Forgotten Six Feet Under Novel Novels & Stories

Esmé Hawthorne. Catherine Dupré. Annelise Morgan. Isadora Thorne. Five women. All Blackwell brides. My breath caught. They’d all vanished after marriage. Whispers of illness. Disappearances. Madness. But they hadn’t disappeared. They had been buried. Here. Together. Beneath our feet. I approached the nearest coffin, my hand brushing over the lid. The stone was rough and cold. A faint crescent moon glowed under the flashlight. And suddenly— Crrrk.

My fingertips hover above her cheek as I remember summer nights when touching her wasn’t complicated by years of bitterness. Five years ago, her brother stole everything from me—my business, my reputation, nearly my life. Tonight, fate delivered his most precious possession directly into my hands. Complete amnesia. The words echo through my mind and settle like foundation stones beneath a plan that forms with each passing second. “If you don’t remember who you are,” I whisper to her sleeping form, “then I’ll tell you exactly who you need to be.” A wedding ring sits heavy in my pocket—a prop from an undercover operation last year that I had Mateo fetch. Perfect for convincing a woman with no

Close enough to fall. “This is a bad idea,” I murmured. “I know.” Neither of us stepped back, we were both weak to stopping it. I knew that we should not be doing this but I was going to deal with the consequences— if there was any— later tomorrow. ………. I woke to silence. The bed beside me was empty. Sunlight streamed in through the window, too bright, too ordinary. Not only did it light up the room, it lit up the memories of the night before

Dimitri crouched beside them. “And we stay ready.” Because outside those doors—beyond the cameras—something was already shifting. Not retreat. Not silence. A storm gathering answers of its own. It didn’t take long. By the time they reached the penthouse, the city had begun to shift. Lena’s team flooded the upstairs sitting room—phones alive with calls, screens blooming with headlines: “Petrova Speaks: The Blood Feud Behind the Fortune” “Zoe Volkov: The Heir the Old Guard Couldn’t Erase”

He searches around for hours. Eventually he comes across over a dozen old grimoires, none that he can read due to the protection spells on it. They were hidden underneath a floorboard. He grabs them and rushes out of the cabin, not realizing the domino effect he just caused. Not only for him but for Iris too.

too much. Yet there was a niggling in my mind each time it felt like I had come to. A niggling that would not go away. Like something had sparked within my mind... and something seemed so odd. Had I fallen in my room? Perhaps when I was dancing? Could that be it? I sure did like to dance around my room when my music was playing… forever being told by my parents to turn the music down… maybe I had slipped? My room was forever cluttered. Hit my head even? Would that leave me here feeling like this?

I want him to ask if I am okay after what happened, but he has gone radio silent, probably tucked in his cozy bedroom, sleeping. "Oh, my God, look at this," Sienna’s voice cuts through the loud music. She spins her phone around to face the group, showing a freshly updated page from New York Elite Gossip. SPOTTED AT AURA MANHATTAN: The Six Wives of New York have officially reunited. Word on the street is that the city’s favorite heiresses are out to play. Summer just got a whole lot hotter! "They work fast," Elena remarks dryly, leaning back against the plush booth and swirling her drink. "We’ve been in the building for less than forty-five minutes, and the blogs are already tracking our coor

He blocked my front door, and I couldn’t get him to leave. Rain and blood ran together, dripping from his pant legs. I told him that I would never forgive him. Lorenzo, his eyes red with desperation, collapsed at my feet. Shuddering in fear, I cradled his limp body and sobbed uncontrollably. Gripped by the terror of losing him, I threw in the towel. It came a cycle, happening the second, third, fourth, and fifth time. “Buzz…” My phone vibrated. It was a call from Lorenzo.

The iron hatch slammed shut above them, cutting off the last rhythmic, crimson sweeps of The Vanguard’s emergency lights. The darkness that swallowed Clara and Julian was different from the clinical, high-tech blackness of the upper floors. This was the ancient, heavy dark of Manhattan’s deep foundations—a humid, suffocating space that smelled of wet soot, iron rust, sulfur, and the cold, damp breath of the earth itself. They were standing in the old late-nineteenth-century steam-tether network, a forgotten labyrinth of brick-lined conduits and cast-iron mains that once pumped pressurized heat through the bedrock of the rising city, now abandoned to decay beneath the modern transit grids.

I’m on my knees before I’m fully awake. That’s the thing about six years. The body stops waiting for instructions. Four in the morning and my hands are already moving, reaching for something to clean, muscle memory running the program before my mind catches up. It takes me ten full seconds, kneeling on the floor of a guest room in a strange estate, to understand that there is nothing here to clean. The floor is already clean. I sit back on my heels and look at my hands in the dark. I don’t feel embarrassed. I feel something quieter and harder to shake, the specific weight of realizing how deep something goes when you never chose to let it go that deep at all.