Rotten Heart Novels & Stories

My sharpened claws dig further deeply into them. They search wholesomely for brother Ron's darkened abd evil filled heart. They easily and gladly puncture his fleshy skins and every unknown organ connected to the heart. He wince and cry over it. Over every destroyed organ. He scream wholesomely. His manly groans fills the entire building. His cute hypnotic alluring eyes rapidly blink. Numerous salty tears roll down them. Every destroyed organ painfully sprout more blood from his open chest. They further spill and stain his priceless attire.

Perhaps somewhere where the scent of rot isn't overpowering. Rot, my father once stated, is an inevitable force capable of penetrating even the strongest concrete. Rot, unbeknownst to us, served as the subtle catalyst hidden within the walls of our rooms, silently nurturing a consuming suffering that left behind only smoldering remnants.

One evening, Anthony received a box from an unknown person. Is this the present that the man who called me before told me? He remembered the call that he had with a lunatic. He shook his head and carefully opened the box using a cutter. When he has opened the box, Anthony saw Danielle's pictures that has an x mark on it and there was stains of blood. Feeling disgusted, Anthony carried the box and threw it on the trash bin. “ Who have the guts to play this kind of trick on me? Damn it!” Anthony frowned and punched the wall with his clenched fist.

“This place looks disgusting. I am sure rats are walking all over the place. It’s unhygienic. See, here are some.” “Where?” “At the corner.” “They are chicken, rose.” “Same for me.” “It’s an old place with lots of history. Maybe we will find out an epic love story somewhere in the wall of this place.” “We will only find dead animals at the corner of this place. Nothing else.” “Let’s go, drama queen.” “You are giving me all those ridiculous names. It is really getting under my nerves now.” “Oh, come on.” “If anyone finds out, you are calling me by rose and drama queen, it will bang my reputation.”

"Oh, this?" She held up the glass jar. "You've got some wonderful fungi growing on a few of these pine trees. Its scientific name is Croartia Quercuum. Most people call it Fusiform Rust. In Wiccan circles, it goes by Heart Skin. Deadly to the trees but incredibly useful for attack potions. Poison, essentially. If you administer it to someone and perform the right spells over the mixture, their hearts will literally burst right inside their chests. Like pop, you know?"

"Nobody touches my son. I'll turn your bones to ash!" The Lord of the Dead just tilted his skull like he found us amusing, and then he dropped the temperature of the entire sky. Not metaphorically. The air itself started freezing, the kind of cold that wasn't just uncomfortable, it was deadly. I could see my son's breath start to crystallize in his lungs, his little chest heaving as the pure death-rot seeped into the air around us. And here's the thing about absolute death-rot that nobody tells you in the supernatural biology textbooks. The only biological counter is the boiling, raw heat of a primal mating frenzy.

"It is not the first row failure, or the suppressed function, or the authority vacuum." She looked at me. "It is the Rot," she said. The word dropped onto the ironwood table like a stone. The Rot. It was a theoretical concept. The one hundred and twelfth type in the methodology, drafted only five years ago based on ancient, pre-compact texts Mira Harren had found before she passed. The Rot was not a political failure. It was an ideological decay. A deliberate, localized rejection of empathy that consumed the surrounding emotional infrastructure. It fed on apathy. It dissolved connections by convincing people that the connections were a burden.

I barged in without knocking and froze at the doorway. It seriously was a blood bath. The blood smelled disgusting and rotten; everything about it was wrong and the scent alone made me want to puke. Raymond was lying on his back, his eyes opened slightly but it was obvious he was dead. He had a gaping hole in his chest where his heart should be, but it wasn’t there. Bits of it were lying beside him on the ground, but it was evident that most of it had been consumed. Raymond was an asshole, so it wasn’t much of a loss. But still, nobody deserved to die like that.

At the center of the chamber… Suspended in midair by glowing roots and veined magic… Was a heart. Not a metaphor. Not an illusion. No, it was a literal, beating heart. Golden. But split. The right side of it shimmered like pure sunlight, clean and soft and healing. The left side… twisted. Veins blackened with rot. A slow corruption pulsing through it like tar in honey. The corruption bled upward along the roots holding it in place, darkening the magic that kept it suspended.

The heart was alive, fighting back, clinging to its hold on him. "No!" Lucien’s voice rang out, filled with a ferocity that shook me to my core. "You won’t have me anymore!" The ground cracked open beneath us, and there, deep in the darkness, I saw it. The heart. It was black and pulsing, its veins extending like the roots of a tree, feeding on the lost souls trapped within its depths. It was a thing of pure malevolence, a creature of magic and death, a parasite that had slowly consumed Lucien from the inside out.