Darkwood Manor

“Doesn’t matter.”

He was taller than her, but no more than six feet or so in boots. Worn jeans were topped by a black T-shirt. He had good hands, she noted, and surprisingly long hair. Far too long for your average cop.

“It does to me. Look, I appreciate you saving my life, but I’m fine, now, and I really don’t have time to play games.”

He drew her closer until his mouth moved against her temple. “You need to go back to New York. No questions, no detours, just get on the highway and drive.”

He used the fingers of his other hand to capture her chin. “Do it, Isabella. Now. While you can.” Then he drew her closer still, set his mouth next to her ear and added a soft, “If you want to live, you need to get as far away from this house as possible.”

In Memory of Sheena

You were a strong, brave girl all through your life.

Now Heaven has a beautiful new angel. Fly fast and free, sweet Little Pea. We’ll always be with you. We’ll always love you…

Jenna started making up stories before she could read or write. Growing up, romance always had a strong appeal, but romantic suspense was the perfect fit. She tried out a number of different careers, including modeling, interior design and travel, but writing has always been her one true love. That and her longtime partner, Rod.

Inspired from book to book by her sister Kathy, she lives in a rural setting fifteen minutes from the city of Victoria, British Columbia. It’s taken a lot of years, but she’s finally slowed the frantic pace and adopted a West Coast mindset. Stay active, stay healthy, keep it simple. Enjoy the ride, enjoy the read. All of that works for her, but what she continues to enjoy most is writing stories she loves. She also loves reader feedback. Email her at [email protected] or visit Jenna Ryan on Facebook.

Isabella Ross—Her ex-boyfriend left her a haunted mansion in Maine.

Donovan Black—He is a descendant of Darkwood Manor’s malevolent original owner.

Katie Lynn Ross—Isabella’s cousin disappears from the manor soon after their arrival.

Darlene Calvert—Donovan’s cousin is desperate to get out of town.

George Calvert—Donovan’s aunt feels like a prisoner of her own father’s will.

Orry Lucas—The acting Sheriff has aspirations and more than a few secrets.

Gordie Tallahassee—The local Realtor sees a gold mine in the shadowy manor.

Robert Drake—The developer is hungry to purchase Darkwood Manor.

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

The road that wound northward along the rocky Maine coast felt slick beneath the tires of David Morris Gimbel’s vintage Corvette.

He grinned as the car jumped forward. You couldn’t do speeds like this in the city, and a vehicle needed to stretch its legs every now and then. Plus the text message he’d received that afternoon had sounded urgent. He was considering the implications when his cell phone interrupted.

He glanced at the screen. “I’m twenty miles away, Haden. More problems?”

“Lights winking off and on,” the man on the other end responded. “I’ve been hearing moans and thumps, too. Then, not five minutes ago, a wail that made every hair on my body stand up. Saw a shadow on the cliff, but it disappeared when the wail started.”

David navigated a hard corner one-handed, squinted into the misty night. “Shadows are made by people. So are noises and light switches. Wail could’ve been a dog hunting for a mate.”

“I’ve had three dogs in my time, Gimbel. None of ’em ever made a sound like that.”

“Nineteen miles.” David scoped the road before him. Unless his mental GPS had been thrown off by the moonless September night, he was two wide turns away from Cemetery Point. He gunned it through number one and strove for patience.

“Lock your doors, draw your shades and pour a couple fingers of whiskey. The next sound you hear will be me screeching to a halt in front of your cottage.”

“I can hear you screeching from here,” the man retorted. “Aw, hell, I should’ve called my nephew instead of a nonbeliever like you.”

The tires slipped, but David didn’t back off the gas. “Since when do federal sharpshooters buy into the woo-woo scene? Pour the whiskey, Haden, and wait for my head—”

He broke off, swore sharply.

He heard Haden’s gruff “Gimbel? You there?” right before his cell phone landed on the floor.

The silhouette of the guardrail was a blur, but he figured the nose of his car hit it at more than three times the posted limit. If ghosts existed, he was about to find out.

Closing his eyes, he prayed his death wouldn’t be painful.

“Was he out of his mind? Are you?” Katie Lynn Ross crouched slightly to peer through the peeling wrought-iron gate in front of her. “That’s not a picturesque New England house up there—it’s spook central.” She scratched at the rusty bars. “Someone’s playing a Halloween prank on you, Bella. And don’t start with the ancestral thing. Contrary to Grandma Corrigan’s belief, the children of her bloodline are not mortal links to the spirit world and therefore drawn to areas where such specters appear. This is David’s idea of a final joke. Places like Darkwood Manor don’t exist.”