Romans & histoires Short Fiction Books

Chapter 1 – You’re Trouble, Aren’t You? It was one of those Chicago nights where the air smelled like rain and bad decisions. The streets shimmered under the streetlights, wet with the earlier drizzle, and the whole city buzzed like it knew something dirty was about to happen.

It felt like invisible handcuffs were holding my wrists above my head and my ankles spread wide apart. Tears streamed down my face, my heart racing at the fact that I was completely trapped. “Guys! Something’s holding me down! Help! Something crazy's going on!!" My friends were still banging on the door, panicking. “Sophia? We’re trying to get in! Just hold on!” A foggy, shadowy figure materialized at the foot of the bed. Tall, dark, with glowing silver eyes. I knew it wasn't human, the shape was all wrong — too fluid with too many limbs shifting in the darkness.

The lock clicked open, the sound as loud as a gunshot in the silent, sun-drenched office. She pulled the drawer open. There, nestled amongst expensive pens and a signed first edition, was a small, unassuming black book. It looked old, the leather worn smooth in places. It felt heavier than it should, heavy with the weight of her husband’s trust, a trust she was about to shatter into a million pieces.

Instead, she spotted a battered cardboard box, which she pulled out by one of its flaps. The box was filled with books similar to the one she found on the floor—tattered and yellowing, adorned with somewhat cheesy cover art. Except for a few classics by authors like Verne and Wells, most of them fell into the sci-fi genre. Cole admitted to losing interest in this type of literature after a few pages of convoluted descriptions. However, she recognized some of the titles because she had been repeatedly told that she should read them: Asimov, Russ, Vonarburg, Bradbury, Heinlein, Bujold, Engh, Le Guin.

These are the questions a bookstore owner face when a mysterious book shows up. Samurai and Other Stories by William Meikle—No one can handle Scottish folklore with elements of the darkest horror, science fiction and fantasy, suspense and adventure like William Meikle. The Dark at the End of the Tunnel by Taylor Grant—Offered for the first time in a collected format, this selection features ten gripping and darkly imaginative stories by Taylor Grant, a Bram Stoker Award® nominated author and rising star in the suspense and horror genres. Grant exposes the terrors that hide beneath the surface of our ordinary world, behind people’s masks of normalcy, and lurking in the shadows at the farthest

he added. Elaine returned the smile. "Absolutely, Each book took me on a fascinating journey. I can't thank you enough for recommending such incredible titles." "It's always a pleasure to see someone genuinely passionate about reading. I'm glad I could be of assistance. By the way, we have a new arrival that you might find interesting. It's a collection of short stories by an acclaimed author." he suggested. Her curiosity piqued. "Oh, really? I'd love to take a look at it. Where can I find it?"

Not a fortress. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. The bookstore is quiet. Just us and the hum of the fridge behind the counter. He holds something. A book. He sets it on the counter. The Art of Letting Go. Used. Corners bent. “I read it,” he says. His voice is rough. Unused. “Didn’t help.” My throat closes. “Dominic—” “I wasn’t okay,” he says, like he’s continuing a conversation from six months ago. “When you asked. On the phone. I wasn’t okay. I’m still not.”

Blackmailers always do. So I did the only thing I could do. I replied to the email. "I don't have $75,000. But I can offer you something better. Meet me at The Meridian Hotel, Room 1847, Friday night at 8 PM. Come alone. And bring the USB drive with the originals. If you want to discuss terms, be there. - Sophia" I didn't know what I was going to do when he got there. But I knew I wasn't going down without a fight.

Sarah locked her apartment door and leaned against it for a second, kicking off her heels. Another long shift at the bookstore, feet killing her, and that same prickly feeling on the back of her neck the whole walk home. Like someone was right there, just out of sight. She’d felt it for weeks now. Maybe months. At first she thought she was losing it—stress from the divorce, the late nights restocking shelves, too much true crime on her phone before bed. But it kept happening. A shadow across the street when she left work. The same black hoodie guy at the coffee shop two days in a row. Her bedroom window blinds slightly off when she came home one night. Little things. Nothing she could prove.

Even though I had received enough cock, reading this stirred my inner whore. The sound of the door creaking open made me gulp down the invisible lump in my throat as I closed the book and shove it aside. Christian I watched him strode in with a smile and with a bag of snacks in his hands. My eyes sparkled immediately as I sat up. “Wow, that’s a lot. Are all of these for me?” I asked as I rose to grab everything. He chuckled softly. “Not just you, Sarah. It’s for all of us. Have you forgotten we normally have a family hangout every Friday night?” He asked, and my words stuck in my throat.