Mystery Reading Novels & Stories

Then I got back to my research again browsing through criminal cases described in news articles and web forums. An hour passed and I was tired of reading bloody stories that got me nowhere near something I could use in the novel, so I began to grumble on one of the mystery-crime forums. “Help me out. Have you heard of any interesting murder case nowadays? I swear, I’m not a psycho, I’m a writer begging for an inspiration,” I hoped that sounded convincing enough. No one was answering. I’d waited for an hour and got little bit frustrated. I was about to get back to my previous way of research but then someone replied.

I didn’t want to spend my time thinking about Elliot when we hadn’t had a chance to talk and work things out together. “You like to read?” I asked him; that question gave me dejavu. “If the book is good. Mystery novels are my favorite and sometimes a bit of science fiction to make it more fun,” He tells me, putting the book back. “But these are the same ones that they had last week. I don’t think there's much to pick out. Do you read? Want to keep looking?”

I didn't know what to type, I just stared at his last message. Mystery man: So you are also a writer on Goodnovel, share me the l**k to your book. I will like to check it out. Me: Just type in itchy fingers or either My daughter's Nanny or Yes, master in the search space. I have two books on the platform, you can check any out. Mystery man: My daughter's Nanny? Is it romance? Me: Yes, of course. A mafia romance. Mystery man: I can tell you are an hopeless romantic.

Emma's heart racing, she picked it up and read the words: "Meet me at the old clock tower at midnight. Come alone." The note wasn't signed, but Emma knew instinctively that it was from someone who knew her secrets. Someone who might be able to help her uncover the truth about her sister's disappearance and the sinister forces at play. Emma's mind was a whirlwind of questions. Who was behind the note? What did they want from her? And what did they mean by "come alone"? As the clock struck midnight, Emma stood in front of the old clock tower, her heart pounding in her chest. The building loomed above her, its stone façade shrouded in shadows. She hesitated for a moment, wondering if she had ma

Emilia sat in the dimly lit room, her eyes fixed on the ancient tome in front of her. She had been researching her family's history for weeks, trying to uncover the secrets that had been hidden for so long. The air was thick with the scent of old books and dust, and Emilia felt a sense of excitement and trepidation as she delved deeper into the mysteries of her family's past. As she turned the pages, Emilia's eyes widened in shock. She couldn't believe what she was reading. The words on the page seemed to leap out at her, filling her with a sense of wonder and awe.

The bookstore smells like it always has—old paper, lavender sachets tucked between shelves, the faint metallic tang of the ancient radiator that clanks every twelve minutes. Elena's already in our corner when I arrive. Second floor. Mystery section. The window seat we claimed sophomore year when we discovered this place and decided civilized people read mysteries in natural light. She's got coffee. Two cups. Mine's still steaming. I take it without speaking. Sip. Perfect. "Ten minutes late." Elena doesn't look up from the window. "Parallel parking a moving truck on Seventh?"

The dim, golden light from the chandeliers above created pools of light and shadow, adding to the library’s timeless atmosphere. I searched diligently, combing through the aisles dedicated to ancient mysteries and the occult. The titles were intriguing yet obscure, written in languages I could barely decipher. Just as despair began to settle in, my eyes caught sight of a section labeled "Ancient Mysteries of the Wolf Race." My heart leaped with hope as I approached the section, quickly pulling out a few volumes.

“Back before you were a world-famous author, huh?” Brad laughed. “Yeah, back then I was working for my hometown paper writing obituaries.” “So your work hasn’t changed too much; you’re still writing about death.” “I suppose you could look at it that way.” “I’ll confess I haven’t actually read any of your books. I know of you by reputation, but I’m a bit too squeamish for horror. A mystery, on the other hand, suits me just fine.” “Hey, to each his own. Or her own. I like mysteries, too; in some ways they share similar elements with horror.”

Sleep refused to come. My mind felt restless. Maybe there was something in this room that could help me remember. Slowly, I stood up. I began looking around. The bookshelf immediately caught my attention. Dozens of books filled the shelves. I pulled several out. There were history books, pack law books and training manuals. Then I noticed something else. There were fiction novels; thrillers, mysteries and crime novels. I blinked. Apparently, I enjoyed those. "I don't remember reading any of these."

She raised her brows. “Seriously?” He narrowed his eyes at her. “Yes, seriously! Ah yous should check it out too, come I’ll read it out to you, it’s great!” She clapped her hands in excitement. “No thank you, you know I don’t read romance,” He shook his head. “But it’s a unique one,” She protested, “A popular mystery/thriller writer is thrown inside her own novel! How cool is that?” “Hmm?” he raised his brows. “Did it pick your interest?” She wiggled her brows. “Ah, the guy has the same name as you, by the way,” She added.