Grave Stories Novels & Stories

"Okay, I had to take my breath there. So, the peoples' cries alerted Generosasis, with nothing left in her heart but hatred and the cloud above her eyes sprouted by betrayal— she couldn't decipher anything but follow her instincts. She roared in anger, and a ball of fire rolled out of her enormous mouth, hitting the houses across the library. That night, some generations perished, and hundreds of people died, Dordin being one of them. Generosasis murdered the man she claimed to love, she murdered her sister and a dozen families. Now, Deborah, that is the tale of Dordin, what do you think about it?" I cleared my throat, "I think it's the most fascinating story, I also think Dordin's story sho

Author's Note This book is a short compilation of erotic stories. Please note that not all entries are heavily erotic—some lean more toward emotional moments, dramatic tension, or character interaction. Also, 99% of these stories don’t follow a traditional plot, so don’t be confused if there's no clear beginning, middle, or end. They’re written more for mood, moments, and expression than full narratives. Enjoy the ride,no overthinking needed. 😉 ********************************************* Kael didn’t wait.

Still… a small, stubborn part of me wished I could be in his arms again. “Laura!” Grace’s voice pulled me out of my thoughts. I turned to see my colleague hurrying toward me, dressed in a casual but elegant gown. “Is something wrong?” I asked, frowning slightly as she approached. Grace stopped in front of me, catching her breath. “Is something wrong?” she echoed, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t you realize you’re damn late? The boss has been asking about you for hours.” My stomach dropped. “The new contractor is about to leave,” she continued, crossing her arms. “He wanted to catch up with you and discuss the project.”

For a second, I could almost forget about everything. The play was interrupted by a soft, rhythmic knock on the door. Zion sat up, breathless and laughing, as Mrs. Graves stepped in. She was draped in several garment bags, the silk and lace peeking out from the zippers. “I didn't mean to interrupt,” she said, her voice warm with that effortless elegance. “But I couldn't wait. These are the pieces I mentioned.” She laid them out across the chaise lounge, and my breath caught. God, they were stunning—intricate embroidery, buttery silks, and cuts that screamed Parisian high fashion. They looked like they belonged in a museum, not a high school hallway.

She was holding flowers and looking down at the grave. The photo had been taken three months earlier. Vivian's face went white. The comments rolled too fast to read. [Confirmed. Miller's daughter pretended to be Grace Walker?] [She stole a woman's name, scholarship, and life story, then lived off it for fifty years?] [The real Grace was trapped in that town while Vivian became an artist and philanthropist. I'm sick.] [Three generations stealing: identity, proposals, opportunities.] Henry was sweating harder. The collar of his perfect suit had darkened. He had nothing left to say.

In 1983 a Mrs Carson of New York was laid out in our coffin, presumed dead of hear disease. As mourners watched, she suddenly sat up, alive as you or I. Unfortunately her daughter dropped dead of fright on the spot. I don't own any of this stories. I found them in some creepy books. I'm thinking of writing my own scary stories, but not anytime soon. You can send me your short stories for a feature if you feel like it. Thanks for reading. Enjoy!I don't own any of this stories. I found them in some creepy books. I'm thinking of writing my own scary stories, but not anytime soon.

"Stay in the car, Stefan. It's a command this time" "Yes boss" he bowed lowly and went towards the car's direction. In turn, I turned and walked into the house through the large doors. Igor's house is majestic and that isn't something I'll deny. He likes all things fancy and gold. As I walked by, I saw two golden caskets right there, with a book in front of them. I walked closer to make sure the bodies were in there and just not a prank of Igor's. Before I got so close to the caskets, I could see the young boys' bodies, lying stiff. I turned and left, since I had nothing to write.

Whatever that thing was, but how were they connected? My visions of Grisha were painful, they were draining, and they were chilling. But my vision of the burning bird was calm, peaceful, and utterly soul-fetching. But why did it scream Grisha? Because I heard it, I heard it loud and clear and I knew it screamed Grisha! What in the hell was Grisha and what did it have to do with the burning bird? For an umpteenth time ever since I set my foot in Varagrafena, I laid awake at night, filled with nothing but questions, and more confusion!

"The hysteria Northern graveyard? Yeah." Roman uttered with subtle pressure as he allowed himself to articulate despite the ache in his body. After he was furrowed off the carriage, his body collided with a tall hard tree. It didn't halt there, his body continued to rumble down the muddy sloppy soil, inducing his face into the sluggish dirt. Now, they were off their trail. "How did we get here?" The hysteria Northern cemetery was a no-go zone to all empires. Despite it being a graveyard, no typical body was buried inside. It was conveyed that the northern creature buries his prey there after feeding on them. So it constantly lurked around there.

Rose’s POV “He talked,” Knives said the second he walked back into the apartment. “I’m heading out.” It had been several hours, and while Grace had been cooking dinner for the three of us, Cracker had been introducing me to a series about two brothers who were fighting ghosts, monsters, and demons. It was a tad too scary for me, but I didn’t want to be a scaredy-cat all my life, so I tried to suck it up.