Jekyll Island: A Paranormal Mystery (Taryn's Camera Book 5) (11 page)

Since
her first experience with Miss Dixie’s knack for the past at Windwood Farm, Taryn had faced an extreme amount of confusion in regards to what she was supposed to do about the things she saw. Even more confusing was IF she was even meant to do anything at all.

She’d talked extensively to Matt about this, as well as their mutual friend Rob who owned New Age Gifts and More in Lexington, Kentucky. She’d learned along the way that just because she saw ghosts and occasionally took a walk through the virtual past didn’t necessarily mean that she needed to do anything about them. She had to learn to control her emotions and feelings.

That was not easy.

Taryn didn’t have much control over anything she did, from gorging on ice cream or watching multiple episodes of
Designing Women
and
The Golden Girls
when she was meant to be working.

So far she’d been pretty proud of herself for not going off the deep end with what she’d seen and felt at the cottages.

“It’s okay,” she muttered to herself as she walked along the path to the bookstore. “Just because I see a ghost, and the ghost knows I am there too, doesn’t mean there’s a big mystery to solve or that it needs my help…”

She was talking to herself more and more these days. She really
did
need to make some friends. It was hard making friends, though, when she was almost constantly on the road.

The bookstore had been many things in the past, but now the circular historical building held lots of goodies, from new releases to photographic and historical collections of the Golden Isles. Taryn might have been able to brush off what she’d experienced at the cottage, and even chalked up what happened at the hotel as another aspect of her ability, but she couldn’t ignore the dream.

The hanging had felt real. She’d seen it as clearly as if she’d actually been there herself. The fact that she saw it through a ghost’s eyes was unnerving, but she was now convinced that she was meant to do something about it.

“The hanging has to have something to do with one of the cottages,” she whispered as she slipped through the door.

It didn’t take her long to find the “local” section of the shop. Soon, she was sitting on the floor, her back against a shelf, with a stack of books at her side. She’d purchase the ones that were most useful but for the moment she needed to check things out and see what they offered. Around her were the sounds of quiet shoppers, silently removing books and flipping through their pages, the only real sound being the cash register and fluttering of paper. She enjoyed the fact that some people treated bookstores as reverently as they did places of worship.

The first few books were mostly technical; Taryn had a hard time focusing on the words. Another was full of beautiful photographs, but they were all recent and therefore unhelpful.

At last, she discovered a volume that wasn’t just about Jekyll Island, but about the entire Glynn County area. She briefly read about the early settlements with the Creek Indians, the Spanish, the French, and the English. A few passages caught her eye and made her stop and catch her breath. A letter Sir Francis Drake sent to Queen Elizabeth in 1587 about the English reaching Cumberland Island to the south and what they did before moving their sights to Jekyll was one passage she’d never forget. She found herself shivering in horror as she read:

“On the 17
th
we took an observation, and found ourselves in latitude 30 deg. 30 min. N., and near a large island, which we felt sure was the land where we had information of a Spanish settlement of magnitude.

Seeing some log houses, we decided to make a landing.

We unfurled the standard of
Saint George
and approached the shore in great force, that we might impress the enemy with the great puissance of your Majesty.

The accursed Spaniards, concealed behind the trees, fired upon us, and a sore and cruel fight seemed pendent, when the enemy, stricken with fear, incontinently fled to their homes, with their habiliments of war.

One of our men was gravely wounded by the Spanish Captain, whom we presently made prisoner, and, having set up a gallows, we there hanged him in a chain by the middle, and afterwards consumed with fire, gallows and all. “To us was the good God most merciful and gracious, in that he permitted us to kill eighteen Spaniards, bitter enemies of your sweet Majesty.

We further wasted the country and brought it to utter ruin.

We burned their houses and killed their few horses, mules and cattle, eating what we could of the fresh beef and carrying the rest aboard our ships.

Having in mind the merciful disposition of your gracious Majesty, we did not kill the women and children, but having destroyed upon the island all their provisions and property, and taken away all their weapons, we left them to starve.”

“Damn,” Taryn said, forgetting to lower her voice. “That’s harsh.”

The next few sentences were even worse:

“The women were most ungracious, sullen and obstinate, perchance from their husbands having been killed before their eyes, and wickedly refused to answer us; but after we had burned a hole with a hot iron through the tongue of the most venomous of their number, they eftsoons told us that there were no Spaniards upon other island…”

“’Sullen’ and obstinate’ because their husbands were killed? No shit,” Taryn declared loudly again. An overweight man with two cameras slung around his neck turned and glared at her and she lowered her head again and continued reading. Making a silent commitment to watch her language and volume.

