Pet Sematary Mga Nobela at Kwento

Porter leaned against the bare living room wall with a cigarette dangling from his mouth. When he saw me, he nodded. "All clear. Take a look. See if there are any problems." "Thanks, Porter. I appreciate it." I said. "No problem." He blew a smoke ring. "The final payment and the transfer documents will go through your friend. He looked around. "This house is nice." Within a few days, the transfer procedures were completed quickly. The final payment hit my account. I had completely severed ties with the house that held my brief marriage and too many frustrating memories. I thought that would be the end of it.

He went alone. He always went alone. No driver waiting at the gate. No Marcus with a schedule. No phone calls stacked behind it. Just Damien and his car and the grey morning pressing down on the city like it hadn't decided yet whether to rain. Greywood Cemetery was forty minutes outside the city. He knew every turn by heart. The headstone was exactly where it always was. Gerald James Blackwood. Beloved father. A man of quiet honour. Damien stood in front of it with his hands in his coat pockets and said nothing for a long moment.

My mother, Samantha, believed I was born a liar. Because she was deceived by my father's sweet words in her youth and abandoned after giving birth to me and my sister, Mia, she harbored a deep, bitter hatred for lies. She begged a witch for two magic rings. The rule was simple: if the wearer lied, the ring would glow red and burn them with magic. Mia's ring never hurt her, even when she broke a vase and blamed it on me. But if I simply said, "I'm thirsty," my ring would sear my flesh until I screamed. At first, I tried to defend myself, but Mom would just say, "The ring doesn't lie. Only through repeated punishment can your wicked soul be cleansed." After thousands of burns, even I started t

In the back was Sloman’s office, a small kitchen and a toilet. It was usually locked at this hour. Jim fumbled the keys from his pocket as he jogged up. He noticed the main gates were chained and padlocked. Jim hadn’t seen the big padlock before and he had no key for it. He had no idea who’d done it, but it changed all his plans. He’d hoped to get the hell out of the cemetery the minute he’d alerted Sloman. Now he’d have to make his way out of one of the side entrances. That meant facing whatever was out there again. Jim’s heart sank the minute he entered the largest room. Something was obviously not right. For a start there was the smell again. It was fainter, but it was definitely there, h

A/N: Before you read this book, first of all, thank you so much for picking up this book. It means everything to me :) Second of all, the cover was created by my amazing friend Lily. Go follow and support her Wattpad account; @Lilypadsxfrogs. And finally, this story does touch lightly on the triggering topic, suicide. Please read at your own risk. Enjoy the story! It was a bleak evening on the 14th of June. The air was cold and caliginous, almost as if it could suspect the misery and gloom that lingered over the Jacobs. It was a sombre affair that evening for all of them.

Only when forensics pried the data chip—the one I'd implanted to monitor the drug's effects—from the rotted tissue did the buried truth finally surface. … "Weren't all the contaminated remains incinerated?" a worker's voice, thick with fear, cut the damp air. "How… how is there one here?" In the profound dark, the sound jolted my consciousness awake. A soul, set in concrete for two years, saw fractured daylight again. The first voice I recognized was my brother's. "Christ, this place is still a bad-luck charm," he muttered, the familiar timbre now laced with a disgust that iced my spectral form.

My son and Lena. I sat in the car for a long moment watching the house. Watching the shadow move across the upstairs window, her shadow. She's awake. She's waiting. For what? I didn't know. But I was about to find out. --- The front door was unlocked. I stepped inside. The living room was a mess — pizza boxes, beer bottles, three young men sprawled across the couches. Marcus looked up. "Mr. V!" He scrambled to sit up. "We didn't know you were coming back”

After catching my supposedly frigid wife, Emmy Winslow, aroused by our household robot butler, I swallowed my disgust and sent the machine to a destruction facility. I never expected that decision to cost her life. On the way to chase after the robot, Emmy was involved in a horrific car accident and died at the scene. From that day on, I became notorious in our social circle as the jealous husband who drove his wife to her death. Five years passed. Night after night, I tortured myself by wondering if she would still be alive had I not been so petty over a machine. Until today, while discussing business at a private club, I passed a half-open VIP suite and heard one of Emmy's closest frie

Mom got in then Leo, before me. Grayson closed the door. And the car pulled away. ******** The cemetery was on the eastern edge of the city. We had buried our father here when I was thirteen and Leo was nine. In the particular section that was modest and well-kept and full of people who had lived ordinary lives that mattered to the people who loved them. Our father was one of those people. Patrick Dane. Who had worked with his hands. Who had laughed loudly. Who had sung in the kitchen while Mom cooked.

Death replied. "Did he go to heaven?" Emily asked. "Yeah," Death answered. "His trial was an easy one," he added. "That's a good sign!" says Emily. "You're right. That's indeed a good omen," Death agreed. The two of them fell silent. None of them could keep up their conversation. The parade continued moving until it reaches the cemetery. Everyone gathered at a excavated portion of the cemetery's enormous lot. A priest arrived at the burial. He is carrying a bottle of holy water and a black book with cross on its cover.