Black Raven Inn: A Paranormal Mystery (Taryn's Camera Book 6) (13 page)

The
outside
temperature was in the high seventies, nary a breeze wafted through the air, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Room #5 was cold, almost bitterly so, and damp.

Taryn shrugged a cardigan around her shoulders and burrowed inside it, trying to generate extra body heat. The bright sunlight pouring in through the front door was impeding her view of the room so she’d closed the door. That had cost her whatever heat was coming in from the outside world, however.

Annoyed, Taryn rose from the chair and hobbled across the floor, wincing as her right hip popped and cracked along the way.

“Settle down,” she muttered, slapping her jean-covered hip in reprimand. “Don’t start crying yet. We’re not finished.”

Talking to herself, her various body parts, and the room in general kept her from feeling lonely.

With the door open, she could already feel the warmth seeping back in. Taryn stood in the doorway for a moment and opened her cardigan, allowing the fresh air and sunlight to wash over her.

The room’s frosty air nipped at her back, chilling her. There was something else, too, something she couldn’t put her finger on. It was also cold but in a different way. This other thing that poked at the back of her legs and skulked about her shoulders was unfriendly and moist; it left a dampness behind on the places it touched her.

Taryn shivered and, feeling violated, quickly turned around.

The motel room was empty.

She returned to her chair and straightened the towel she’d been sitting on but remained standing. “I’m not afraid of you,” she declared to the room. “So if there’s anything you want to do, you’d best be getting it out of your system right now.”

The front door slammed closed with a “bang”, the sound exploding in the tiny, confined space. The framed picture of Parker Brown fell from the nightstand, shattered glass scattering across the grimy floor. His radiant smile looked up at her through the cracks. He appeared almost angelic.

Taryn wrapped her arms tightly around herself and closed her eyes, willing her heartrate to slow down. Her instinct was to run screaming for Aker and make him check under the bed and in the closet, like any frightened child might have their parents do.

She envisioned herself running, or
limping
in her case, to him shouting, “Daddy! Daddy! There’s a monster under my bed!”

She saw him rising from his folding chair, patiently placing his book down (after carefully marking it with the “Friends of Police” bookmark), and striding with purpose to the room– his dark sunglasses and impassive expression hiding any urgency on his part. And then she saw him on all fours, lifting the soiled bed skirt and searching for her monsters.

The idea did the trick; Taryn’s fear slowly subsided and the beating of her heart steadied under her trembling hand. She even felt the tickle of a smile on her lips.

“That wasn’t very nice,” she said, ignoring the tremor in her voice.

Marching back to the door, she opened it once again, flinging it open wide until it hit the wall behind it. Once again, the room filled with fresh air and sunlight.

Taryn then turned and painfully crouched down to pick up the shards of glass that littered the floor. She placed Parker’s picture back in the cheap wooden frame, sans glass, and returned it to the nightstand. She kept her fingers on it, however, and studied the image.

Once again his beatific smile radiated outwards, the demons he possessed unrecognizable in the 1960’s publicity shot. Taryn paused to admire the Nudie Suit he wore, the sparkle of the rhinestones nearly as brilliant as the gleam in his eyes. The piercingly white color of the suit stood out from the stark, beige desert setting in stunning contrast. His long hair fell softly to his shoulders, his smile serene and gentle.

She hoped he wasn’t trapped in the room, hoped that he’d somehow made it out.

The door banged closed again, this time with a force so strong that her easel tumbled to the ground, sending her canvas with it.

Parker’s picture flew from her fingertips and soared across the room, hitting the wall on the other side of the bed before it dropped to the floor with a thud.

Shaking, Taryn closed her eyes and took long, deep breaths. There was nothing she wanted more at that moment than to pack it all up and leave. She wasn’t even sure she could make herself move, however; fear was a crippling thing.

“Ghosts can’t hurt you, ghosts can’t hurt,” she chanted almost silently to herself.

If there was one thing Taryn had learned through her adventures, it was that she had more to fear from the living than the dead.

She hoped that was still true.

T
aryn stood in the courtyard
, Miss Dixie in hand, and waited. She’d meant to work on the lobby that day but something had called to her from the courtyard. She had done a preliminary sketch of it but hadn’t started painting yet. Now, she was ready.

Headphones on, she turned to an Emmylou Harris CD. The soft, lilting voice was a gentle contrast to the bleakness of the inhospitable surroundings before her. The soothing sounds of the music reminded Taryn that her position was temporary, that there were nice things still out there in the world.

She needed that when meth-making materials were within her line of vision, the empty bleach bottle with its top cut off gathering dirt beside one of the rooms.

Even though she’d already taken several dozen pictures of the space already, Miss Dixie had itched to be taken along. Taryn never ignored her camera’s pleas. Now, she lifted her to her eyes and focused on the center of the enclosure, taking in as much as she could.

When she turned on the playback, the scene before her changed.

The rickety picnic tables, painted a faded redwood color and stained with cigarette scars and things Taryn didn’t want to think about, were replaced with white stone benches and patio furniture. Colorful umbrellas rose from the circular tables, their flaps gently moving in an invisible breeze.

