Fiction Books Horror Novels & Stories

Some of them read multiple times judging by the cracking of the binding. History. Military strategy. Economics. Law. Psychology. Philosophy. One entire shelf of biographies of powerful men across different centuries and continents. And then something that surprised me. Fiction. A whole section of it tucked into the far corner like something private. Novels. Some of them old enough that the titles had faded. I pulled one out carefully. A Russian novel. Thick. Dense. The kind of book that required patience and silence and the willingness to sit inside discomfort for extended periods.

To put it nicely. In my hands was a thick book that Chelsa had sent me from France, miraculously it was English, and the contents inside were a history over folklore and monsters which humans believe to be made up although they were just extinct in the supernatural world. I hoped to find something similar to the Northern Whispers or something that could potentially take them down - honestly, I think I’m just hoping for answers that don’t exist or may-

“You have the strangest logic I’ve ever heard.” With a wink, I chuckled. “But you like my idea, don’t you?” Scowling a moment longer, she chased it with a huff before she bit her lip and gazed around the room. “Okay, fine. The romances should go by the windows. But the mysteries need to be on the bookshelf covering the hidden door, and the horror novels can go in the darker corner.” My mouth fell open before I pointed and said, “Even better. Perfect.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Do you like to read? I blog about books, specifically horror and thriller books.” “Like Stephen King?” She nodded. “Stephen King, Dean Koontz, David W. Wright, Sean Platt, and, ah, Dan Wells.” He nodded slowly as she listed her favorite authors. “What about A. A. Abernathy?” Fuck! “You read Abernathy?” “Yeah, I just picked up the latest one. It’s pretty good so far.”

“Yes, that's exactly it. That was very insightful. What other authors do you like? “Oh, several. She looked at me then. Her eyes sparkled as she spoke. “I've read all the classic science fiction authors, of course. Asimov, HG Wells, Frank Herbert. I especially love science fiction when it intersects with horror. "So you're a big Lovecraft fan?"

“Sa piling kasi ng mahal nila, doon nila nahahanap ang kanilang sarili.” “Ah…” “Blue…” “Hmm…” “May tanong pa ako sa’yo.” “Inatake na naman ang curiosity mo. Ako naman ang magtatanong sa’yo. Kung isasapeikula ang buhay natin, ano kaya ang magiging genre?” “Hmm… Romance?” “Mali.” “Eh ano?” “Horror. Ikaw ba naman may kasamang sleepwalker na tumatawa na parang mangkukulam gabi-gabi.”

Just muttered, “Feel free to browse.” I nodded and wandered. The silence was thick. Peaceful. I ran my fingers along the spines—mysteries, war history, sci-fi. None of it felt right. I turned a corner and found myself in a crooked, narrow aisle. A handwritten label above the shelf read: “Folklores, Myths & Things Best Left Alone.” Something about it made me shiver. I reached out and picked a worn, black-spined book: “The Blood and Bond of the Wild.”

Feeling amazed that the Alpha will read something like this, especially knowing that most wolves hate vampires for its history. As Brianna began to slowly crouch and check more, finding other books that are similar to Twilight, like vampire club, vampire moon, and other things, suddenly Brianna felt a sudden wind behind her. ‘A wind?’ she muttered, automatically turning around to find no source as the room had no window. There’s just an old bookcase with a creepy vibe behind her.

It was because my readers had become so attached to my novels that they started to ship my characters, and they have learned to absolutely love and follow the author behind my books. But now, every single thing changed abruptly. My romance novel suddenly turned into a gruesome horror, which I am not good at. But we were all so astonished once I have submitted the novel-turned-horror-story, as I was able to make the hairs on their skin stand and sent chills down to their spine, which means it was perfect. But that was not what I was known for. I became popular for romantic genres, so it was never a perfect idea to suddenly make the transition into something different and unnerving.

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