there, playing. And then it stopped. I thought it was over, but that’s when the laughing started. A high, feminine laugh. A woman’s for sure. It echoed through the rooms, like the sound was being soaked into the walls.”
    “What did you do?”
    “I got out,” he shrugged. “I couldn’t do it.”
    Taryn knew he was confident in what he had heard. She knew he wasn’t making the story up. She had spent many hours there in the house by herself and had felt like someone was watching her, listening to her talk to herself sometimes. But she’d never seen anything. She’d never heard anything. Sitting there under the tree with him, she almost felt disappointment.
     
     
    S he spent a productive day at the house, her experiences from her previous visits not repeated. She even tried walking around, taking more pictures, but they came out like any other picture she’d ever taken. Maybe it’s just my imagination , she thought to herself. She probably did need more sleep.
    The house felt quiet, at peace. In fact, the day was amazingly calm and still. It was a day straight out of a summer calendar: the birds were chirping, the butterflies flew about, the bees buzzed, and the clouds were fat and white against the bright blue sky. With her sandals kicked off and the grass curled up between her toes, Taryn was at a rare ease with herself. She listened to Bruce Robison and Tift Merritt while she worked, alternating their CDs and singing along when the spirit moved her.
    The sketching went amazingly fast and within the first day she had most of the house outlined to her satisfaction. She enjoyed standing outside and working in this park-like setting and appreciated the fact that even though there were adjoining farms on either side of her (well, one was being developed as she worked) she rarely heard the sound of any kind of passing vehicle.
    As she sketched, she thought about the house’s former tenants. What had they been like? Had they thrown parties, celebrated