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Margaret Marr The Ghosts of Daemon Yarborough |
 My Novels
The Ghosts of Daemon Yarborough Other Interests
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Devilan Yarborough has spent his life as an outcast, because of his great-grandfather’s murderous past. When Darvie arrived, determined to own the mansion, he was glad to get rid of it…at first. Then he found himself trying to talk her out of buying the house and wanting to protect her. But from whom or what? The ghosts of Daemon Yarborough? The gardener? Or a copycat killer who murders innocent women on dark, foggy nights, beheading them Henry VIII style—the same crime for which his great-grandfather was hung over a century ago? May 2006 - ISBN: 1-4241-1557-4 Buy Your Copy Now! Excerpt Darvie Harrison stomped her foot on the brake pedal of her red Dakota Sport truck, throwing her younger brother, Troy against his seat belt “Ow!” he said, frowning, as he rubbed his shoulder where the seat belt had over-tightened against his collarbone. “Why’d you stop so sudden?” “That’s it!” She turned a bright smile on her brother and pointed at the three-story house rising dark against the brilliant blue sky. “I want that house,” she said and stared at the rambling monolith surrounded by dead, out of control, brown bushes and saplings. Darvie sighed. “Looks like something right out of a Casper movie.” Troy leaned forward and peered across her and out the driver’s side window. “Or The Amtyville Horror.” Darvie spied the little red and white for-sale-by-owner sign posted at the edge of the driveway and squealed in delight. “It’s for sale!” She didn’t know how she knew it, but this place would turn her life around. She’d failed at everything—marriage, work and having children. But she wouldn’t fail at this. Maybe she’d turn it into one of those quaint little bed and breakfast places—show her ex-husband she wasn’t useless. Just taking back her maiden name had given her a sense of accomplishment. Her brother’s voice brought her back from her wild plans. “Are you out of your freaking mind?” She flashed him another smile, opened the truck door and headed toward the black, spiked gates with a wolf’s howling-head carved into the center. Darvie stopped and stared at the wolf and, for a second, thought she heard its howl—a low mournful sound sending icy fingers up and down her spine. Why would anyone put such a thing on a gate to greet people? A shiver washed over her in waves, but she shook it off and pushed it open. Troy leaned against the hood of the truck, hands shoved into his pockets with eyes full of dread. “Sis, we aren’t supposed to go traipsing onto someone else’s property like this.” “Stay where you are. I won’t be but a minute.” Darvie jogged toward the front entrance and up the steps. When she jiggled the doorknob, she found it locked. Disappointed, she walked down the cracked steps that groaned under her slight weight and squirmed behind boxwoods, as jagged branches stabbed and scratched her skin. She stood on tiptoe to peer through a grimy windowpane. The front entrance held a century’s worth of dust and a grand staircase that disappeared in the shadows above, but empty otherwise. I have to have this place! It’s beautiful. Troy battled his way through the bushes and shoved a scrap of paper toward her. “Here, I got the owner’s number off the for sale sign. Let’s go call him, then you can come back and explore until your heart’s content—legally.” “Just a minute.” She eased out of the bushes, disentangling her honey tresses from a branch, and headed around back where she encountered a kitchen door, which opened right out on the grass. Holding her breath, she turned the knob and the door swung open on slow, creaky hinges. “Does breaking and entering mean anything to you?” She threw him a frown, then slipped inside. “Darvie!” He leaped forward, grabbed her arm, and yanked her back outside. She jerked loose and reentered. “I didn’t break any glass, and I just want to look around. I’m not hurting anything.” His mouth twisted into a sarcastic grimace. “Well, I’m sure the judge will let you go free and clear with that explanation.” “You worry too much, Brother.” Darvie reached over and ruffled his sandy-blonde hair—something she hadn’t done since he was twelve. He didn’t like it then and, by the scowl on his twenty-two year old face, he didn’t like it now. Cooking surfaces filled one entire end of the kitchen. The stoves were old-fashioned cast ironed wood-fed monsters. A long, sturdy table sat in the middle of the floor with hanging utensils above it. Its oak surface scarred and battered from years of use. Darvie doubted it served many Sunday dinners. She glanced around for the dining room? Troy shivered and shoved his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “It’s chilly in here.” Darvie laughed. “Of course it is; it’s a big house.” She exited the kitchen and moved into the spacious foyer. Heading up the staircase, she caressed the smooth, dark cherry banister, and then wiped her dusty hands on her jeans. “Let’s go. I don’t like it here.” Troy glanced around, an uneasy expression on his face. She scowled and paused halfway up the steps. “Sis, I’m serious, this place gives me the willies. I can feel the dead stirring around in the shadows. I don’t like it here,” he repeated, his voice laced with urgency. “Just a few more minutes, and I promise we’ll leave.” Darvie rushed upward, her gaze fixed on the darkness at the top. This place is absolutely wonderful. In a few months I’ll have the rooms cleaned and refurbished until they shine. It would give her something to do to take her mind off the disaster she’d made of her life. How did she think moving to the city would solve her problems? The odds had been stacked against her from the get-go—especially with the man she married. Never had she been able to do anything right in his perfect world. When she reached the shadows bleeding from the darkened hallway, she slowed and shook her head. Where had her brains been when she married Dirk Tyler? Buried in the mud somewhere, most likely. Well, no more. This old house felt right—she belonged here. She knew it. And no one, not even her brother, could talk her out of buying it. Troy huffed up behind her. “You do know the history of this place, don’t you?” Darvie wrinkled her nose and laughed. “You mean about those headless wives of Daemon Yarborough?” |
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Darvie
Harrison has found the house of her dreams—one right
out of the Amityville Horror. No one has been able to
spend more than a few nights in the old Yarborough
Mansion, which is reportedly haunted by the beheaded
wives of Daemon Yarborough. After her less-than-desirable
marriage ended, she’s determined to make her own
decisions for the rest of her life. That is if she can
convince Devilan Yarborough she truly belongs in the
house. No ghosts are going to run her off, either.
She’s more afraid of the mysterious gardener whose
only explanation as to why he’s there is he came
with the house.