There were a few mentions of the pirates and how, for many years, people still believed there might be buried treasure on the island. Taryn stopped, looked up, and grinned at that part.

How awesome would
that
be
, she thought to herself, remembering that not everyone needed to hear her ruminations.

When she finally got to the part about the millionaires and the Jekyll Island Club Hotel she made sure to pay careful attention.

The images of the cottages in their prime were enjoyable and fascinating, but she’d already seen those. Of more interest now were the descriptions of how the men and women spent their leisure time on the island and these accounts provided some amusing insights to a world Taryn couldn’t even fathom.

Taryn’s parents were successful, but nothing more than upper middle class (although her mother, at least, took great pleasure in the “upper” part of that). In their prime her grandparents had been working class people who squirreled away money all their lives to buy the old farm house and acreage outside of Nashville they loved so much.

Taryn herself often scrambled to make her miserly bills and lived on a budget that she almost always had to be creative with. She couldn’t imagine taking a month or more off at a time to jaunt down to her private island to sit on the porch of her mansion (er, “cottage”). Spending all day drinking alcohol, playing cards, and gossiping with her lady friends while her husband had animals shipped in to hunt.

Although, to be clear, she wasn’t opposed to giving it a try.

It didn’t take long to get to the fire.

“William Hawkins was instantaneously accused of creating the fire that killed not only his young wife Rachel, but more than forty of the hotel guests on New Year’s Eve.

Hawkins was discovered with traces of accelerant on his clothing and was witnessed running down the hallway from the room he shared with his wife shortly before the rest of the floor burst into flames.

Throughout the trial Hawkins did not move to offer an alibi of any kind, other than to consistently declare he’d been outside on the grounds “enjoying the night air”.

By reports from other witnesses at the celebration, Rachel Hawkins had retired early from the evening’s entertainment and it was speculated that he had joined her in their rooms where an argument ensued. One of the most critical pieces of evidence came from the testimony of a Mrs. Lucinda Moorer who was housed in a suite of rooms across the corridor from the Hawkins’ and testified that moments before smoke filled the floor she heard Rachel Hawkins “crying and whimpering.”

Hawkins was incarcerated in the Brunswick jail for six months before his trial began. According to Juniper Willis, guard, Hawkins only made two requests during his incarceration–to visit his late wife’s gravesite and to keep his family Bible in his cell at all times. Both requests were honored. Hawkins had one visitor during his incarceration, a member of the Jekyll Island Club. He was found guilty after only two hours of deliberation. He was hanged three days later at the gallows which is now the site of…”

Taryn stopped reading then and looked up from the book.

Huh
, she thought,
why wouldn’t he have tried to at least make up some sort of solid alibi?

Seemed odd to her, especially since he knew he’d probably be hung. Hell, they were rich. He probably could’ve paid someone off to vouch for him.

Taking everything she’d read and what she knew about human behavior into consideration, Taryn felt like the case was pretty much closed. He probably
was
guilty. No miscarriage of justice there, except for the party goers who had died in the fire. Yikes. If there was one thing Taryn had learned it was that people did crazy things for crazy reasons
all the damn time
.

The book went on for several more pages. It spent a little more time talking about William, Rachel, the monetary damage the fire caused, and the rebuilding. Although it was all interesting and she knew she could read for hours, she closed the book and stood and stretched.

She’d found what she wanted. Now she had work to do.

It
was dark by the time she finished. Without any interruptions from tourists or other employees she’d worked steadily all afternoon, getting more accomplished than she usually did. It was only in the high eighties that day as well and the humidity hadn’t been terrible. It was much easier to work when she wasn’t worried about sweat running down into her eyes or dying of heat stroke.

As the last few drops of sunset faded into the dark sky she loaded the rest of her supplies into the golf cart and took off. Ivy House had been quiet all day. She hadn’t felt any niceties oozing from it but she didn’t feel like it wanted to open its mouth and swallow her whole, either, so that was a start.

When she got to the part of the road where she’d usually turn right to head to her house, she continued straight, heading towards the north end of the island. There was a small cemetery there, the one where Rachel was buried, and the ghost story the server told her had been weighing on her mind.

North Riverview Road was eerily quiet, deserted and isolated as it usually felt away from the hotels when it was dark. There were never many people out on it at night. The longer she drove, the more she second guessed her intentions.

