روايات وقصص ضمن Fantasy Horror Books For Adults

They were monsters, created to plant nightmares in people's heads and this sight would cause Maddox again one or two sleepless nights, because before someone had put a bullet in this Iuba, he had ripped the blond woman's throat out . Maddox gritted his teeth and jumped over them outside into the garden and into a bloody hell. There were screams, wails, and sounds of pain. The Iubas growl and bite filled the air. There were so many that at first glance he couldn't see them all, but what he saw were the two little, red-haired girls on the hedge in front of the fence. And also the big Iuba, who jumped straight at her.

"They have, ever since she was born." Cassandra set the little serpent among the piles of gold coins. The creature sagged in defeat and exhaustion after lying before that terrible fire. "There it is," Vasilisa's voice came from behind a mountain of walnut-sized raw rubies. It wasn't hard to find the book. It was placed on a golden stand in between two golden Sirin statues. The grimoire turned out to be the largest book Cassandra had ever seen, with pages made of parchment illuminated with tracery, and it was open to a page thickly covered with elegant, intricate writing.

"Every myth is real darling. And here in Brookedale, we have everything supernatural. From centaurs to demons, to fairies and dryads. And flagaes are magical demon beings living in a kind of special glass." Mollie said. "So, Vampires, werewolves, sorcerers and witches are normal around here?" "Not really. We all keep our identities a secret. Only a supernatural knows another supernatural. We wouldn't want to scare the humans." I said.

the voice wheezed, the sound of sandpaper on bone. The closet door swung wide, not pushed by a hand, but kicked open with a violent force that sent the wood splintering against the wall. The man stepped out. He was tall, gaunt, and dressed in rags that smelled of wet earth and ancient decay. His eyes were milky, sightless, yet they locked onto mine with a terrifying, supernatural precision. I didn't run. I couldn't. I was paralyzed, anchored to the floor as he took a step forward, his movements jerky and wrong, like a puppet on tangled strings.

I murmured, gathering my things. At Row D, I ran my fingers across worn spines: Lycanthropy and Legends, Moon-bound, The Silver Curse. My pulse quickened as I pulled a heavy volume free. I whispered to myself, “Could I really…?” “Could you really what?” a voice came from behind me. I spun to see Fiona standing there, arms folded, a curious smile on her face. “Fiona! You scared me.” “Sorry.” She peered at the book in my hand. “Werewolves? That’s… unexpected. Planning a Halloween prank?”

My wolf replied. I shook off the "what-ifs" that held me back and turned back to the towering oak shelves. My fingers traced the spines of leather-bound books, all of them layered in dust that made my nose itch. "Focus," I muttered to myself. "One monster at a time." I immediately admonished myself. I continued to look until I found the books my dad had recommended. I pulled the four heavy volumes from the shelves. The History of Shadow Entities, The Blood Rites of the Unseen, The Search for Shadows and one volume of Pack Lore and Ancient Threats. I carried them to a secluded corner of the library. The dust felt suffocating, but I wouldn't let anything stop me.

There was a table. Books stacked on it. Not like the ones I used to see at home. These looked older. Some of them had markings on the covers I didn’t understand. I walked closer. My fingers hovered over one of them before I touched it. The cover felt rough. Worn. I opened it slowly. The pages were filled with symbols. Not letters. Not words I knew. Shapes. Lines. Things that looked like drawings but weren’t. I frowned. “What is this…?” I flipped a page.

I could feel his presence at my back—tall, warm, the faint rustle of his cassock as he moved closer. I kept reading, line after line about denying the body, about offering suffering to God, about the dangers of self-indulgence. My voice shook on the parts about “touching oneself in secret” and “fantasies that defile the soul.” By the time I reached the end of the first page I was breathing faster, nipples tight against my dress, the ache between my legs worse than it had been all day. Father Chris stepped around the table so I could see him. He leaned down, one hand resting on the open book, the other hanging loose at his side. His eyes locked on mine.

Little did I know, the spark was about to become a raging inferno, courtesy of something far beyond the mortal realm. It started on a rainy Friday night. I’d come home exhausted from a long week, my blouse clinging to my skin from the downpour outside. I kicked off my heels, letting them thud against the hardwood floor, and poured myself a glass of merlot. The apartment felt emptier than usual; my last girlfriend had left months ago, citing my “workaholic tendencies” as the reason. Truth be told, I missed the warmth of a body next to mine, the soft curves and whispered promises in the dark. To distract myself, I rummaged through the old box of junk in my closet— relics from my rebellious pha

Like I was shopping for bedtime stories instead of trying to decide whether my life had cracked open into impossibility. “Thank you,” I murmured. The folklore section was tucked into a quiet corner near a window that looked out toward the forest. Of course it did. The books there were a strange little army: weathered hardcovers, thin local history pamphlets, glossy paperbacks with titles involving moons and curses and women who looked poorly dressed for weather. I started with the serious looking ones. Northern Appalachian Folk Beliefs, Predator Myths of the American East, Silver, Salt, and Blood: Ritual Materials in Regional Lore. I pulled them down one by one, making a stack against my che