Romans & histoires Handbook Of The Recently Deceased

Evan squeezed harder, making Carmen cough. "Die!" "Do you really want me dead? Don't you want to know where Lyra's head is?" Carmen used the last of her strength to say this. Evan froze for a moment before slowly releasing his grip. After a while, Carmen got up and opened the fridge. There were two glass jars inside with my head and kidney both soaking in formaldehyde.

He simply replied, "I deduced as much." "Well, you deduced correctly. There have been three more deaths in the last two days," Darren reported grimly. "Was the cause of death for these three the same as the previous ones?" Cassian pressed. "It was the same," Darren said. "None of them had any external injuries. When they died, their eyes were wide open, like they'd been scared to death by something." Scared to death? Frowning, Cassian asked, "Where are their bodies?" "Their bodies disappeared," Darren replied. "After they were buried, the graves were dug up the next morning. The coffins were still there, but the bodies were gone."

Axel’s trembling finger tapped the audio file from Marco. Aria’s voice, calm and full of despair, filled the silence. “My name is Aria Sterling. If you’re hearing this, it means I’m already dead.” Every word was a hot brand on his soul. “Six years ago, Axel Thorne did not die. The yacht explosion was a hoax, a plan he designed to make a secret deal with a rival family…” There was no anger in her voice. Just the dead calm of a still lake.

she said, and walked past him. The cathedral archives were colder than the hospital morgue. Cattleya stood between shelves that predated most nations, running gloved fingers across restricted medical-theological texts. She did not believe in miracles. She believed in patterns that refused easy classification. One sealed manuscript stopped her. Non-human physiological persistence: post-mortem coherence, adaptive tissue response, cognition during clinical termination. Most of the page had been redacted into black silence. But one word bled through the ink like a scar that refused to heal:

“Ma’am, we can show you a photo first, so you can confirm whether it’s your daughter. It’s just… when we found her, she had been dead for three days, and the body had started to decompose. You should prepare yourself.” With that, he pulled out a photo from the scene and handed it to her. In the picture, a small, blood-soaked body—mine—was curled up on the bed in an unnatural position. My colorless lips and my sickly, bluish-purple skin told her one thing: I was dead. Mom’s eyes widened. At last, she could no longer lie to herself and burst into tears. “How could this happen? How could this be? She was fine just a few days ago. How could she be dead? Daisy, you cursed child, you’re just like

- she nods then slowly shakes her head. "I am your subconscious" - she says it so naturally like she just explains something so trivial. Yeah, as I said, if it's the afterlife, not just the design would be fucked up...

“Daughter? Uncle Gibson has a daughter?” He let out a strained laugh. Somehow, with a sudden burst of strength, he shoved Dad aside and leaned over the coffin. There, he saw my pale, lifeless body. Even though I thought I was prepared, seeing my own corpse was like a punch to the gut. It was as if I were watching myself die all over again. The feeling was beyond words. I was dead. I was really dead. Today, I would be cremated, completely erased from this world. And even in death, I was still the child my family refused to acknowledge.

My fingers were covered in frostbite because of it. "Trying to please me, huh? Fine, you succeeded. If you donate bone marrow to Caleb now, you'll be my best daughter for the rest of your life," Mom said. Before my death, I would have dreamed of hearing those words. But now, it didn't matter anymore. After all, she couldn't find me. I was already dead. … April 9th, 2025. Cloudy. The 99th day after my death. In the past few days, I had seen them search every corner of the town. Every blade of grass in the park, every alleyway, and every trash can had been searched.

she stammered. I stepped into the ward, where Brandon lay under a stark white sheet. Melissa moved to block me, murmuring some excuse about sparing me the pain. However, I was not having any of it. I gently nudged Melissa to the side and drew back the sheet from Brandon's body. There he was, lying on the hospital bed, his cheeks flushed and his face peaceful—hardly the image of a dead man. I shook him and called his name, but he would not stir. Something was off. Without hesitation, I dialed the crematorium. "Hello. My husband has passed, and I need to arrange for his cremation immediately."

"I've got the pit fighter. Died six hours ago. Meets all specifications." "Should we sell to them?" "Five thousand pounds is significant money. And refusing the Hermetic Order creates problems. They've got Parliamentary connections." I make the decision. "Prepare the body. Full preservation. Deliver it tonight." Tom nods and gets to work. I return to my filing system. Two hundred years of records. Every supernatural death in London documented in these cabinets. Names, dates, causes, circumstances. Some files are thin. Others are thick with decades of accumulated information. I pull three specific files. The ones I've been updating most frequently.