“Don’t be a wuss,” she chided herself when the shadow from a tree made her jump in her seat. “If people can go out bike riding at night you can skirt along in a golf cart.”

As she neared the shell of the Horton House, she slowed down and pulled over to the side. The one lonely streetlamp did little to brighten her surroundings and, if anything, made the small woods around her even darker. Rummaging in her knapsack she fished out the small flashlight Matt had bought her a few months earlier.

“If you’re going to be traipsing around spooky places after dark then you at least need some good light,” he’d complained after handing it to her.

And, in typical Matt fashion, he had diligently researched flashlights for at least a week online before picking out the right one for her. Not only was it rechargeable, have a power beam, and doubled as a screwdriver–it was also bright pink.

Now she turned it on and sprinted across the road to the small cemetery that lay just beyond the tree line. She’d driven past it a time or two and had seen the headstones rising from the ground but hadn’t yet explored it.

“You’re nuttier than a fruitcake,” she lectured herself as she disappeared into the shadowy canopy. “Can’t you ever do anything strange in the daytime? You’re worse than the Scooby Doo people.”

But she wasn’t truly frightened. Taryn
liked
cemeteries. She thought they were peaceful and comforting. Even as a child she’d enjoyed wandering around the graves, careful not to step on anyone and to act in a respectful manner as she read the inscriptions and ran her fingers over the smooth stones.

The tiny area was enclosed by a tabby wall that came up to her chest. The black wrought iron gate was open so she slipped through and entered quietly. When the gate closed firmly behind her, the sound of metal on stone had her jumping, nearly dropping her flashlight.

“Jesus!” she shouted and then cackled at her skittishness. “Some ghost hunter I am.”

It was hilarious that the people on the internet were starting to think of her as this tough paranormal expert who, in their minds, investigated old houses and walked around a la Nancy Drew solving mysteries. A week didn’t go by where she didn’t get an email from someone asking her to poke around their haunted house.

In reality, Taryn was afraid of the dark and about as jumpy as they came. To be fair, thanks to the insane things that had happened to her over the past year, she
was
starting to think of her life and jobs in terms of book titles:
Taryn and the Mystery of the Old Farm House, Taryn and the Mystery of Shaker Village, Taryn and the Mystery of the Missing Girl
…

It gave her something to do on long car rides.

It only took a couple of seconds to find Rachel’s grave; there were only a few. As she knelt down beside it, the flashlight balanced on her knee, she read aloud the words written in stone:

“there shall be no night there
; and they need no candle, neither light of the sun; for the Lord God giveth them light: and they shall reign for ever and ever”

Taryn sat back on her heels and chewed on her bottom lip. Frankly, considering how the poor woman had died, she found the Revelations quote to be in poor taste. Wasn’t she meant to have died because she burned to death?

Taryn wasn’t completely sure why she was even there. Adena Cottage had nothing to do with William and Rachel. Their story was closed. He’d started the fire to cover her murder and he’d paid for it. Justice was served. Adena had belonged to Georgiana and her father. She’d found no connection between that cottage, that family, and the hotel fire.

Besides, as she continued to find out, there were lots of stories about the island. She could be connecting to any number of them.

Shaking her head, Taryn started to stand but as she was rising to her feet she paused, all of her senses on high alert. The only sounds were that of crickets and some obnoxiously loud tree frogs. How something so little could make suck a racket was beyond her. And yet…

Taryn had the distinct feeling that she wasn’t alone. She continued to straighten, keeping her flashlight trained on the ground at her feet. There was no movement in the darkness, so no sound of footsteps, no cars on the road behind her, yet Taryn knew someone else was there with her. It was a prickling at the back of her skull, a faint rash of coldness that seeped down her neck and into the top of her shirt.

Without turning, Taryn closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the small flashlight. “Hello?” she asked quietly, struggling to keep her voice steady. Her instinct was to make a mad dash to her golf cart and get out of there as quickly as possible.

Whatever was behind her crept closer, its icy hand closing over her left shoulder. Taryn felt the weight if not the solidity of the appendage. Then, as though it had the weight of the world on
its
shoulder, an enormous sigh pervaded the air around her, a sound tinged with disappointment, longing, and frustration.

Taryn bit back a scream and willed herself not to pass out.

What had to be only milliseconds later, the weight of the hand was lifted and she knew that she was alone again. The last thing she saw before she fled from the enclosure and raced across the darkened road was the faint glow on the ground by the headstone, just the size of a small candle.