Books Like In Cold Blood Novels & Stories

The blue light of the monitors in the study suddenly felt like the cold, clinical glow of a morgue. Fourteen years ago, the dirt under Robbin’s fingernails had been real. Now, it was just a phantom sensation. She remembered the way the hill had felt beneath her knees—the sharp rocks biting into her skin as she stared at the silhouette of her childhood home. "We thought we were smart," Robbin said, her eyes fixed on the screen but her mind miles away. "We hid in that ditch while the bullets tore the air apart. We listened to Jeff scream for the driver to leave the rest behind. We heard the tires screech."

The cops stared at each other and stared back at her. “We have no idea what you are talking about but we are here because of this book. Your fingerprints were on them, so… You were definitely at the crystal water beach” they said. Emma had her eyes fixed on the book. She blinked repeatedly. “It was the book from that day, the game book. How did it get to them?” She thought, moving back away from them.

On some occasions the rare ones where I wasn’t driving I scratched the itch hard enough to draw blood, but instead of the flies, maggots and eggs I expect to fly out I was just met with a dark red and the sweet metallic scent of blood , the wound wouldn’t even I just watch it flow and dry up, before it scabs and the wound heals all in a second. That’s new, I whispered under my breath. I had seen so much supernatural things online, I knew that they were real no matter how people would think they were fake, I just felt something in me say it was all real, so nothing shocked me. What took me by surprise was the possibility that I was one of the supernatural creatures talked about in blueit circ

Eyes… deep crimson, the color of wine freshly spilled across marble. I didn’t just wake up in a different body. I woke up in a different world. And not just any world. One I knew far too well. I had read about this place before—in a book called Blood and Moonlight. A gothic fantasy where ancient vampire courts ruled the night from silvered palaces, where ruthless werewolf packs prowled the wild forests, and where an uneasy truce held between fangs and claws… until it inevitably shattered. It was a story of war. A story of betrayal. A story where love was as fatal as any blade.

Shrewsbury The Third Twin: A Dark Psychological Thriller by Darren Speegle Aletheia: A Supernatural Thriller by J.S. Breukelaar Where the Dead Go to Die by Mark Allan Gunnells and Aaron Dries Sarah Killian: Serial Killer (For Hire!) by Mark Sheldon The Final Cut by Jasper Bark Blackwater Val by William Gorman Pretty Little Dead Girls: A Novel of Murder and Whimsy by Mercedes M. Yardley Nameless: The Darkness Comes by Mercedes M. Yardley

I approached slowly, the heels of my boots clicking softly on the polished floor. Drawn like a moth to a flame, I skimmed my fingers across the titles etched on the spines. Tales of kings. Wars. Bloodlines. My gaze caught on a thick, weathered book left open on the desk. Its title was simple: Pack Histories and Blood Betrayals. A cold shiver rippled through me. I leaned over, my shadow swallowing the page, and began to read. At first, it was the usual: chronicles of battles, treaties, ascensions. But then, a word snared me, rooted me in place:

“And you get even more provocative with coffee. How many cups today?” “Only three. But I brought books. And promises of civilized conversation.” He opened the bag, pulling out a few titles, including a copy of The Origin of Lost Bloods, about Celtic mythology and sacred blood. “If I didn’t know what you are, I’d think you were a historian with a witch fetish,” she commented, picking up the book. “I only have a fetish for one,” he replied, lower. Before the sentence could fade, the air in the mansion trembled.

If he can see every move I make, how will I ever make a move against him? During my rampage of a small bookshelf on the wall next to the bed, I find classic books such as, The Catcher in the Rye, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and so on. Spotting amongst the classics a leather bound book with no title or author. I slowly open it and inside handwritten pages are revealed. May 12th 1998

He was pale as a ghost, and his heart had stopped beating. He was already cold as ice. Meanwhile, the sounds of bragging from Wayne's room hit me like a sledgehammer. "Ms. Stewart! Shouldn't we have the doctor check on Frank, just in case?" "Josh’s son is as worthless as his life. He won't die that easily." Jessica's voice was soft, but it cut through me like ice. "Just take care of yourself. If he dies, the Stewart family will have one less problem to deal with.

Didn't check on him, didn't ask if he was alright, and Leo understood, distantly, underneath the roaring static of his own fear, that this was simply what tonight looked like for everyone else in the room. Ordinary. Survivable. A Tuesday. He wasn't sure, standing there with his hands still slick with someone else's blood, that he'd ever be able to call anything ordinary again. The crate he'd been loading sat half in the truck, forgotten, and Leo set it down slow and careful, like the gentleness of the gesture might undo some of what he'd just watched happen ten feet away.