Book The Yellow Wallpaper Novels & Stories

I still needed to clean the floor and the rest of the tables, but she offered to wait for me, armed with one of her erotic fantasy books of the moment and a cup of coffee. The cover of the book positioned next to her hand, which was made in gold tones and with a mask drawn in dark calligraphy, shone for a moment from the corner of my eyes, and I looked quickly, almost deceiving myself into thinking that Zylah would be shining in that same tone of gold. Sometimes my eyes deceived me when I looked quickly at Anne, seeing her brown hair shining with the golden tone like a second skin, just so that I blinked and the mirage disappeared. "To begin with..." I began to say, wetting the mop and putti

A weathered bookshelf sagged under the weight of abandoned novels, their pages yellowed and brittle with age. "Hello? Is anyone here?" she called out, her voice echoing through the hollow emptiness. Silence greeted her, amplifying the sense of isolation that hung heavy in the air. Undeterred, Anna made her way toward the front door, her hand trembling as she reached for the handle.

On the other side of the room, a bookshelf sat in the corner, displaying an assortment of well-arranged books and a few files. In general, the room felt cozy and peaceful. It was just... "Wow! " Christiana exclaimed in awe. She headed to the bookshelf. Her eyes scanned the books and finally landed on a novel. Christian's eyes lit in excitement and she took it. It was one of her favorite novels; VERITY BY COLLEN HOOVER.

I’m barely healed from giving birth, and I haven’t eaten a real, hot meal in weeks. Maybe months. My body revolts against my mind, and I relax, letting Cosette guide me up the grand staircase. My worn boots leave a trail of damp on the crimson carpet runner covering what looks like pure black marble. I keep my eyes on my boots until Cosette turns us into a room on the second floor. The yellow room. It’s aptly named. Sprays of muted yellow wallpaper hug each wall. A four poster bed bigger than my apartment invites me in. “I’ll have some flowers brought up to warm the place up a bit,” Cosette says absently as she lets go of my wrist and disappears into an ensuite bathroom.

Her goosebumps broke out over her skin, her senses throbbing, her blood heating. How embarrassing. And, okay, how intriguing. Since the car accident that wrecked her life many months ago, she had experienced arousal only at night, in her dreams. To react like this in daylight, because of a book... strange. She didn’t allow herself to contemplate why. There wasn’t any explanation that would convince her. Rather, she focused on the pages in front of her. They were yellowed and fragile, delicate. And beaded with blood? Small dots of dried crimson soiled the edges. Gently, she caressed her fingertips along the handwritten text, her gaze catching much information.

"You can wait here, I'll come to Mr. Miller." I nodded, and did what I had wanted to do for a long time. I walked over to one of the large shelves as she entered a hallway at the end of this room, and I was surprised because I thought these books were just replicas made of styrofoam. In fact these books are really original, or books that are copies of the original books. Which, of course, is also old. I pulled up a book called Bleak House by Charles Dickens. One of the books was dark blue with an old engraving on its back.

She had wondered privately if the stink of the city alone could coerce her to follow her husband’s command to stay indoors, though she considered it highly unlikely. As she had paused to examine the books lining the shelves, the faint beginnings of her good humour had fled. The titles on the spines leered down at her, the jagged lettering contriving rotten faces of their own. Woman and Sin, they read. The Keeping of a Good Wife. Accomplishments Acceptable in the Female Gender.

And focus maybe? I screwed my eyes shut, my fingers tightening on the necklace. Then I froze. Wait. The book. The urge to slap myself across the cheek was strong, considering the fact that I hadn’t thought of that. I moved in a hurry, digging out the old book from my floorboard. The worn out leather stared back at me. I flipped the page and frowned. It wasn’t a spell book. It was a journal. My fingers brushed over the yellowing pages, going through the scribbles that seemed to look more frantic with the more pages I turned.

The ones that had survived every version of him and every place he'd lived. Her finger stopped on a dark green spine, the gold lettering almost entirely rubbed away. She tilted it toward her. Walt Whitman. *Leaves of Grass.* The most worn book on the shelf — the cover soft with handling, the corners rounded, the spine held together by old glue and what appeared to be sheer stubbornness. She pulled it out carefully and it fell open in her hands the way books fall open to the pages they've visited most, the paper remembering where it's been taken before.

Theo took a sip of coffee, then added with a smirk, “Might wanna get checked. Could be alien parasites. Or just iron deficiency.” I almost smiled. Almost. But something inside me twisted instead. I looked around the room. The walls were lined with yellow wallpaper, the kind with faded floral patterns that probably looked charming thirty years ago. There were doilies on the side tables and a crocheted blanket draped over the worn-out couch in the corner. An old grandfather clock stood against the wall, ticking steadily in the silence between words. It was a house with history. It felt inherited. Not lived in, not exactly, but held onto. “Where are we?” I asked, still gripping the edge of the