Where a pile of garbage decayed next to a cheap grill turned over on its side was in present day, a brick fire pit glowed with a hearty flames. Chairs were pulled up around it and next to one of them was a worn guitar resting on its case. The dents in it reminded Taryn of Willie Nelson’s beloved “Trigger.”

Several leafy trees, all gone today, offered shade. The stone patio was smooth and clean and swept of debris– in contrast to its modern counterpart that was fractured with weeds growing through the cracks and strewn with soda cans and fast food wrappers.

She knew it was impossible (well, the whole
thing
was impossible but that was beside the point) but even the sky looked bluer.

For a moment Taryn was totally transported to another time period, a different lifetime. While she hadn’t captured any people in her shot, she could totally envision the place being a crash pad for the struggling musicians of the time. She could see them, not through Miss Dixie but in her imagination, hanging out in the courtyard, visiting with the other guests, barbecuing or playing their instruments. It would have been an inexpensive place to stay back then, still popular with long-term guests and probably still drawing those who dipped into drug activity and were facing demons (like Parker) but it would’ve been cleaner back then–better maintained.

It wasn’t the cesspool of filth and despair it would eventually become.

Back in the present day world, Emmylou sang about missing someone and feeling regretful that she couldn’t remember if they’d said goodbye the last time she saw them. 

People were confused as to why Ruby Jane wanted to buy the motel but Taryn wasn’t. Part of her had even wanted the remains of the car Andrew had crashed. In fact, she’d returned to the scene of the accident almost a year later and gone for a walk along the side of the road at sunset.

The area had long been cleaned and processed; the vehicle and the fiery mess it had left behind were long gone. Still, as she walked back to her own car her shoe had kicked something that didn’t sound or feel like a rock. It rolled a good three feet and when she knelt down to study it, she found herself holding a knob from the radio dial. She’d known it was Andrew’s because it was faded and worn from the way he’d hold onto it; incessantly rubbing his thumb over it while he was driving was one of his nervous habits.

Taryn had placed the knob in her pocket, resumed the walk to her car, and treated herself to frozen yogurt.

Later, back in her new apartment, she’d removed the knob and set it on an antique mirror she’d put on her dresser to use to catch jewelry.

Buying the motel that contained the last place that saw her partner and loved one alive? Taryn got that.

People did strange things when they grieved–just about anything to feel close to them again.

Her
painting
was calling.

Taryn had tossed and turned all night, too tired to sleep. She’d spent forty-eight solid hours working on the courtyard canvas without any sleep. Wired for the first time in a long time, Taryn felt totally focused and dedicated. Nothing was distracting her. She’d worked at the motel, barely stopping for a lunch break, and had gone straight back to her apartment where she’d continued, not even turning the television on.

Her body was tired but her mind was still running on “high.” She’d made herself go to bed, knowing she needed sleep, but she couldn’t turn her brain off. It was jumping all over the place, landing on random thoughts and worries.

Her hands itched to pick up a paintbrush; the feeling was so intense she could all but
feel
the weight of the brush in her hand. It was almost painful.

“How long can a person go without sleep?” she texted Matt and then sat up. She’d taken Benadryl and it hadn’t even phased her. Melatonin hadn’t done a thing.

She just needed to work.

The canvas, still up in the middle of her living room floor, was ready to go. Taryn staggered to it and, with what was akin to nervous energy, opened her tubes of paint and began mixing. The scene before her was alive with life and color. It was starting to look realistic enough that one might think they could walk right into it.

Taryn picked up her brush and began dabbing gray onto the patio, swirling it and blending it until she could almost see the individual grains of the gritty cement. She painted the guitar resting on its case, the cheerful fire emerging from its pit, chairs grouped together for a late-afternoon jam session, guitar picks in a Mason jar on a patio table. In the background you could see the freshly-painted doors leading into the rooms off the courtyard, their brass numbers polished and gleaming in the muted sunlight. A few of the doors were cracked open, invitations to join the inhabitants or perhaps a sign that the guest was already outside with everyone else.

It was a cheerful, laid-back scene and Taryn worked feverishly on it, barely stopping to catch her breath. Gone were the dripping air conditioners, the rubbish, and the desolate landscape of a lonesome place. It was replaced with a scene just about anyone would want to walk into and relax.

Taryn worked until her hands were swollen, until her tummy rumbled from hunger.

Had she eaten yesterday
? She stopped, brush in midair, and considered. She didn’t think she had.

Sweat poured down her face, soaking her night shirt. Her underarms smelled. Her curly red hair frizzed and hung down her bang in a tangled mess from lack of brush and washing. Her legs hurt from standing.

The sunlight on her feet was warm and Taryn turned, surprised. It was already daylight; she’d worked through the night. Glancing at her phone had her startled–it was 9:30 am. She was meant to be at the motel in half an hour.

Taryn quickly rinsed her brushes and gathered her materials for the day. She didn’t have time to hop in the shower, so using a washcloth she took a “hooker’s bath” and smeared on some chap stick. After giving her jeans from the day before a glance over, she decided they were clean enough and slid them on. A George Strait “Check Yes or No” T-shirt hung limply on her chest, a reminder she’d lost weight, and an old man’s cardigan would keep the chill off.

She was ready for a new day.