Dead Wrong Book Novels & Stories

Life couldn’t have been better. Despite that, I couldn’t help but wonder what the rest of the Duttons were up to. I knew that as long as they didn’t find a body, they wouldn’t declare a death. This led to endless speculation in society about whether the two of us were truly dead. Rumors and gossip spread everywhere, but I remained unmoved. Every day, I soaked up the sun, watched handsome men by the sea, and lived a life of pure indulgence. After half a year, though, I started to get a little bored.

She carried her weathered leather-bound book under her arm, the one I'd seen her clutch like it held the secrets of the universe. “We don’t have time for this,” she announced, her voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "Ryan is right. More supernaturals... the witches, the warlocks, the werewolves... are dying by the hundreds with every time we waste. And the death won't stop until there's nothing left." She set the book on the table with a heavy thud and flipped through its yellowed pages. The scent of old paper and faint magic filled the air. She stopped on an illustration that made my blood run cold.

My assistant asks. "Cancel all my appointment for today and tomorrow too. Don't call me if this company didn't face any bankruptcy," I said to her and run towards the lift. I can't believe this. This is so weird and I don't know how to feel. This cannot be real. I am hoping for him to be dead but I never meant dead for real. 'Jared Lanton has been found dead at his house this morning, ma'am.'

It simply disintegrated, then reappeared back in the car. “Sick bastard,” I spat. He'd been stalking me. I tore a slim black book from the rat pile. Book of Psychopomps was etched on it in gold ink. Numbers, emails, and old-fashioned addresses accompanied names, written in no apparent order. I rifled through the pages: “Old farts: ODIN, MORRIGAN, YAMA, HERMES....” and “New pests: ANAESTHESIA, AIDS, SANTA MUERTE...” A red ribbon marked a page at the back. “Accessories: SHANNON PARKER.”

DAWN’S POV I was seated in the throne room, watching as the elders and gammas of my pack whispered among themselves, unable to believe that their alpha was dead. I assured them that he was dead, but they demanded to see his body. "I want to see his body! How can we believe he is dead without seeing his body?" one of the gammas said, with a tinge of desperation in his voice. "You don't need to see his body. Trust me, he's dead," I replied with a cold tone, trying to hide my smile.

I know that magic is just an illusion, a trick. Dusting my clothes, I made my way toward my team. They had now assembled themselves in one place, their eyes still holding surprise, and I could guess that they were waiting for me to explain. The crowds were as silent as a graveyard. They weren't making any of their stupid noises, and I am sure they were still trying to recover from the shock of seeing me again. That made me remember a story in the Bible that our Sunday school teacher told us about. It was the story of a man named Lazarus who was resurrected from the dead. The only difference between us is that I have been dead for two months, or should I say suffering and wandering around an

"You'll say anything, won't you? "And on top of that, Scarlett was busy working. You're trying to pin this on her? "Are you even human?" Seth chimed in as well. "Exactly. We don't even know if this person actually died or not, and yet he's pulling this stunt to scare everyone."

"Tell me it's fake. The death certificate—it's fake, right? He's not dead!" Danny exhaled hard, eyes already heavy with the answer. He pulled out a stack of papers and slid them over. "I'm sorry, Dr. Foster. It's real." On top—plain and brutal: [William Wright. Date of Death: March 17, 2020. Cause: hemorrhagic shock.] Delia jerked her hand back like it burned, then snatched the page again, her fingers shaking. A tear hit the corner, smearing the ink. "No... this isn't possible..."

Then, with a sudden violent movement, he gripped the edge of the table and flipped it. Candles toppled, wax spilling like tears. Flowers scattered, their petals crushed under broken plates. The stew seeped across the stone floor, dark and heavy like blood. My carefully prepared evening shattered in an instant. I stood frozen, my heart in pieces among the debris. He didn’t even look at me. He just turned away, his broad back retreating into the gloom of the mansion. His shadow stretched along the wall, distorted, monstrous, until it disappeared into the darkness.

I tried to dodge the attack, but I slipped on a rock underfoot and crashed into the wall. Pain shot through my still-healing wound, and a cold sweat broke out as I froze in place. Seeing this, Gerald sneered and advanced slowly with the knife in hand. "If it weren't for you, Meghan and I would've been married by now! Now, I'm going to send you to where you belong." As the knife was raised, I closed my eyes tightly, full of bitter resentment. The sound of the blade tearing through flesh pierced the air. My heart skipped a beat. I thought I'd die with regret, but the pain never came.