Dead Woman Crossing Novels & Stories

When Ethan Lane came back from his business trip, he pulled two dolls out of his suitcase. One was pink, the other blue. His daughter, Nina Lane's eyes lit up for a second when she saw the pink one. But instead of reaching for it, she glanced over at Crystal Shaw, Vivian Shaw's daughter. That five-year-old girl had already stretched out her hand for the pink doll. So Nina pulled her hand back and said quietly, "I'll take the blue one." I froze. Nina's loved pink ever since she was little. Her backpack is pink, her water bottle is pink, even her hair clips are always pink. But the moment Crystal was in the picture, she stepped aside. Later, when Ethan drove Vivian and Crystal home, I ask

She was thin, so very thin, weighing barely eighty pounds. The muddy and cracked streets before her sat dark and empty; human detritus littered the roads and yards, and the skeletons of ruined homes bore unintelligible spray paint that looked more like the desperate scratching of a fluorescent wild beast than symbols from a nameless insurance company or traumatized recovery workers. It was a city of the dead, a city of the damned. Right foot, left foot drag. One step at a time. The pain didn’t matter. It can’t matter. Jeannine had been walking for what felt like forever, almost in a trance, placing one bloody foot in front of the other. Moving forward was the only thing that mattered.

My ears starts feeling like someone was pulling it off before I finally submit to the coursing torture that is swallowing me whole. XXX Lily collapses on the ground, her half-transformed body hitting the ground with a thud. Her eyes are closed, her heartbeat heavy but so slow. It slowly starts to fade and dread creeps up in my heart.

That was wrong. “Raze the front,” Fintan said. I nodded. “Let’s sweep.” We swept. Steel punched through ribs. Flames took shoulders. A spear pinned a skull to a tree and held. The dead didn’t scream. They watched us while their bodies failed, and that quiet attention made my skin crawl. “Ronan,” Amara warned. I turned. The water behind us bulged. A woman in a drowned wedding dress rose slow from the black,veil slick, bouquet a knot of reeds and bone. Her mouth opened, but no sound came; still, something crawled under my skin, seeing it.

The next morning, I woke up on the couch, head splitting. I blinked at the TV as the news played in the background. “…a tragic collision on the Westbrook highway last night… a car failed to stop at the red light and slammed into a median. The driver, identified as twenty-seven-year-old Emilia D’Amato, died on the scene. She was five months pregnant…” I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move. I didn’t scream. I just died. Present Day The sound of soft footsteps pulled me from the grave of memory.

I heard the clicking of camera shutters, but no one called the ambulance. My blood drained dry. My body became cold. Finally, Yvette Skye was no more. I died all alone at the corner of the street. No one cared. My corpse was not a pretty sight. My eyes were wide, unseeing, and there was a large hole in my stomach. My legs were twisted together. One of my arms was flung by the side of the road. My legs were useless now. I was ugly. No wonder the little girl cried. Floating in the air, I stared at my mutilated corpse.

She hadn't had sex for years after her husband's death and she knew she had to make a move that night. She went into his room silently like a thief in her nighty to watch him sleeping. She was braless and pantless and wanted to try something dirty that night. She met him sleeping like a dead man in his corpse facing the ceiling. She was scared and tried to not get caught. Her eyes explored his bulge and her nipples hardened instantly. His dick was long and big and her mouth and pussy watered. After a few seconds of doubt, she carefully removed his trousers and brought out his dick. She wrapped her hand around it and rejoiced in her heart for the little success.

Shutting her eyes, she reached out to the wall and… couldn’t touch it. She stumbled and fell on the ground, moving further than she was supposed to. The wall was supposed to be there. She ought to have fallen against the wall, but she tumbled farther onto the road. Leaden footsteps sounded down the street as she picked herself up from the ground. She turned back to see the wall that she had fallen through and touched her body to make sure she was still fine. Then she pinched herself. Nothing happened. This was happening. KEEP UP! She hurried after the leaden steps, running through the streets late at night, only realizing now that she had spent the whole day at the museum after killing the p

These past few days had taught her that resistance was useless. I sat in front of the chapel and began to lead the funeral rites. "The hour has come." I rose to my feet, my voice echoing through the open hall. "Lift the coffin." The words had barely left my mouth when frantic footsteps came pounding from outside. A woman stumbled in, caked in mud from head to toe. Her hair was a wild, tangled mess. It was Daphne. She had escaped from the crypt.

She must have sensed us, but she likely thought we were someone else. Probably the person did this to her. “Alpha Cross. She’s dead. What do we do about this?” One of the wolves in my team asked. I should have the answers, but all I can do is gawk at the mutilated woman. Something about her was oddly familiar. Stepping closer, I crouched beside her body and used a stick lying around the empty barn to lift her hand. As much as I could without breaking it off. With the position her body was forced into, it’s hard to really examine her limbs. She died a brutal death.