Bone Collector Author Novels & Stories

"I've been trailing him for days. This guy comes from a poor background, parents from a small village. He even got into college on a full scholarship loan..." "Sounds pretty inspirational to me," Diana remarked. "I haven't finished! I discovered a little-known quirk of his. He has a room filled with dolls. He spends hours in there every night before coming out." "Maybe he just likes dolls... Could mean he's got a bit of a soft side, right? What's wrong with that?" Diana glanced at him, somewhat puzzled. "You collect skulls yourself, so who's the real oddball here?" Mitbahl was exasperated. "But can you really compare? My Bones are adorable, but his dolls, they're downright creepy! Twisted li

Bitter enough to sting his throat, but it keeps his eyes open. School feels like it moves slower than usual. The hallways are lined with the same cracked lockers, the same faded posters warning about "Emotional Safety" and "Healthy Attachment Boundaries." A teacher drones on about calculus, but Atlas watches the clock instead, each tick dragging like it’s clawing at the fabric of time. He sketches again in his notebook, but this time it isn’t just bones. It’s a girl with white hair, sitting on a grave, staring back at him with eyes he’d never seen up close.

"Why is it still coming?" That was three scoops of laxatives; it wasn't something that passed that easily! I gave him a look of pity. "Just keep going. Once you get the drink out of your system, you'll be fine—" "Honey, I'm not expelling the drink anymore. I'm expelling blood…" Zane sat on the toilet bowl, shivering and grunting in pain.

"He isn't Rowan anymore. He’s a 'Logic Bomb.' If I don't 'Format' him, he will consume the last of the 'Legacy Data.' He will eat the memory of the Earth itself just to keep himself 'Online.'" I looked at the Author. He looked so kind. So grandfatherly. But then I looked at the desk. Next to his sketchbook was a jar. Inside the jar were thousands of tiny, flickering lights. "What are those?" I asked, my voice a hollow whisper. "Characters," the Author said simply. "The ones who didn't 'Test Well.' The ones who asked too many questions. I keep them as 'Reference.'" I realized then that the Author wasn't a creator. He was a **Hoarder**. He didn't want a "Perfect Life" for me; he wanted a "Perf

She points to a table and says; "You can put it over there. Here are gloves for you to wear when handling the bones. And be careful as some of them are very fragile, okay?" I nod and say; "Understood." I put the gloves on and head back into the cave. And after a few hours of walking up and down collecting all the bones for Dr. Chloe Addison, I have finally finished. Proudly I walk to Dr. Chloe Addison and tell her; "That was the last bones from the cave."

"What do you mean, underlying rot? When you looked at us back when we first dragged ourselves into this cellar, you said this bond wasn't a standard curse. You laughed and called it an incomplete ritual." Madame Kaelin’s crooked smile widened, exposing a row of greyish teeth. "Did I? Ah, memory is a fickle thing when you’ve lived beneath three layers of stone and bad plumbing. But the truth of it remains carved in the very nature of what you’re carrying. A soul-resonance of this magnitude doesn't just happen because two angry apprentices bump into each other in a hallway. It requires a catalyst. A very specific, highly regulated blueprint."

The first one I picked up was a letter. "Your Majesty, My words cannot express our sympathies to the royal family. Nemesis was a treasure that can never be replaced. I do hope she is found safe and well. If you find yourselves in need of anything that we may be able to assist you with, please don't hesitate to let us know. Your Humble Servant, Alexander"

The smell of blood mixed with decay hit him like a wave, making him frown involuntarily. His face paled when he saw the dark red chunks of flesh mixed with bits of bones in the bag, hands trembling as he gripped the bag. "This…they're truly monsters!" Zack said, his tone filled with pity. After putting on gloves, he carefully took all the chunks of flesh and bits of bones out of the bag. "This is just too cruel!" Zack's eyes reddened, looking beyond enraged. Seeing him like this, I suddenly recalled how, three years ago, his eyes were just as red in anger—all because I was kneeling at the door, begging him not to kick me out.

Not decorative. Intentional. Like a story carved into bone. He picked it up. Cold. Unexpectedly heavy. The second his fingers touched it he felt something strange. Not power. Memory. Like holding something that had belonged to a lot of people. For a very long time. Nero stared at it. Then shrugged. People were weird. Maybe rich collectors liked bones. When he emerged from the ruins the Rabid Saints were waiting. Drift immediately stood. "Finally." Nero tossed the object.

He had crafted a three-year game of breaking bones and breaking hearts -- and in the end, the one whose pride was shattered, whose dignity was ground to dust, was himself. "Miss Holloway, it's cold out here. Please, get in the car." Pemberton held the door open for me with quiet deference. I pulled my gaze away. I didn't spare the dark shape at the end of the street another glance. I ducked into the warm, luxurious cabin. The door shut with a heavy thud. The black motorcade rolled over the fresh snow and carried on toward the gleaming heart of the city, leaving behind forever the legless beggar sobbing in the drifts.