Real Ghost Stories To Read Novels & Stories

Layla, still shaking, lifted a trembling hand and pointed toward the window. “A ghost,” she whispered. “It’s a ghost.” “Ghost?” Lucian echoed, walking toward the window. She nodded frantically, clinging to him like a frightened child. He closed his eyes briefly and shook his head when he noticed her phone lying open on the bed. “You were reading a ghost novel?” he asked flatly. Layla nodded. “But I heard something. I swear.” “It’s just dry branches and leaves rustling,” he said calmly. “Nothing else.”

it was an erotic story ,titled the hot kidnapper) I raise an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in my eyes. I push off from the desk and walk closer, my heels clicking on the floor. “A story, huh? You think you can just walk in here and write a tale for me? How about you show me what you’re made of first? Tell me, what’s your fantasy? What gets you going in the dark?” I lean in, my breath warm against your ear, my large breasts pressing against your arm. (Pushing the paper to you I ask you to read it aloud ,you cheeks turn a faint red as you try to explain you brought the wrong story,I press a finger to your lips shushing you and telling you to read, you read it all)

Each account had been published in various ghost hunting guides available in local bookstores. “You really believe all that?” Louis asked. “I look at it this way. A few things you might be able to write off as coincidence, bad luck, or someone making up a tale. But there are just so many stories collected in this one place that you have to pay attention. I mean, it seems like something’s going on.”

I switch off the lights for extra measure. “So this happened when my mom was 17 years old. One day, she and four of her friends were having a sleepover when they decided to tell ghost stories. So, my mom was narrating a story about a doll that is a medium for dead spirits. People would often call their dead relatives and talk to them. And if you want to call the doll, you have to hold hands and chant, ‘Suzie, please come,’ three times. People named the doll Suzie,” I speed dial, Reed.

Epilogue: Now that I have written several of these stories, I find that my old ghosts have started to haunt my dreams yet again. It is amazing that once things are written down, they begin to take on a life of their own. Just remember, if you don’t want things to go bump in the night, don’t tell anyone else about them.

The second his eyes landed on that video, he felt it, that burning sensation as it rippled through his veins, causing his blood to pump faster and his heart termored. When he was six he had thought his great grandmother mad when she would often tell these tales of Merfolks, dragons, fairies, elves, whispering ghosts, who lived in a beautiful city under the sea and how they were real… she said the whispering ghosts often lure men and women under the sea…. trap then suck their souls, they would sink ships and flood trespassing islands.

Ghost stories around a bonfire—what could be more suspenseful and playful? Alastair settled down next to me, his hand finding mine. He gave it a reassuring squeeze as he began his tale. "Once, in these very woods, there was a legend of a ghostly figure that would appear every full moon. They say that those who encountered this spirit were granted a wish, but at a great cost..." His words hung in the air, and the pack leaned in closer, their eyes locked on Alastair, captivated by the haunting tale. The crackling of the fire seemed to echo the suspense in the atmosphere.

And I didn’t expect her to fucking torture me with that image. I want to lose myself in her right now, but I also want to see that gleam in her eye when she learns something new. I take a deep breath. I promised myself a real shot with her, so ghost stories it is. But damn, it’s gonna be one hell of a long night. “Can you die from blue balls?” Hendrix mocks. “Ready to explore the supernatural tales of Waterloo?” She asks, biting her lip, her voice filled with excitement. “I’ve grown up around these legends, remember?” I say, still trying to pull myself together.

"Everyone has a story, Joan. It's part of the tradition.." I looked at Emily. She smiled encouragingly at me. The room fell silent as they waited for me to begin. I took a deep breath, searching my mind for a story. I remembered a story my mom told me when I was younger. “There was once an old mansion far away from a hidden, forgotten town,” I began “It was said to be haunted by the spirit of a young woman. The woman was a bride who had died on her wedding night.” Sarah and Emily gasped.

“She should probably start with the stories Nana always loved to tell her. Those are the type that might be illegal.” “What the hell, Tate. Why are you out here ratting out Nana like that?” “Tell me,” I say, ignoring her fake annoyance with Tatum. “Everyone has heard of ghost wolves,” she starts with a sigh. “But no one ever talks about what they are, how they came to be.” “All I recall hearing was that they were wandering wolves who lost their mates.” I shrug and Tatum shakes her head. “No, they are a ghost of themselves because they never found their mates.” Tatum corrects me and I roll my eyes. “Our moms always argued about that bit when they would try to scare us with the stories.”