Books That Mess With Your Mind Novels & Stories

"I'm glad you do. But I must tell you this; it's going to be hard. It's not going to be easy. You'd feel like bailing and you'd feel like a shitty person. We all are at a point in our lives before we heal. So when you come the day after tomorrow, I want you to come with every baggage you can carry and we will offload as much as we can to make you feel lighter by the time you return home, okay?" I nodded. She picked a book and handed it over to me. "This is a book I wrote last year: The Abstractness of The Mental. I give it out for free to my patients as I like to call you all." I laughed and nodded before looking down at the book. It had a glossy feeling to it and a picture of the brain and

"What the hell are you laughing about?" "I just think it's not unusual for mindless beasts to do something befitting of their nature," I drawled out. "Are you calling Yvonne a mindless beast?" Jasper hissed angrily. I did not respond and instead gestured for him to pay attention to Yvonne's demonstration.

The clouds above were churning low, like a storm had forgotten how to break. At the bookstore, the front light flickered once when she unlocked the door. Then again when she stepped inside. The air was stale in a way it had never been before, like the whole shop had held its breath while she was gone. Shelves creaked softly behind her as she turned on the desk lamp. She froze. A stack of books near the window was toppled — somehow all collapsed outward in a perfect spiral. No wind. No draft. Just… rearranged. She picked up the top book. Dreams in the Soil. She didn't remember shelving this. Its leather cover was warm in her hands. Almost too warm. She opened it, just to check for a bookmark

THEMES: Dark and Intense, Incubus- X- Human, Demon- X- Human, Filthy tone, Accidental demon summoning, Memory reading, Blackmail pre plot, Risky fuck, Public setting, Fucking in a Library, Aftercare, Revenge, Spell Gone Wrong, Spell circle, Trapped in a Spell circle rune.

The clouds above were churning low, like a storm had forgotten how to break. At the bookstore, the front light flickered once when she unlocked the door. Then again when she stepped inside. The air was stale in a way it had never been before, like the whole shop had held its breath while she was gone. Shelves creaked softly behind her as she turned on the desk lamp. She froze. A stack of books near the window was toppled — somehow all collapsed outward in a perfect spiral. No wind. No draft. Just… rearranged. She picked up the top book. Dreams in the Soil. She didn’t remember shelving this. Its leather cover was warm in her hands. Almost too warm. She opened it, just to check for a bookmark

ame. By nine-thirty, Alli's hands were shaking so badly she nearly spilled the lukewarm co#ee in her lap. The dark liquid sloshed precariously, threatening to stain her jeans, astain she couldn't bear to add to the already messy canvas of the day. She set the mug down with a clatter, the sound jarring in the quiet apartment.

The downtown bookstore smelled like old paper and amber wood polish. Soft classical music floated through the aisles, barely louder than a whisper. Clara always came on Thursdays-the quietest day of the week-and she always headed for the poetry section first. Today, someone else was already there. She noticed him the moment she turned the corner: tall, dark-haired with streaks of silver at his temples, black wool coat draped perfectly across broad shoulders. He stood in front of the Spanish poetry shelf, his long fingers brushing the spine of Twenty Love Poems and a Song of Despair.She hesitated.

I need to process and just have a minute to breathe. I turn the books the right way up and try to slide them back into the shelves silently when the title of the first catches my eye and stops me pushing it in. It’s a psychology textbook about his personality condition and I impulsively tip it sideways to let the pages flip open for a quick nosey. That part of me that is eager to know more about what it means in terms of him as a person kicking in. I scan the words eagerly, desperate for more insight.

A minute I felt like seeking out Zules even though I didn't know where she would be and the other minute, I feel like pounding hard into someone and making them scream, and the next minute I feel like barrelling the head of someone on a cold hard metal and watch them bleed, and the next minute I just want to scream my lungs out until it cracks. I stood up abruptly, snapping my mind off the thoughts lest I acted on it and walked to my desk. I opened a book. I tried to read but all I did was blink at the words. They swam in front of my eyes like fishes in the sea, funny enough, as I expected, none of it made sense. I flipped the page, read another line but still nothing. My fingers gripped the

Azrael asked. “I haven’t gone far into the book but it’s a story based on an actual schizophrenic patient the writer knew; it was meant to educate the public about various mental disorders in the mental asylum they call hell. I thought it would be fun reading a genre I’m not too familiar with.” I explained as I touched the front of the book. “I can recommend something if you get hitched. Utopia by Kelvin McLean. It’s about a nymphomaniac struggling to overcome his issue so that he can be in a happy relationship with the woman he’s been in love with for seven years.” Azrael recommended.