Dark Fall Novels & Stories

They held my funeral on a drizzly day. Francis stood by the grave, decked out in a black suit, black umbrella in hand, his face a mask of nothing. The casket was sealed tight. After a fall from the 18th floor, there was not much left to show, and not even the mortician could work miracles. Nora was at his side in a black dress, her sobs barely a whisper. Bernard loomed nearby, his expression dark as storm clouds. The rest of the clans had shown up, pretending to grieve, but really, they were all watching to see if the Davis family would crumble, if Francis would break.

I take my food to the lounge to eat while watching TV. When I'm not dancing, I'm cooking and watching series. Mostly thriller and suspense. Believe me, I get scared, but thriller is better than horror. It's mostly blood and guns but with horror? You'll come across creatures that don't even exist yet feel real because of how scary they are. You'll believe there's a Darkasher somewhere out there.

As I walked back inside on shaky legs, Damien’s cum slowly leaking out of me, I realized how far gone I was. My marriage was becoming nothing more than a cover. And I was falling dangerously deeper into Damien Blackwood’s dark, addictive world.

“Completely. Twisted. Obsessed. All of it.” He smirked, dark and predatory, eyes smoldering. “Good. Because once you’re mine… there’s no turning back. And I… I’ve never wanted anything more than this. Than you. Than fire in the dark.” We stood there, wrapped in fog and shadow, hearts racing, desire tangled with obsession, danger pressing from every side. And I realized, terrifyingly and thrillingly, that we were already beyond redemption, beyond reason, beyond the world that had tried to keep us apart. We were lost—and we wouldn’t have it any other way.

Faith and the wolf stood at the edge of the deep. Faith held onto Killian’s neck, and he stood like a pillar of stone beside her. Together, they pushed a final, crushing wave of energy into the black pool. The Dark Wolf let out one last, tormenting scream as it was completely pulled down into the depths of the earth. The black liquid followed, drained away into a prison so deep that no king or scientist would ever find it again. The Archive went silent.

The air over the Shadow Vale was thick with ash and despair. A gray pall clung to the jagged peaks, and the ground itself seemed to shudder under the weight of countless undead souls. Selene stood on the precipice of the valley’s entrance, her silver eyes reflecting the devastation below. Before her lay the amassed legions of the Revenant—fallen warriors, corrupted beasts, and spectral phantoms—stretching as far as the eye could see.

They rolled in from the west black, unnatural, growling with lightning that didn’t flash, but crawled across the sky like veins. The towers of Duskfall trembled. Wolves refused to shift. Even the strongest warriors curled beneath blankets, teeth chattering, eyes wild. Whatever I had done that morning… it had stirred something awake. Something ancient. Something watching. And worst of all I could feel it watching through me. Rafael returned to the throne hall just after sunset. He wasn’t in full armor. Just black linen, his tunic half-buttoned, the edges stained where the healers couldn’t scrub the cursed blood away. He walked slower now, like he carried something heavier than pain.

The island woke to a dark dawn—sky like dried blood, sun a flat coin behind smoke. SILKEN COMMAND sat half-sunk in the calm water, white side broken open, drinks bubbling in the shallows with fuel and coral bits. The reef had cut it deep overnight: sharp rock tearing metal, water filling lower areas where fancy food and drugs floated in mess. I watched from the boat’s front, engine low, Leica camera across my chest, salt on the lens. The dark-web show—now 92,000 watchers and growing—showed Damian and Seraphina tied to the metal frame on the stage. Their gold masks cracked, silk clothes ripped and dirty with ash and blood. The red ribbon hung loose between them, untied noose moving in the hot

My library professor whose deep commanding voice made my thighs clench during lectures. The man I’d fantasized about bending me over these very tables and fucking me senseless until I can’t remember my name. I opened the book, and the dedication page read: For those who crave quiet darkness.” My breath hitched. I flipped to the next page and started reading. “She knelt before him in the silence of stacks, skirts pushed high, panties already soaked. “Read it out,” He ordered. “Every filthy word, while I taste how wet you’ve become for me.”

because my life has reached a level of pathetic that requires supernatural intervention. “Veni ad me, daemon ignis,” I mutter, squinting at my phone. “Uh— vincula carnis, something something, claim me?” I snort. Take a sip of wine. The candles flicker again, harder this time, all of them at once, and the temperature in the room drops so fast I see my breath. The lights go out. Not just the candles. Everything. The kitchen light, the bathroom light, the glow of my phone, all of it dies at once and the darkness is absolute, total, the kind of dark that has weight and texture and presence.