Haunted House Novels Novels & Stories

(Isabella’s POV) The safe house was a tomb, filled with the ghosts of a life that wasn't mine. Dust sheets covered the heavy, ornate furniture, and the air was thick with the stale, stagnant scent of time. The brutal, adrenaline fueled escape from Bianchi’s gala felt a world away, but the true horror of the night was just beginning to settle in my bones, a cold, creeping dread that no locked door could keep out.

She opened it—pages parting easily now, as though the book recognized her exhaustion and offered no resistance. She flipped past the early chapters she had already memorized. Deeper. To the sections she had only skimmed before, too afraid to linger. *Control of the Undead* The script here was denser, colder. Diagrams of binding circles, sigils of domination, lists of names for the restless dead. Zombies—simple thralls of flesh, bound by will alone. Ghouls—carrion-eaters, drawn by hunger, controlled through offerings of meat and bone.

Georgia - The silence in the cellar wasn’t real. It was alive—a cunning, creeping thing that licked at the walls like a living thing, testing for weakness. It wanted me to believe I was alone. That nothing existed beyond these damp stone walls and the single, rusted lock keeping me in this rectangular purgatory. But silence, like most everything else in this house, was a liar. If you were patient—if you sat in the darkness long enough, let your breathing slow to almost nothing, let your heartbeat settle into the rhythm of the dying—you would hear them.

For half a second, the corner of his mouth moved. Almost. Then the house groaned. The moment died. The second door slammed again. Deeper this time. Not upstairs. Not downstairs. Somewhere in between. Which made no sense. Naturally. I looked toward the hallway. “That sounded closer.” Damien picked up the journal from the floor. The pages were blank again. Of course they were. Haunted books apparently enjoyed dramatic timing. He handed it to me carefully, making sure our fingers did not touch. I noticed. He noticed me noticing.

"I'm just so devastated. I just got dumped, and Isla is being so cruel to me. I feel like I want to die." Hannah shot me a venomous glare as she came out of the break room. "Picking on a newbie—real classy. What goes around comes around." … I purposely worked late until eight. When I packed up to leave, I realized my house keys were missing. I searched every drawer and my bag—nothing. I figured I'd call the property manager and a locksmith once I got home. When I reached my door, I noticed it was cracked open—unlocked. My heart sank. A bad feeling washed over me.

A long silence followed. Then— “No,” the voice answered softly. The shadows moved. The thing outside laughed quietly. And the sound was not human. Eleanor stepped backward immediately, pulse hammering now as cold spread through the hallway. The air smelled wrong suddenly. Rotting earth. Wet soil. Graves opened after rain. Another scrape dragged across the door. The wood splintered slightly beneath the pressure. Her stomach turned. Nothing should have been able to touch Blackwood House like this. Unless— Unless she had weakened the wards herself by answering it.

I’d never hung around to inspect the dead bodies of the vampires we’d killed before, though, so reading up on what to look for was a necessity. Torre’s house was huge. It was an imposing stone structure, and it made me think back to the Gothic architecture that had inspired so many scary stories in the Victorian era. The front driveway was a labyrinth of neatly sheared bushes and pristine white gravel, and, without warning, the thought of hot blood hissing and spitting and soaking into the ground shot into the forefront of my mind. I shook myself, and the gravel turned back from red to white.

It depends on the Neutral Alliances if they would follow his suggestion or not. The haunted mansion that was crowded and lively before had now become deserted. The dark, bleak, and desolate mansion in the eyes of a living person had truly become one- both in the living and the dead world.

“Now, witch, if ye would, I should appreciate it if thee and thy friend would give my great, great, great, great grandson the privacy he requires to connect his energy with his lady and form the bond.” “A spirit?” Tim said as shivers traveled up and down his spine. “I knew this place was haunted.” “By my great, great, great, great grandfather, no less,” Edwin said in a manner that depicted that he wasn’t quite as shaken as Tim was by the ghost’s visit.

“So this house. Finch went crazy in there and killed Daniel Pital. Maybe something in there possessed and killed Scott Kretch, kidnapped Jesse Kretch, and you saw . . . or almost saw . . . something . . . ” I pause, realizing I’m now assuming that all these stories are true. Though some part of me accepts this, I find I’m not any less afraid. Actually, I’m terrified. “So. Bassler House. Is it haunted? Cursed? How does it fit into the big picture? Because Ellen Danvers lost her son on Bassler Road. Is there a connection? Is Timmy Danvers in Bassler House?”