Bedtime Stories Supernatural Novels & Stories

The moment she crosses the threshold and her feet met the cool, welcoming touch of her bedroom floor, she allows herself to sink onto her bed, the cushions yielding to her weight. With a deep sense of purpose, she extends her hand towards the book nestled on her bed, cradling it tenderly. Astrid could scarcely contain her curiosity, her fingers quivering with the exhilaration of the adventure awaiting her. As she opened the book, she was instantly transported into a world as captivating as the printed pages itself, where words spun tales of Supernatural beings beyond her wildest imagination. The book unveiled a hidden realm, one inhabited by nine extraordinary entities, each with its own uni

“Unlike us, they were weak at night but stronger during the day. And they had the ability to summon the undead.” He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. “The undead?” I repeated. Damian nodded. “Since they couldn’t go after the big wolves at night, they summoned the undead to do their bidding. To steal children, to spread fear, to weaken the packs from the inside.” He paused again, his gaze drifting toward the window. “That’s what the bedtime story was. Go to sleep early, or the mage’s undead will snatch you from your bed.” I stayed quiet, still processing, and he added, “But it’s just a story.”

I switch off the lights for extra measure. “So this happened when my mom was 17 years old. One day, she and four of her friends were having a sleepover when they decided to tell ghost stories. So, my mom was narrating a story about a doll that is a medium for dead spirits. People would often call their dead relatives and talk to them. And if you want to call the doll, you have to hold hands and chant, ‘Suzie, please come,’ three times. People named the doll Suzie,” I speed dial, Reed.

"Most people don't." "Oh, she definitely did." "Why?" "Because she'd light candles everywhere and tell me it was an adventure." She laughed quietly at the memory. "We'd make hot chocolate." "We'd tell stories until the electricity came back." Lucien listened without interrupting. "What kind of stories?" "Bookshop ghosts." He blinked. "Ghosts?" "The friendly kind." She grinned. "They supposedly rearranged books during the night because they got bored." "And you believed that?" "I was seven." "...Fair enough."

“What else have you heard?” Too much. Too much poison dressed up as bedtime stories. Garrett Monroe—my father, the only family I had left—used to slur those horror tales into my ears whenever he was drunk. Stories about sharp-toothed beasts who dragged children from their beds and devoured them whole. Creatures who wore human skin by day but hunted by moonlight. At the time, I thought he was warning me. Trying to protect me in his own twisted, broken way. But now? Now I don’t know.

It coiled my nerves and spine, weighing in the air like something tangible. I remembered Mom telling me stories when I was younger. Some were just simple bedtime stories to help me sleep, but others were scary ghost stories goaded on by Leo. Wanting to be brave like my older brother, I begged for them too. She was a silver-tongued narrator. Whether it was Goldilocks and the Three Bears or an old Italian ghost story, Mom painted pictures so vividly it was as if she’d experienced them firsthand. And I knew what she was about to tell me was a firsthand experience, and she was going to weave an image that would likely keep me up at night wondering if Mattia was going to appear standing over my b

Somewhere in some distant memories where vampires and werewolves existed among the humans in low profile, there was a very young lass excited to listen to her mother’s bedtime story every night. “Mom, tell me a new story.” an excited five years old young wolf jumps up and down as she ushers her mother for another bedtime story. “What kind of story you wanted to hear this time, hm?” her mother smiled as she carried her daughter toward her bed. “Hmm, what about vampires?” the young wolf suggested with her innocent tone that made her mother shake her head.

“You've had too much excitement for one night.” I yawned, voice muffled by his hand. “Where's the crab dip...?” My eyelids fluttered. I snuggled against the pillow. Samael sipped his tea. He watched me, apparently amused. “I'll tell you a bedtime story.” Samael flicked his forefinger. The couch's comforter flew through the air and covered me. I burrowed myself beneath it. “About what?” I murmured, dozing.

Epilogue: Now that I have written several of these stories, I find that my old ghosts have started to haunt my dreams yet again. It is amazing that once things are written down, they begin to take on a life of their own. Just remember, if you don’t want things to go bump in the night, don’t tell anyone else about them.

Hours later, we were still talking. Well, mostly she talked, and I stuffed very tiny honey biscuits into my face like a starved cavewoman. (No sass here. Just crumbs. So many crumbs.) Barbie—thirteen thousand freakin’ years old—sat on a branch like some ancient history professor in sequins and gave me the crash course of my nightmares. She told me about the ASA—Anti-Supernatural Agency. Humans with labs, syringes, and no chill. People who kidnapped supernaturals, drained their blood, and experimented to get powers, immortality, or whatever else their fragile egos demanded.