Grave Stories Novels & Stories

I'm not sure how long ago it was when I first saw him, staring down at the oldest, crumbling gravestone in his black hooded cloak. He has completely captured my attention; I want to know more about the mysterious man behind all that darkness. Is he grieving like me? Maybe. It's the reason I've been coming to this God-forsaken cemetery over the last five months since Zack died. He was my best friend and he died saving someone else's life. A firefighter's duty, I'm supposed to believe. Everyone still tries to comfort me by saying he died doing what he loved but they don't understand. I no longer have my big brother to protect me, especially from myself.

*This book is a work of fiction, no persons, places, names, and events are not in any associated with actual places, names, and events. This book is made for entertainment purposes. Enjoy* It is written that you only realize how much you love something or someone when you are no longer with them, as humans once we realize this we do whatever it takes to get that thing back. Working for a prestigious company and coming from a wealthy and highly educated Family, Bryson Lawrence had everything that one needs in life.

Anne wished they hadn’t spoken to that batty old man, listening to his riddles and dead-end tales. The later discovery of alternate tales, crude folklore and legends betrayed by a handful of the old or wandering mad reinforced Damon’s suspicions of an ancient grave site, though there was no recorded information of its existence until Damon’s final research paper. There Damon recounted it by name, “The Mourner’s Cradle.”

Creatures we thought long dead, their names whispered in ghost stories, not carved in fresh graves. We burst into the clearing, and my heart stopped. The air felt poisoned, heavy with a metallic tang and something darker, like rot laced with malice. Moonlight spilled over the scene, cold and unforgiving, glinting off blood-soaked grass. Two bodies lay covered in rough cloaks, their shapes too still, too broken—a father and his son, the messenger had gasped before collapsing. The pack stood in a loose circle, faces pale, eyes hollow, their growls muted by shock. Ragnar knelt beside the cloaks, his massive hands trembling, his scarred face twisted with grief.

Not anyone who played a part in my suffering. My first stop ? The graveyard of my past—St. Grace Memorial Hospital. The place where my babies were born… and supposedly died. I arrive cloaked in a long coat, my scarf wrapped tight around my jaw, sunglasses veiling my eyes. My appearance is now globally recognized thanks to the billion-dollar empire I built from my pain. If people knew who I really was beneath this scarf, I would be surrounded by paparazzi. But today, I need anonymity more than applause. The hospital still stands or rather the skeleton of what it once was . The fire left it blackened and broken. No renovations. No memorial. No effort to rebuild. Even Jackson, the father of tho

Lovingly, he said, "Let's not talk about her. It's your 'deathday' today. Of course I'm staying with you." Jackie told me he'd take me to the mountain and have a fireworks show during my last birthday. I waited for him the whole night and nearly fainted from the freezing cold. He never showed up. He told me he had an urgent meeting to handle. That urgent meeting was about a dead woman, of course. 'Do you like the videos, Wisteria? He told me he'd never have married you if it weren't for your family's resources. Oh right, that car crash? It was no accident. The truck driver was Jackie's distant relative.'

Each volume of Strange short stories will have 3 medium-sized stories and about 10 short stories. To make it easier to understand and more transparent, this chapter will be like a summary for this and the following volumes. Vol.2: medium stories: The antics of Bia's crew ( ABC) Bia comments on a crew of children of criminals, in an invisible ship. In this world full of magic, demonic beasts and restrictions, they live on the run, abandoned by their parents. Not being accepted anywhere in the world they have to survive on small illegal jobs and from time to time to plunder.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR The Flesh-and-Blood Ghost “You have to understand what this land means to my family,” she started. “I grew up hearing stories from my grandmother about how our ancestors were buried here, people who had been forced to come to this country in chains and treated like beasts of burden. Then, when they died, either from mistreatment or being worked to death or in some cases taking their own lives to try and find freedom in the afterlife, they were thrown in unmarked graves in a slave cemetery that no one cared for. As if to add insult to injury, when the city began to expand, they built right on top of the graves. They didn’t bother moving the bodies. Why would they? They did

Damn it! Suddenly, the carvings on the coffin began to glow up in a faint red colour. They were writings of a language... "Ze tchse hea goh tuoah." She mumbled the writings out loud and tilted her head in thought. Where had she... Wasn't this in History? As she was lost in thought, the coffin began to illuminate bright red lights from the edges as the cave began to shake lightly. She was shaken out of her thoughts and her vision zeroed on the lit up coffin. Okay... What was happening?

CHAPTER 5 Grave's POV I built the Iron Revenants on spilled blood and a name no one dared whisper twice. By forty-two, I had buried more men than I could count, and trust me, didn’t lose sleep over it. If anything, I slept better with each one gone. That’s what happens when your reputation walks into a room before you do. Loyalty keeps you alive in my world. Disloyalty? It will get your face smashed into the pavement before your mama can cry over your bones.