Books That Mess With Your Mind Novels & Stories

I had made a list of books I'd be reading during the break. Visiting the library was one of the things I enjoyed during the holiday. It not only enlightened me on things I didn't know, it was my refuge. A quiet, neutral space where I could think clearly. I sighed quietly, pushing back my chair with as little noise as possible, and headed toward the towering shelves. My finger glided along the spines of the books, searching for the title. The Dark Triad: Understanding the Mind of the Manipulative and Ruthless. The title had caught my attention during a lecture, and now, with everything happening in my life, it felt oddly relevant.

She was afraid of the dark, so Liam installed a few more lights, causing the darkness to disappear. Maureen had previously explored Liam's room, the audiovisual room on the second floor, and his workspace. However, entering them this time, she felt completely different. Scattered on the carpet in one of Liam's rooms were numerous books of all kinds — "Fixing Motorcycles" "Finding yourself", "A Brief History of Time" — practically all imaginable books. They were strewn about in a disorganized fashion, but the room wasn't dirty. movies - all had been unsealed and seemed to have been watched.

Athena asked, curious about the significance of the book. He retrieved the book from the shelf and handed it to her. "This one." Athena realized it was the same book she had found in her office during their previous session. "His taste in books is kinda weird," Vincent added. "It's not about the taste, it's about what the heart and mind want to be fed with," Athena said thoughtfully. "And it seems like he wants to be fed with the dark."

I can’t explain it, but I don’t have to, either, if I don’t bring it up, and I’m not one to ever start conversations. I sniff the paperback—old, musty paper, glue, and Justus—and set it on the pallet. The next book in the pile, Peter Kropotkin’s The Conquest of Bread, has a picture of two men chopping down a tree on the cover. It smells the same. All the books are dog-eared paperbacks with yellowed pages—Walden by Henry David Thoreau, Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler, Critique of Practical Reason by Immanuel Kant, several each by Ursula K. Le Guin and N. K. Jemison, and a massive hardback of Plato’s collected works. The Plato is the only one that looks like it hasn’t been read a hundre

Completely unguarded. And that, more than anything else, unsettled him. Because he could feel it. In his chest. That deadly spark again. He scanned the cover, thumb following the title, then back at her. "Why this one?" "It's a book about sadness," she told him quietly. "But not the kind that cries out. The kind that settles into the space between us." Some dark, wordless flicker showed behind his eyes. He nodded once, palming the book into his coat pocket as if it was evidence in a case he wasn't ready to break yet.

At the police station, Matt was so agitated that the chair beneath him rattled, and the handcuffs on his wrists clanged sharply. The interrogator slammed the table and ordered him to be quiet. Matt stared at me with bloodshot eyes. "Lily! Did you do this?! You must have planned all of this. I never thought you were this scheming! You voluntarily sent your mother to the hospital. Now you're standing in front of the police and spouting nonsense!" I looked at him calmly, finding his words absurd. "When did I ever voluntarily send my mother there? Matt, I told you over and over—what you wanted to do was illegal. And my mother isn't dead. The one who died is your mother.

Russell felt a lightening jolt passed through his spine. And Daniel... His feelings were hard to describe. He felt like he touched the most softest piece of silk. Soft yet firm. His heart was yearning to touch again. How would it feel to twirk them in between his fingers? How would it feel to lick.... Damn... Daniel mentally slapped himself. And quickly button up his shirt. And hurried to the washroom leaving a heavy breathing flustered Russell. What they both were unaware was that their hearts were beating frantically and there was something very wrong happening in their southern region.

The library felt like a gift, and that was what made it dangerous. I moved slowly along the shelves, trailing my fingers across the spines of books. The contact sent a faint shiver through me, not pleasure exactly, but recognition. Something inside me loosened, not relief and not comfort, but a thin strand of control I had not realized was missing. The titles were familiar in tone if not in detail. Business. Finance. Strategy. Leadership. Negotiation. The kinds of books men like Jaden collected to justify their decisions after the fact, volumes that framed dominance as intelligence and conquest as foresight.

Arpit and I are fond of novels, while he loves to read horror, I am a mystery-thriller fan. I was unwrapping the parcel when Aunty called him and he went to her, telling me to keep his books in his room. The books were 5 while I remembered ordering only 4. I thought to check why I have received an extra book. Horrified by the revelation, the book was The Red Journal. I thought I was hallucinating. I picked up the red book and stood in front of the mirror. It was not my hallucination, it was real, just like me.