Gaslight Novels & Stories

The house was too quiet when Ava rose from her seat near the fire. The embers crackled softly, the only sound in the grand hall. Pale moonlight bled through the stained-glass windows, casting red and violet patterns across the cold stone floor. She pulled her cloak over her shoulders, the fabric whispering as it slid across her skin. She needed air. A hunt. Something to sink her teeth into—literally. Her veins itched with hunger, and the stored blood in the cellar tasted like metal and regret.

The blackout was not an absence of light: it was a presence of absolute, devouring gravity. Inside the central altar of the Silver Moon palace, the air had reached a state of "Super-Saturation." Every molecule of oxygen was so laden with antagonistic static from the government’s towers that breathing felt like inhaling pulverized glass. I stood between the statues of the Stone Sister and the Mountain Man, my hands trembling as I reached for the central nervous system of the mountain.

The absolute, suffocating darkness lasted for exactly four seconds. For Elara, those four seconds stretching across the suffocating silence of the Genesis Island penthouse felt like an eternity. The rhythmic, comforting hum of the server farm had vanished, replaced entirely by the violent howling of the Pacific storm battering the reinforced glass. Then, with a harsh mechanical clank, the localized auxiliary generators engaged. The penthouse was suddenly bathed in the sinister, pulsing crimson glow of emergency lighting.

A fire crackled somewhere nearby, casting dancing shadows across the walls. And my heartbeat—steady, slow, yet somehow stronger than before—echoed in my ears. It didn’t sound like it belonged to me. That’s when the dread set in. I stumbled to my feet, crossing the room to the gilded mirror. The face staring back was not my own. Skin pale enough to glow in the dim firelight. Silver hair that shimmered with hints of blue and white, catching the faintest gleam of the candles. Eyes… deep crimson, the color of wine freshly spilled across marble.

The silence of the Mayfair penthouse was a sharp contrast to the roar of the ocean, but it was no less dangerous. Here, the air was thick with the scent of expensive floor polish, ozone from the humming servers, and the cold, metallic tang of Malakai’s focused ambition. The gala was less than six hours away, and the preparation felt less like getting ready for a party and more like a soldier calibrating a weapon.

For three years, Hallie Larson has managed to keep her affair so carefully hidden that I can't find a single trace of the other man. Once, I find a pair of men's underwear in the back seat of her car, still warm, as if someone has only just taken them off. Other times, I notice fresh, suspicious marks behind her ear. Every time, I lose my temper. I tear through the house, demanding to know who the man is. Hallie only furrows her brow, looking more exhausted than guilty. "Sebastian, how long are you going to keep imagining things? If you're going to accuse me of cheating, then at least show me the man you claim exists." So, I start following her everywhere, 24 hours a day. I even call

21++ The moonlight entering through the gaps in the curtains cast a silver hue on their sweat-drenched skin. The cool night air on the balcony earlier seemed to have only served as new fuel for the fire blazing inside the room. There were no signs of fatigue on Calvin's face; instead, the man looked increasingly energetic, as if every second he had spent in a coma had now mutated into an endless supply of masculine energy.

Her eyes flashed with a psychotic, terrifying glee as she watched the men begin unscrewing the caps of the metal canisters, splashing gasoline over the cutting tables, the fabric rolls, and the white roses sitting in the central lounge. ​She pulled a heavy brass lighter from her pocket, flicking the wheel. A bright, dancing orange flame burst to life in the dark, reflecting wildly in her bloodshot, unhinged eyes. ​"Burn," Selene whispered into the quiet night, her voice dripping with pure, venomous malice. "Burn it all to hell, Ariana." ​She tossed the flaming lighter through the open door onto the gas-soaked floorboards. ​A massive, violent wall of orange fire erupted instantly, roaring thr

After half an hour of watching Demis Agelastos in action, it was crystal clear that he didn’t give a damn what he said or how it was received. The mere fact that Lara was female put her in an inferior position. Meghan was different in her husband’s presence. She smiled and chattered merrily, putting on a show of great friendship towards Lara. She ate very little but her wine glass required constant replenishment. Father and son talked in Greek. Francine made polite, rather anxious conversation, her attention frequently straying to her sister-in-law. Lara was sipping her coffee when, with a guttural sound of fury, Demis reached out, snatched up his wife’s glass, and flung it violently against

“He made me feel like I was losing my mind. He looked me in the eye and told me I was hallucinating the lipstick. He used the college incident… he used my own trauma to make me feel like a patient instead of a wife.” “Of course he did,” Sophie hissed. I could hear the rustle of sheets; she was likely sitting up, her voice already shifting into that cold, analytical tone she used when she was ready for a fight. “That’s the Sy playbook, Vic. If he can make you doubt your eyes, he can do whatever he wants in the dark. Gaslighting isn’t just a lie; it’s a war on your reality. But you have the number now. You have the message. You aren’t crazy. You’re a witness.” “