روايات وقصص ضمن Graveyard Tales

“Isabel Norret.” Without stopping to think, I stretched my hand out above the grave. True, a woman had died there, and it was a bad death, in hate and agony. That was a haunted place. That was how graveyards could awaken—when the pain of those who lay in the consecrated soil became too much for the ground to bear. And if the thrall who had consecrated that land cared more about his belly than his debt, everything would happen even faster. And the horror would start. Well, it would be a horror for humans. I didn’t really care.

It's called the Fates and you gotta promise me you'll be careful" Rachel smiled, twining their fingers together. "I promise!" "Good! If you need a shoulder to lean on, I'm just a call away." After a long silence, Zoey piped again. "Girl!! You spent an entire night with the Almighty Norbert Karter and he didn't rip your panties and get between your legs.. Girl, you're a legend, an icon..." "La la la la" Rachel warbled loudly. Zoey was trying to get to her and she wouldn't have it, either.

They had to see us with their own eyes. With the gravesite nearly unearthed, the groundskeeper stumbled out. “Oh, my Moon Goddess! I laid those she-wolves to rest. It’s bad enough that no werewolf held a funeral for them now that they are gone. Why are you digging up their grave?” Dumbstruck, Blake and Kaden paused. “Lucia, I was wrong! It’s all my fault. Come back! I regret everything!” Blake dropped to his knees and struck his palm across his face repeatedly.

Even after everyone had paid their respects at my gravestone, I couldn’t find his figure among the crowd. As people began to disperse, only Troy and Mom remained at the gravestone. They shared one last glance before leaving. I sat idly in front of my gravestone, trying to appear strong. “Troy to choose such a nice photo. All those hours I spent editing it weren’t in vain, at least it’s serving a purpose now,” I said loudly, to no one in particular. Then my emotions suddenly burst forth like a dam breaking. The realization that I was dead and would never again sit with everyone I loved overwhelmed me, and I began to weep uncontrollably.

The music was pounding, and everyone was either drunk, high, or in some kind of horny haze. That’s when Riley, nosy and fearless as ever, pulled a small CD case out from under the bed. She flipped through it, giggling at the awful punk and rap mixes, until she paused on a disc labeled “Girls” in thick Sharpie. We looked at each other and we just knew.

"This remote area is called The Border to the Afterlife. Because people who have lost their jobs or are in poverty gather in this place. They either die here and are tossed to the graveyard or crawl to get a second chance by any means." Using cautious words, Joan continues to give Gary another question, "Could this also be..." Gary gives him a nodding gesture and says, "Yes, my friend, I came from this place before I and Jason were scouted by Raisen." While reminiscing about Gary’s past, they arrive at the graveyard. There was a big tombstone with a white color that was already decaying in the center. "I’m home, Catherine," Gary said while resting his hand on top of the tombstone.

I had my pre-typed out grindr and sniffies description: Sleeping slut for use: Bottom looking to be used unconscious. Staying at the ******* hotel, room 214, door will be open all night. Taking sleeping pills. Looking for guys to use me, kinks welcum, minus scat. Recording session so wear a mask and leave an email address on the table if you would like a copy. After use, leave a tally. Mark on my ass so I know how many I had through the night. Have fun guys! 😈

As I stared blankly at the gravestone, the elderly cemetery caretaker approached and struck up a conversation with me. "Sir, do you know Old Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan? I don't think I've ever seen you here before." It was such a simple question, yet it made my heart throb in pain all the same. After all, who am I when the place that should have belonged to Jessica's husband had already been engraved with Christian's name? Although I was standing under the sunlight, I felt like some lowly rat that ought to hide in the shadows. How could I stand before these gravestones when I didn't have a respectable identity that I could claim aloud?

My hands shook as I slit the seal with a butter knife. “Club Noir cordially invites you to the Annual Auction of Submission. January 15th. Mask required.” I read it four times before the words actually sank in. Then I read it a fifth time, and a sixth, until the elegant script blurred. My stomach twisted so hard I had to sit down on the floor, back against the cabinets, knees drawn up to my chest. I had heard the stories for years. Dancers and writers and photographers, all of us drowning in the same swamp of debt and disappointment, whispering the same name: Alexander Kale.

For the last two years, The Graveyard had shaken the system in Italy. And no one knew who ran it. No one even knew if it was one person—or many. But everyone knew one thing: If The Graveyard accepted a contract, the target would fall. And no war would start. Because no one could trace anything back to them. It was now feared, respected, and mythologized. Some called it the grave where empires buried their sins. As rumors spread, people learned only one thing about The Graveyard: A special code. You dialed the code and waited until they contacted you physically—with a simple envelope bearing the Graveyard Mistress’s signature, stating whether they would accept your contract or not.