Fall Of The House Of Usher Audiobook Mga Nobela at Kwento

Hollis**** The mansion’s corridors were a labyrinth of decay, reeking of mildew and forgotten secrets. Each step echoed like a distant scream, and the oppressive silence wrapped around us like a predator waiting to strike. The air was thick, each breath heavy with the stench of rot, and every creak of the floorboards sent a jolt of adrenaline through my veins. I kept my grip firm on Hailey’s hand, her warmth grounding me even as icy dread crept further into my soul.

"I shut the door tight behind me and press myself back against it, my body gasping for enough air to keep me standing. I am still shaking from what happened in the alley. What I saw there: Ezra’s image disappearing into the darkness, a figure hitting the ground, and then that voice whispering in flashes of light through the chinks in reality. Bodies moving of their own accord. A voice that was not mine, but mine with every breath." “No,” I respond. I just stand there, listening. I hear faint whispers in my mind. I “The house listens back.” A soft sound of creaking comes from above me. This is as if a step is being taken. This makes me shiver

We ran—down the corridor, up the stairs, through the still-swaying kitchen—while the house groaned and the cold presence followed us like an invisible tide. The moment we crossed the threshold of the front door, the air snapped—like we’d broken out of a bubble. Lucien didn’t stop moving until we were halfway down the snowy path. My chest burned. My muscles trembled. My mind spun. Behind us, Ruby locked the front door—not that it would help. The house exhaled, releasing a cloud of white frost from the cracks in the wood. The voice came one last time, drifting through the walls, soft and horrifying:

Chapter 2: Chapter Two Thursday came too slowly and too quickly at the same time. I spent the entire week in a fog of constant arousal and anxiety. Every lecture I attended with Professor Hawthorne felt like foreplay. The way his voice wrapped around words like “submission” and “surrender” while discussing "Tess of the d’Urbervilles" made my thighs clench under the desk. I kept replaying the moment I swallowed his cum under his desk , the thick, salty taste, the way his hand had tightened in my hair, the calm way he answered the phone while I was still licking him clean.

The house was silent, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards and the distant, mournful howl of a wolf in the woods. Silas, sensing my spiraling descent into the dark, moved with a quiet, purposeful grace. He didn't try to offer more logic or more theories. Instead, he disappeared into the kitchen. When he returned, he carried two steaming mugs of coffee. The rich, earthy aroma cut through the stagnant air of the library, a small, domestic mercy in the middle of a storm.

But the fear that had been gnawing at her for days pushed her forward. She opened the book. The first pages were cold, filled with business notes and travel schedules. But as she flipped forward, the handwriting changed—it became jagged, frantic, and deeply personal. Her eyes landed on a single sentence near the end: Some ghosts don’t stay buried because they were never dead. A chill crept down her spine, turning her blood to ice. Before she could process the words, the lights throughout the estate flickered once, buzzed, and died. The house fell into absolute, suffocating darkness.

It was actually her voice but it was coming from a part of a book that had already been destroyed. "The fourth copy is yours, Elara " the voice whispered from the darkness. "Now see what the author does with the changes." Before her flat eyes could close against the dark, the silver-leaf circuit along her ribs made one violent click, the primary grounding wire snapping its rivets to discharge its remaining five thousand volts straight through the center of her printed brain, locking her consciousness into a single, permanent image of a descending steel knife as the black jaws of the octavo-folder came together over her face for the final, definitive stroke.

Every step down felt as if I climbed deeper into something that long ago should have ended. The ringing came out of the kitchen. Where there was only an old closet. But on the kitchen table there was suddenly a cream-colored fixed telephone. With spiral cable. Old fashion. Wet. Water driped from the listener. It rang again. I stopped. My heart was running. Behind me, Noah, Jonas, Liam, Mira, Emil and Nora came down the stairs slowly. Everybody quiet. The whole house stopped breathing. I looked at the book. The line on the first page was now complete.

Then black brine surged up his throat and drowned the words in a choking hiss. The house answered him. A shudder ran through the floorboards under our feet, then another, deeper, as though something had just woken inside the walls and discovered it was already home. Behind us, in Alpha Cameron’s office, shelves crashed. Above us, claws began to scrape between the ceiling beams. And from somewhere inside the pack house itself, a dozen stolen wolf voices started laughing.