Horror Story Reading Novels & Stories

Those books were older than any of the others in his office. The bottom shelf (the one he’d been searching when he’d first heard the cats playing in the hall) held his collection of horror anthologies. The famed Whispers series, edited by Stuart David Schiff, featuring the varied works of Ramsey Campbell, Stephen King, Charles Grant and so many others. The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror from England. The Shivers series, published by Cemetery Dance. Masques, Borderlands, Shadows, Stalkers, Dark Forces, October Dreams I & II, Corpse Blossoms, Horror Library Volumes 1-5, and Prime Evil. Classic horror anthologies jammed next to paperback collections of slightly lesser repute with titles to mat

Only then do I notice the title of the book and I ask, “You’re reading that?” She looks down and with a shrug she answers, “I was looking at it. I still did not get to reading it.” I take the book from her again to flip through several pages. I say, “It’s an old collection of northern legends. If you want to read it, you can.” “I only made it through three pages before someone decide to frighten me,” she says and I smile. “I simply spoke,” I remind her. “You appeared out of nowhere,” she counters.

No in-between. “Most people said I didn’t look like what I read.” We walked side-by-side to his car. They understood the romance books, but the horror section always caught them off guard. They said I looked too sweet to be interested in that kind of stuff. “You do. So what piqued your interest in horror?” “The tension. The rush of adrenaline. The thrill. My heart banging in my chest when I know something really, really bad is about to happen to a character. What’s there not to love?”

he repeated, "someone with an affinity for monsters in a sexual way. Think Beauty and the Beast. Or The Shape of Water." I clutched the book to my chest. "I've got to take English Lit 101 because I'm a freshman. It's required reading. My teachers doing this whole unit on horror fiction. That's it." I glared at him. "And who the hell are you anyway?" He raised an eyebrow. "You don't know?" I shook my head.

“It's time to wake up, sweetie...” The sun was beginning to rise, but the light didn't bring comfort. It only clarified the nightmare. I looked at the eye again. The pupil didn't dilate or contract. It remained a fixed, black pinprick in a sea of terrifying blue. As my eyes adjusted, I realized the skin around the eye didn't look like skin at all. It looked like wet parchment stretched too tightly over a frame that didn't quite fit. I remembered the "rules" people joked about in horror movies. Don't go outside. Don't answer the door. But what do you do when the monster is already in the hallway, wearing your father’s throat like a stolen garment?

In 1983 a Mrs Carson of New York was laid out in our coffin, presumed dead of hear disease. As mourners watched, she suddenly sat up, alive as you or I. Unfortunately her daughter dropped dead of fright on the spot. I don't own any of this stories. I found them in some creepy books. I'm thinking of writing my own scary stories, but not anytime soon. You can send me your short stories for a feature if you feel like it. Thanks for reading. Enjoy!I don't own any of this stories. I found them in some creepy books. I'm thinking of writing my own scary stories, but not anytime soon.

“Were these any help, detective?” “I’m afraid not,” I said, defeated. I was in a bit of a daze after staring at projected newsprint on the dim screen. I leaned on the desk and looked around the building absentmindedly until my eyes finally settled on a small sign hanging on a table covered with a neat stack of books. “Warning: The Library is Not Responsible for Nightmares!” I read out loud, walking over to look at the books. Well-worn volumes with pink skulls grinning back at me from stickers on their spines. Dracula. Frankenstein. The Invisible Man.

But still, my eyelids are absolutely reluctant to close. As I lay there staring blankly at the ceiling, I suddenly remembered Javier’s collection of horror books. That’s right. A while back, I’d idly picked up one of his scary stories. Since I’m actually a scaredy-cat, every time I read one of those horror stories, I’d immediately be scared out of my wits and end up falling asleep from emotional exhaustion.

"Reading novels seems better!" A profound silence reigned in the downstairs room where Miranda stayed, broken only by the rhythmic cadence of her breathing as she sat on the wide bed, propped up against soft pillows, a famous horror novel open in her hands. The words danced before her eyes under the warm glow of the golden bedside lamp, drawing her deeper and deeper into their dark worlds, until it seemed as if she were slipping into her haunted depths.

All I have to do is ignore them, and I'll be fine. -------------------------------- "I really hate being in the library." Hilary complained. They were sent to the library to research about the history of their town through old newspaper articles. "Shut up, and help us. Come on." Henry, her twin brother said. "Hey, guys. Look at this." Xavier found a news article dated thirty years ago." Xavier announced. Everyone gathered around him, except for Landon. "Young boy found dead at the boy's locker room?" Olga read title of the headline.