Dead Time Stories Novels & Stories

The girl they’re missing is exactly where she wants to be. And every night, under the streets of Hot Springs, Holly Holiday sings for an audience that never has to let her go. Some stories don’t need to be told to the living. Some legends belong to the Dead. The Next Day A Normal Thursday (or as close as we get) Thursday March 25th, 2027 Period 2 – Photo Lab with Julian The darkroom smells like developer and cedar (Julian’s doing). He’s got the red safelight on low, prints hanging like ghosts from the line.

He did not add more, but he wanted to. I’m scared. I’m trying. Don’t drift. Instead, he sent: Eli: Call tonight? Noah: Yes. The call was quiet. Noah’s voice through the speaker felt both close and far. They talked about nothing important. The weather. The trip. The weird feeling of leaving. But underneath it was something heavier. The absence. When they finally said goodnight, Eli lay awake with the phone still in his hand. Two weeks. He could do two weeks.

Five minutes later, mother’s call chased me, her voice trembling with excitement: “Darling, we all saw it! Your father said ‘It’s acceptable,’ but he locked the magazine in his desk drawer! Come home for dinner, we miss you…” Miss me? Or just want to apply a new layer of gold plating to the increasingly dull Elio signboard? I smiled and declined, citing a “project deadline.” Two years later, the phone rang again. This time it was Elena herself, her crying covering the background noise: “Rhea, Dad had a stroke! The doctor says his condition is very bad, and he keeps calling your name… ” In the past timeline, this collapse didn’t happen until years later. “Sis! I know Mom and Dad were wrong be

The experience of being kept in the dark was something I found deeply unpleasant. Hours Later Valerie unearthed an ancient security video that appeared both grainy and distorted yet remained sufficiently clear. The corner timestamp displayed a date ten days prior to the janitor’s murder. Sophia stepped out of the club and appeared on the screen yet she had company. Sophia’s mother was with her.

I set the phone down and looked out at the city again—bright, alive, carrying countless lives forward through the night. …….. On Wednesday I would meet Dorothy Marsh, the eighty-one-year-old woman who buried promises in the ground and had been waiting thirty-seven years for someone to dig one up and honor it. On December fifteenth I would sit front row and watch my daughter dance the story of a woman who disappeared and came back. Across the city, a man was building something small, honest, and clean, naming it Groundline because it was about foundations now, not heights. Somewhere in a journalism program folder was a seventeen-year-old’s essay about the stories that never got told right, an

The smell of rotting flesh seem to seep out of the coffin. In the end, we had to have a closed burial for him. ++++++++++ Death offers us so many tnrills and chills. And in most cases, it's not even personal experiences that drive us a bit off the edge when we hear those stories. But again, I would like to remind you that some of these stories may or not be real, but it is the absolute truth for those who shared those tales. So once again, I bid you farewell from The Supernatural Spa, dear reader. This has been your Storyteller, The Diwata, saying goodnight and we hope to see you soon.

In 1983 a Mrs Carson of New York was laid out in our coffin, presumed dead of hear disease. As mourners watched, she suddenly sat up, alive as you or I. Unfortunately her daughter dropped dead of fright on the spot. I don't own any of this stories. I found them in some creepy books. I'm thinking of writing my own scary stories, but not anytime soon. You can send me your short stories for a feature if you feel like it. Thanks for reading. Enjoy!I don't own any of this stories. I found them in some creepy books. I'm thinking of writing my own scary stories, but not anytime soon.

But none of them mattered. Today, I had a client. I reached the basement door, pushed it open, and locked it behind me with a firm click. The air was cooler here, quieter, heavier, it smelled like something nasty was about to happen here, something that will make me feel relieved. “Shawty, I didn’t think you’d come this early,” one of them greeted, his voice low with anticipation.

Then she laughs, because the alternative is dismantling the desk with her teeth. "An order," she repeats. "You'll narrate the entire graveyard. Every program. Every body count. Every committee that signed the end of the world in triplicate. You handed all of it over almost generously, the way people are generous with things already dead, because knowing can't make them deader." That is — "You have never once been generous about a person who is currently breathing inside my walls." The shape of it arrives, cold and clean. That is the ranking. Not signal over secret. Dead over living. LUS will run the museum tour all day and goes quiet only when the exhibit has a pulse.