Good Mysteries To Read Novels & Stories

THE END? Not quite . . . Have you tried Beatrice Beecham’s Cryptic Crypt: A Supernatural Adventure/Mystery Novel by Dave Jeffery? We included an excerpt from the book if you keep paging. Or dive into more Tales from the Darkest Depths: Novels: The Mourner’s Cradle: A Widow’s Journey by Tommy B. Smith House of Sighs (with sequel novella) by Aaron Dries Beyond Night by Eric S. Brown and Steven L. Shrewsbury

“Back before you were a world-famous author, huh?” Brad laughed. “Yeah, back then I was working for my hometown paper writing obituaries.” “So your work hasn’t changed too much; you’re still writing about death.” “I suppose you could look at it that way.” “I’ll confess I haven’t actually read any of your books. I know of you by reputation, but I’m a bit too squeamish for horror. A mystery, on the other hand, suits me just fine.” “Hey, to each his own. Or her own. I like mysteries, too; in some ways they share similar elements with horror.”

Emma's heart racing, she picked it up and read the words: "Meet me at the old clock tower at midnight. Come alone." The note wasn't signed, but Emma knew instinctively that it was from someone who knew her secrets. Someone who might be able to help her uncover the truth about her sister's disappearance and the sinister forces at play. Emma's mind was a whirlwind of questions. Who was behind the note? What did they want from her? And what did they mean by "come alone"? As the clock struck midnight, Emma stood in front of the old clock tower, her heart pounding in her chest. The building loomed above her, its stone façade shrouded in shadows. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she had ma

Mary Davies I woke up this morning to find out I have a new email notifications on my phone. I sat up in bed, as I scrolled through my phone. I hardly have messages in my G***l, apart from the few messages I get from the new blog I follow since I have gotten here in Minazuela. I've been following a story on a book blog, which is written by a writer called OD Eleven. Sweet sensation is a mafia romance book that makes me wonder if Mafia's really existed in our world.

Since you are so sure, what about this Goodluck guy, when you met him, did you visit his house, did he give you a drink, do you remember waking up at his place or blacking out? Joy could totally pass as an investigator, she was asking all the right questions which could help them unravel the mystery just that they were questions she herself had asked earlier, and had answered them herself. Maxwell in the other hand wanted to hear how his sister was going to respond, he wanted to know if she was still inlove with Goodluck, and if it was possible that they had engaged in any form of adulturous act. Not like it would change whatever he felt, but it would help solve the puzzle he hated not havin

Then I got back to my research again browsing through criminal cases described in news articles and web forums. An hour passed and I was tired of reading bloody stories that got me nowhere near something I could use in the novel, so I began to grumble on one of the mystery-crime forums. “Help me out. Have you heard of any interesting murder case nowadays? I swear, I’m not a psycho, I’m a writer begging for an inspiration,” I hoped that sounded convincing enough. No one was answering. I’d waited for an hour and got little bit frustrated. I was about to get back to my previous way of research but then someone replied.

“I want you to ransack her bag and bring whatever you find there.” Immediately Drey nodded and left my office. I moved to my laptop, typing in some things. Long time ago, I had installed camera's st tge gate of the Moon Blood Pack. I wanted to know everything going on with my uncle. With this new discovery, I zoom in to the camera at the mansion. There were numerous cars driving out of the mansion. I frowned. Whatever was going on, my uncle was up to something.

"Just Black Rose business. The usual chaos." She didn't look convinced but she didn't push, and I was grateful for that. We sat there in the quiet, the afternoon light streaming through the window and painting everything in shades of gold and amber. She started telling me about the book she'd been reading, some mystery novel that Elias had sworn she'd enjoy, and I found myself listening not to the words but to the sound of her voice, the way it rose and fell with her enthusiasm. "And then the detective realizes the killer has been right there the whole time, hiding in plain sight," she said, her hands moving as she spoke, animated in a way I rarely got to see. "I didn't see it coming at all.

Most things are about detectives and all their boring stuff but something tells me to go through it because I might know a thing or two. I've opened almost all the books on the first shelf. Turns out detective books are not so bad. I also passed out my time by checking some of the murder novels on the shelve. One really caught my interest. Dying to call you by Elaine Viet. It's about a girl finding her sister's murderer and all that.

A moment later, a piece of paper slid through the narrow gap beneath my door. The footsteps retreated in haste. I peered through the peephole. The hallway was empty. I didn't touch the note, afraid of smudging fingerprints. Instead, I crouched and read the words on it: I know the truth about Edmund's death. Come to the big banyan tree in Greenfield Residences at 11 p.m. Don't call the police. The note was crafted with meticulous care—letters cut out from newspapers and books, pieced together like a ransom demand, leaving no trace of handwriting.