Free Black Raven Inn: A Paranormal Mystery (Taryn's Camera Book 6) by Rebecca Patrick-Howard
Authors: Rebecca Patrick-Howard
appeared to be lipstick. Personal memories of Parker, original poems and song lyrics penned by artists who’d stayed in the room, thank you notes for songs that had gotten the writer through a tough time, experiences visitors had had in the room…
Taryn turned and looked at the wall behind her where she’d been leaning. There were half a dozen messages scrawled there. She leaned forward and read one written in what appeared to be a red Sharpie:
“Stayed here 09/05/98. Woke up in the middle of the night and saw a ball of light in the corner of the room. Watched it bounce around the room and then hover over the television. Swore I heard someone strumming the guitar. I’ll never forget the feeling that someone else was in the room with me.”
Taryn winced and wrapped her arms around her chest, a defense mechanism she’d used since she was a child. She wished she’d left the door open. In the tiny, cramped space she was starting to feel claustrophobic.
Another message read:
“As I was drifting off to sleep I heard a voice close to my ear whispering ‘Hello.’ I slept with the TV and lamp on but when I woke up in the night to go to the bathroom both had been turned off.”
And then, simply:
“Parker Brown’s music saved my life.”
They’d come to that dreadful room to feel connected to him, to get as close to their idol as they could ever be. They’d all been trying to capture some of his essence, his energy.
“Did you know how much you were loved?” she asked the room.
Or was it that he was only loved because he was dead?
Damn , I’m getting cynical . Taryn shook her head.
It was time to get to work, though.
Taryn spent the next fifteen minutes capturing every inch of the room, in her own way trying to capture its essence in much the same way that the overnight visitors had. She took wide shots of the room and furnishings and then zoomed in on many of the messages, focusing on the uplifting ones as much as she could since she knew Ruby Jane would be viewing the photos.
By the time she finished, she was coughing and sneezing from a combination of the cold air and stuffiness, combined with the mold and dust and rodent excrement. Aside from the environmental factors of the motel’s age and neglect, however, she wasn’t feeling anything unusual.
Taryn breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps the ghost stories were just that– stories . Tales made up by people who wanted to feel and see something that proved their hero wasn’t completely gone.
When she was finished she went out the back door and entered the courtyard.
As expected , the small shrine to Parker stood erect a few feet from the patio. The wooden cross bearing his name was bordered by two rotting benches that once boasted blood-red paint. Beer and wine bottles had been left behind, as well as statues of crosses, the Virgin Mary, angels in various poses, and folded hands in prayers. Hundreds of guitar picks were scattered about, some faded by the sun and rain. Everything had a slight film over it, damaged from being left unattended to the elements.
She thought there was something poignant about the little shrine, about the people who were heartbroken enough to find their way to the motel and leave such things behind.
Taryn took pictures of the small memorial and then walked around, getting shots of other doors that opened to the enclosed space.
With a good budget and landscaper the courtyard might have been charming. There were a few trees growing in the middle and picnic tables with charcoal grills beside them. Under the right circumstances she could easily see flowering plants, leafy shades, and musicians sharing songs and drinking together in the moonlight.
Now, however, it was a cheerless abandoned wasteland, littered with used needles, empty fast food cartons, and broken tree limbs.
Beautiful, abandoned and derelict houses broke Taryn’s heart. The ones that were neglected tugged at her in the same way some people fell
Taryn turned and looked at the wall behind her where she’d been leaning. There were half a dozen messages scrawled there. She leaned forward and read one written in what appeared to be a red Sharpie:
“Stayed here 09/05/98. Woke up in the middle of the night and saw a ball of light in the corner of the room. Watched it bounce around the room and then hover over the television. Swore I heard someone strumming the guitar. I’ll never forget the feeling that someone else was in the room with me.”
Taryn winced and wrapped her arms around her chest, a defense mechanism she’d used since she was a child. She wished she’d left the door open. In the tiny, cramped space she was starting to feel claustrophobic.
Another message read:
“As I was drifting off to sleep I heard a voice close to my ear whispering ‘Hello.’ I slept with the TV and lamp on but when I woke up in the night to go to the bathroom both had been turned off.”
And then, simply:
“Parker Brown’s music saved my life.”
They’d come to that dreadful room to feel connected to him, to get as close to their idol as they could ever be. They’d all been trying to capture some of his essence, his energy.
“Did you know how much you were loved?” she asked the room.
Or was it that he was only loved because he was dead?
Damn , I’m getting cynical . Taryn shook her head.
It was time to get to work, though.
Taryn spent the next fifteen minutes capturing every inch of the room, in her own way trying to capture its essence in much the same way that the overnight visitors had. She took wide shots of the room and furnishings and then zoomed in on many of the messages, focusing on the uplifting ones as much as she could since she knew Ruby Jane would be viewing the photos.
By the time she finished, she was coughing and sneezing from a combination of the cold air and stuffiness, combined with the mold and dust and rodent excrement. Aside from the environmental factors of the motel’s age and neglect, however, she wasn’t feeling anything unusual.
Taryn breathed a sigh of relief. Perhaps the ghost stories were just that– stories . Tales made up by people who wanted to feel and see something that proved their hero wasn’t completely gone.
When she was finished she went out the back door and entered the courtyard.
As expected , the small shrine to Parker stood erect a few feet from the patio. The wooden cross bearing his name was bordered by two rotting benches that once boasted blood-red paint. Beer and wine bottles had been left behind, as well as statues of crosses, the Virgin Mary, angels in various poses, and folded hands in prayers. Hundreds of guitar picks were scattered about, some faded by the sun and rain. Everything had a slight film over it, damaged from being left unattended to the elements.
She thought there was something poignant about the little shrine, about the people who were heartbroken enough to find their way to the motel and leave such things behind.
Taryn took pictures of the small memorial and then walked around, getting shots of other doors that opened to the enclosed space.
With a good budget and landscaper the courtyard might have been charming. There were a few trees growing in the middle and picnic tables with charcoal grills beside them. Under the right circumstances she could easily see flowering plants, leafy shades, and musicians sharing songs and drinking together in the moonlight.
Now, however, it was a cheerless abandoned wasteland, littered with used needles, empty fast food cartons, and broken tree limbs.
Beautiful, abandoned and derelict houses broke Taryn’s heart. The ones that were neglected tugged at her in the same way some people fell
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