Phantom Tales Of The Night นิยาย & เรื่องราว

I'm alone with more knowledge than I ever dreamed of having and for the first time since arriving at Nightfall Keep, I can breathe. I spend hours exploring, running my fingers along leather spines and pulling down volumes at random. There are histories of the Lycan territories, texts on magic theory, and bestiaries describing creatures I didn't know existed. On the second floor, tucked in a corner behind several other books, I find something that makes me freeze. A small leather-bound volume with no title on the spine, but when I pull it out, the cover reads in silver ink: "The Celestial Wolves: Last of the Moon Goddess's Children."

Complete blackout. “Backup generator online,” Nadine called. But the room didn’t light up. Instead… one light flickered on. A soft glow in the center of the room. A figure stood there. Not walking. Not materializing. Just... there. The Phantom. The Echo. Ophelia clenched her fists. “You don’t get to haunt this place,” she said coldly. He tilted his head. And finally, he spoke. “I’m not haunting. I’m reminding.” “Reminding who?”

“Not that I’d brag or anything.” Seraphine raised an eyebrow. “Right. Subtle.” Mina rolled her eyes. “Dragon boys and Djinn. Always dramatic.” Finally, Lyra spoke, her voice lower, carrying an almost silky quality. “Castle Tenebrae, castle of the Dreamwalkers, incubi, illusionists. I’m Phantasm. We bend dreams and emotions into shape, weaving illusions so real they can make you laugh, cry, or break.” Her gaze lingered on Seraphine, steady, knowing. “People say Phantasms blur the line between reality and desire. That’s why they fear us.”

Tonight, I should easily be able to escape. We fell silent for a moment, while we ate. On the table beside us, I conversation sparked up. "Your eyes are a strange colour," Phoenix says pointedly, speaking directly to Nikita, who sat at the end of our table. "Like a Phantom Wolf's." I have heard this rumour here and there, about Nikita being a Phantom Wolf. Those creatures are meant to be cold blooded killers, or at least that's what my mother used to tell me. They live in the Devotion Pack, and kill the innocent. They are common features of scary stories around every Pack, so the idea of Nikita being one is a fear to all of us.

They took shape, forming dark figures with hollow eyes and sharp claws. Phantoms. The creatures swarmed, clawing at Damien and Lyra, slowing them down. Their touch was icy, burning the skin like frost. Damien tore one apart with his teeth, black smoke spilling into the air. Lyra snapped at another, breaking its form, but they kept coming, endless and cold. Ahead, Seraphine laughed again, her voice mocking. “You cannot win. By the time you reach me, the child will already be mine.” Lyra’s heart screamed in denial. She lunged at the phantoms, ripping through them with fury, but each second wasted gave Seraphine more distance.

Now let's talk about my other books. Nightmare Land is not changing, but I am re-editing the first 18 chapters, which I will try to finish as soon as I can. Again, I will try to get the re-edits out with a new chapter, so just bear with me. Not only that, but I'm trying to add on a new book called Dark Tales of the Alive Undead. I have received no response about that either, but I'm waiting for an entire week to see if my editor will respond. I know they say to wait a whole month for new books, but this is also about my other books.

The boy is having a nightmare. I want to help. I want to wake him up. I want to flip him over so his nose is not in the pillow. But I couldn't do anything. I have been watching him for forty-one nights. His mother tucks him in at eight-thirty. She reads one story—always the one about the rabbit who gets lost and finds his way home. She kisses his forehead. She turns on the star-shaped nightlight. She closes the door, but leaves it open just a crack so the hallway light spills in like a promise.

It was late autumn when they arrived — the trees skeletal, the air thick with a kind of oppressive stillness that seemed to hum beneath the surface of the world. Emily Carter, a graduate student in folklore and urban legends, had heard the whispers about WildWood all her life. She had grown up just a few towns over and had spent years gathering the old stories: tales of the “vanishing patients,” the “howling trees,” and the “night doctors” said to stalk the forest paths. Determined to separate fact from myth, Emily organized an expedition for her thesis, enlisting a few brave companions:

the journalist asked curiously. "Yes, it's called 'Tales of the Moonlit Grimoire'," Luna revealed with a smile, subtly bringing the interview to a close.

I'm quiet because I actually feel guilty about all of this, I feel like I would have been able to do something. “No, that's not it, mom. I'm not scared of the news, and I will not get any nightmares,” I say and mom smiles. “Goodnight honey!” mom says and I wave, “Goodnight mom,” I say. She flips my light switch off and darkness floods the entire room. I turn off my phone and now I'm in absolute darkness, the kind of darkness where I can't even tell whether I'm lying or standing. After a few seconds of counting sheep, I fade. into my subconscious, gradually.