Haunting Hour Books Novels & Stories

“It’s just through here.” Swinging open the door, Kate stepped aside, allowing Georgia to slowly shuffle into the spare bedroom. Red, swollen eyes drifted around the room, taking in the fluffy, black comforter thrown atop the twin bed, the antique lamp inherited from Kate’s grandmother centered on the mahogany nightstand and the small, hexagonal mirrors positioned above the gray headboard. Chewing her lower lip, Georgia stepped toward the neatly-organized bookshelf nestled in the corner, a pink acrylic nail brushing along the spine of one of the books. “The Haunting of Hill House,” she mumbled, nodding her head in approval. “Like the show?”

Her eyes fell on a book with a black cover, the gold letters reading: “The Art of Breaking Chains.” She pulled it free, curiosity winning, and curled into his leather chair. The chair was far too big for her, swallowing her small frame, but she felt oddly safe in it. Before she realized, her eyelids grew heavy. The book slipped onto her lap as she drifted into sleep. Hunter returned late, his mood thunderous after the ring, after Geret. His mind was sharp, his body burning with violence he hadn’t been able to unleash fully. But the instant he stepped into the quiet house, he sought her.

And what’s worse, we might already be too late. The Witching Hour…a full moon…those were the criteria for a wraith to take over. I could feel it deep in my bones, the unease that only grew as the clock ticked closer to the fateful hour. Avery had warned me about Ashton and Maggie, their strange disappearances during the Witching Hour, and now, as I glanced at Alice, I couldn’t shake the growing sense that something was terribly wrong with them. “Alice,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended, “A few days ago, Avery had told me something about Ashton and Maggie. She was concerned about how they vanish every night when the Witching Hour comes around. Do you think that…something is happening

Rows of towering bookshelves stretched into the gloom, filled with books bound in leather that looked suspiciously like skin. "Where do we start?" I whispered, overwhelmed. "Section X," Killian said, walking straight to the back. " The Anomalies." We spent hours pulling books. The Red Moon of 1402. The Feral Plague. The Betrayal of the South. Dust coated my fingers. My back ached. But I kept reading. "Here," Killian said suddenly. His voice was tight. I rushed over to the table where he was standing. He had a massive, crumbling book open.

and watch out for this title **Heir of Blood and Moon** *The Blood Moon Cycle, Book Two* ---

The wind howled through the canyon, its voice a hollow whisper against the towering blackened archway. The symbols carved into the stone pulsed like dying embers, the deep red glow sinking into the rock as though the mountain itself bled in slow, agonizing drips. Rael forced himself to stand, his fingers tightening around the book as the last traces of the Hollowed One’s wail faded into silence. His heart pounded against his ribs, the burning sensation in his mind slowly ebbing, but the weight of the encounter remained, pressing against his chest like an unshakable omen.

“You know that –” “Know that what!?” came a woman’s shriek. They all turned to see a woman marching towards them from down the hallway. She, too, was dressed in all black, with long, flowing red hair that trailed past her shoulders, and large, shiny green eyes. She was tall, ageless, and strikingly beautiful. Caitlin felt humbled in her presence, like she had just shrunk. This was a woman. Or was it…vampire? Whatever she was, she was a creature that Caitlin could never compete with. She felt deflated, prepared to concede Caleb to whoever she was.

And find out if there was any way to fix it. As she drove, Caitlin thought again of the rare books she had found in her library. Most of all, she that of that one rare volume, and its torn page. She thought of its ancient ceremony, the one in Latin, with its cure for vampirism. She wondered again if it was real. Was that just passed down from folklore? An old wives’ tale?

Outside, the ward breathed, humming steady and hard and alive. At the edge of Silverveil’s woods, Ironclaw retreated with wounded pride and borrowed monsters. In the deeper dark, something old and hungry howled once, furious, and went quiet—blinded, blocked, shut out. Inside the salt circle, in a living room that smelled like blood and sage and love, Charlotte Hale blinked her star-spark eyes, sighed, and finally decided sleep was acceptable. Silverveil entered its after.

Gladys explained. So I sat there staring at this spell book. It was a few hundred pages thick and I actually picked it up myself so that I could get a feel for how heavy it was. I then put it back down and I started focusing on the book and nothing else. There were people talking around me, a little heckling because those vampires were assholes, but I blocked them all out.