Old Novel Novels & Stories

“What am I supposed to do?” “We found hundreds of grimoires, a lot of them are written in more modern English. The oldest was written around the sixteenth century. Shakespeare’s time,” he adds quickly when he sees the look on my face. “It’s a little more difficult to read, but you should understand it just fine. You can start on those, see if you find anything interesting.”

Then, he tried to rub his furry head against my cheek. Evan was blessed with a head of golden curls. They shone like the afternoon sunlight. I turned my face to the side, looking frigid. "You don't have to make it up to me. You are not the one who betrayed me." 17-year-old Evan had nothing to do with his 27-year-old self who broke our promise. His younger self moaned and sobbed. Tears fell from his sapphire blue eyes. "Bella, how did it come to this?"

Elder Mora's POV I dropped the old book so hard it cracked the stone floor. My hands were shaking as I stared at the page I'd been dreading to read for sixty years. The forecast was written in the old language, the words burned into wolf hide with silver ink that glowed in the candlelight. It was real. After all these years of hoping it was just a scary story, it was actually happening. "No, no, no," I whispered, my voice booming in my empty house.

She scrambled back toward the wall, but before she could speak another word, the Old Lady appeared from the shadows. “It is time to stop, Novel,” she said. Novel spun around. Her eyes went wide with a look of terrifying recognition.

I couldn't help but feel a mix of awe and uncertainty at this ethereal display. With a swift motion, the old woman unrolled the torn scroll further, revealing its ancient and dusty contents. Dust particles filled the room, as if the scroll had been untouched for centuries. I blinked, trying to clear my vision, and waved my hand in front of me to disperse the dust. "This scroll... it's really ancient," I remarked, my voice filled with awe and wonder. The old woman nodded, her eyes glinting with wisdom. "Indeed, Marco. This scroll holds secrets that have been hidden for generations. Its age is a testament to the knowledge it contains," she explained.

"You're not the only one with old blood, little heir." The mist parted around him as something ancient stirred beneath the canyon stone, older than the war, older than the kingdom itself. Older, even, than the seals we'd broken.

the professor said. Leesa handed him the old book. “What is it?” Professor Clerval rested the book on his lap. “It's an original manuscript from the early nineteenth century, said to be the memoirs of a female vampire.” He put his pipe into a brass ashtray atop the desk and carefully opened the book. Leesa could hear the leather binding crinkle. She scraped her chair closer.

The body of the old man had already crumbled to dust, when the ancient one again extended his hand and quickly pulled the next old man. -Delicious vampires, you will replenish my strength. - the ancient one says in an unpleasant voice, with a slight squeal, fresh blood drips on his robe. - Humble yourself, brother, you will serve a great purpose, and I will continue the work of our family. - Lord Askadal says to the last old man with sadness in his voice. Another heap of ashes fell onto the shiny floor of the spacious hall. The Ancient One smacked his lips with pleasure, his figure straightened up again, showing a majestic posture, he went to the last old man, huddled in a corner. There was

I can tell Uncle Leo we aren't ready yet. 'I'm sure. I don't think it will help us, but it won't hurt either.' She said. I picked up the book. It was an old, deep brown, leatherbound book with the title in gold leaf. 'Tales of Olde'. It was heavier than I expected. Uncle Leo hadn't told me the title of the story so I skimmed the contents page. None of the titles mentioned an unnamed wolf. I sighed.

Her gaze was fixed on the rich, reddish-brown hue of the bourbon, as if seeking refuge within its depths. Every year, without fail, January would arrive, a cruel reminder of the past. While others greeted it with optimism, a fresh slate for new beginnings, Florence found herself dreading its arrival. For her, December and January were a painful reminder of loss, a time of year shrouded in sadness and melancholy.