Novel & Cerita Feminist Horror Books

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

She had never been touched, never been spoken to like this, and certainly never been exposed to something so raw and forbidden. “Look at you, Chloe,” I purred, my voice dropping into a velvety, hypnotic whisper as I reached up and gently pushed her thick glasses higher up her nose. “Your heart is beating so hard I can see it through your cardigan. Your hands are shaking.” “I—I’m just scared,” she whispered, her wide eyes locked onto mine, completely paralyzed. “You’re not just scared,” I murmured, my hand sliding slowly down her shoulder, trailing over her arm until I gently took her trembling wrist. “You saw something you were never supposed to see, didn’t you? And now you don’t know what t

Her books sold by the thousands: Fuck Me Until Dawn, where the protagonist was destroyed by a mafioso with a 23-centimeter cock; Fireman’s Dick — the irony of fate hitting hard now — and her most recent one, Emergency Orgasm, which had spent three straight weeks at the top of the charts. That hot Friday night, the apartment’s air conditioning was struggling against the humid heat of the city. Clara sat in the swivel chair of her improvised office, wearing nothing but a tiny black thong that was already completely soaked and an old, oversized rock band t-shirt that barely covered the lower curve of her round ass. Her heavy breasts swung freely under the thin fabric, dark hard nipples brushing

The crack had spread on its own, as if responding to my fractured state of mind. I crawled to the mirror, drawn by some instinct I couldn’t name. The reflection that greeted me was no longer ambiguous, no longer merely distorted. The crack had clearly divided my face into two distinct halves—one still recognizably me, though gaunt and haunted; the other transformed into something harder, colder, with eyes that gleamed with malevolent purpose. “Now you see,” Bertha whispered, though my own lips remained still. “Now you understand what needs to be done.” I thought again of Charlotte Brontë’s madwoman, how she’d become an avatar of female rage against patriarchal confinement. A cautionary tale,

He might kick me out and I would just die. “This is amazing,” I managed to whisper, still breathless at the sight. “You like it?” “Like it?” My amazement hung in my voice, and I spun on my heels to face Dante, who was leaning at the door. “Are you kidding me? I am in love with it. It’s like heaven on earth.” The corner of Dante’s lips twitched. “The best part is that more than half of the books are horror, thriller and paranormal.” “No fricken way!” My jaw dropped, and I held back the girlie squeal that hung in my throat. And I thought this place couldn’t get any better.

George was her fresh fear. She’d dreamed of them being caught in bed together, and dragged in front of the emperor naked for judgement. Of course, he made them an example. He forced her to watch him drain George of his life’s blood, before he punished her. Her sisters laughed at the entire event. Her mother acted relieved. She no longer needed to find someone willing to take Ana. There were other unsavoury nightmares, dealing with lies about her, assassins, and murder plots. There was no one she could speak to about these fears. No one she could trust anywhere. The nightmares needed to stay unspoken for everyone’s safety. Ana feared writing them down in a journal. If they found it…

The air vibrated with an electric energy, as if the very fabric of reality was responding to Selene's presence. Suddenly, visions began to flood her mind. She saw werewolves from all over the world, their faces twisted in anger and betrayal. She saw packs turning against each other, their once-strong bonds now frayed and broken. She saw the moon, once full and radiant, now shrouded in a dark, foreboding haze. There seemed to be no hope and sweat gathered in her forehead, but still, she maintained her posture. When she was done, she sucked in a breath and her eyes snapped open, everything returned to normal and she looked around.

Seeing the stack of books piled up high on top of the table I knew I had found the right table. “Alec, I think we should go look in the kitchen. No one is back here.” Savenia said. “That my dear is where you are drastically wrong.” Once we reached the back table I watched as Savenia looked at several of the titles of the books piled on top. “History of the Werewolves. Psychology of the Paranormal. Ancient Greek Mythology. Witches and their Divine Power. Fae and the Woodland Creatures. The History of Dracula and the Vampire Methodology. Werebears and Shifters of all Kinds. Whoaaa. Those are some serious titles. I wonder who checked all these books, then lifted them here.” Savenia said.

“They don’t like it when I say I’ve already been there.” “Hard to go somewhere you don’t believe in.” He mused. “True statement.” She agreed. “I pulled a few books for you. Don’t feel like you have to all of them. Or even any of them.” “I appreciate this. I’m not sure what to think about all of this.” “The woman? The feelings you have? Or the gifts she has?” Giving her a wry smile, he asked, “Do I have to pick just one?” “Absolutely not.” Ciara shuffled the books and pulled one out, handing it over. “This one is about ghosts. I also pulled a few about white covens.”

Sabeerah brought them out one by one. Muslim Girl and If I Speak by Umm Zakiyyah, The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides, Three Daughters Of Eve by Elif Shafak, On Black Sister's Street by Chika Unigwe, And Then There Was None by Agatha Christie, A Time To Kill by John Grisham and finally, A History Of The Wives Of Prophet Muhammad by Umam Kahn. She picked up the last book which was actually a journal and tucked in its side were plack pencils with bookish scribbles on them.