Frank Dead By Daylight Novels & Stories

To help her childhood sweetheart, David Middleton, take my place studying abroad, my wife, Sharon Griffin, destroys my records and deliberately fills in false information, ensuring that I'm permanently denied a visa. She even severely injured my hands before sending me to the Behavioral Reform Center. My mother-in-law, Paula Brown, who has always treated me with affection, takes Sharon's side. "Kyle is so ungrateful. We gave him everything, and he still wanted to get a PhD abroad to find his biological parents. Who's going to take care of me if he's gone?" Sharon snorts. "He's just vain. When he found out I'd turned down Westbridge's offer of admission, he gave me the silent treatment an

He headed back, the wedding decorations mocking him with their cheery glow. Adele took a deep breath, the drinks lined up and ready. Frank walked in, stopping dead in his tracks. “What a gorgeous bride,” he said, leaning in to kiss her. “Let’s have a drink, Frank. For us,” Adele said, handing him a flute. They clinked glasses and downed the contents. “Now, let’s go,” Frank said. The pack erupted in cheers, but Dylan lingered in the crowd, watching intently. Moments after the ceremony, Frank dropped dead. They tried everything to bring him back, but nothing worked. Adele played her part perfectly, sobbing and shaking.

They both nodded frantically and ran back toward the parking lot to get their cars. I got behind the wheel and started the engine with shaking hands. As I began to drive away, I glanced across the road one more time. Just one last look to make sure everything had gone according to plan. Frank was lying on the ground in a spreading pool of his own blood. Dark red blood seeping out onto the grey pavement. Imelda was on her knees beside him, screaming hysterically. His best man Dale had appeared from somewhere and was on his phone, probably calling an ambulance.

Poor kid, hopefully he’ll prove smart enough to crack a window within the next hour, lest he fry in the late-morning heat like a puppy. Bill really means to have a shot of whiskey or two, the early lunch of champions, but he finds his best friend Frank at the bar, loading up. Frank is a homicide dick (emphasis on the word “dick”) who lives with his mother, snorts mountains of coke swiped from the evidence locker, and recites more Bible verses than a street preacher. He’s such a walking contradiction it’s a wonder that he can stride more than a block without vaporizing into thin air, his warring impulses canceling him out of existence like a negative subtracted from a negative. Maybe someday

Richard looked at me and cursed. "You both fucked up bad, Death is back and I suggest you fucking run," he yelled and ran back to his bedroom. I closed my eyes as the heartache consumed me and strode out the deck doors, heading out towards the beach. I ignored the yelling from Miguel. I only briefly saw him stand and that little prick falling to the floor. My darkness was expanding and twirling around me. A tall polynesian man threw a burlap tarp over me and said not to fight him, that he was Death's caretaker and would take me somewhere safe. Very well, I growled and allowed myself to be carried away. I felt the wood beneath my bare feet and the movement of the water further underneath. I w

Before any of them could comprehend what was going on, Marcelyn sank her fangs deep into the man's neck. She drank the last of the man's blood like it was an intoxicated wine she couldn't walk away from. By the time she let go of the man, he was already pale and lifeless, he thudded on the barely cemented floor of her room. She lifted her beady eyes and looked at the rest of the men in the room with her and she smiled at them, revealing her blood-stained fangs. Blood dripped from one of the fangs and Marcelyn ran her tongue over the fang to stop the blood from wasting.

I can only guess they traced my call from the phone. “Can’t help…he’s dead…I know he’s dead…dying too…lady…want my mom…” A low, long beep indicated the battery had died far more quickly than I hoped. I sighed, but as my eyes closed, craving the sweet release of unconsciousness, I felt the woman’s cool finger resting on my cheek. I heard her voice telling me that it wasn’t meant yet. “Who…?” I mumbled, my tongue swelling in my mouth, cutting off more precious air.

I heard the clicking of camera shutters, but no one called the ambulance. My blood drained dry. My body became cold. Finally, Yvette Skye was no more. I died all alone at the corner of the street. No one cared. My corpse was not a pretty sight. My eyes were wide, unseeing, and there was a large hole in my stomach. My legs were twisted together. One of my arms was flung by the side of the road. My legs were useless now. I was ugly. No wonder the little girl cried. Floating in the air, I stared at my mutilated corpse.