Skeletons In His Closet Novels & Stories

But instead of softening their hearts, it only enraged them further. "Why are you crying? It's not like Grace is dead! Get out of here! I don't want to see you!" Overcome with guilt and grief, my parents called in a forensic expert to determine where I had lived. The examination confirmed that the dilapidated room had indeed been my residence. However, the bloodstains revealed a chilling truth—I had been dead for over a year. Hearing this, my parents collapsed on the spot, overcome by the weight of the revelation.

The place looked like somewhere a cultivator practicing in solitude would live. Sitting on the bed was a skeleton in black robes, covered in spiderwebs. The skeleton was obviously devoid of any flesh, but Wilbur was reminded of Stefan at the mere sight of it. Stefan had achieved great things in his time but had still ended up dying here.

Feeling his worry and panic would only serve as a distraction. Beams of moonlight trickled in through the numerous holes in the ceiling. On the floor were bits of wood, broken glass, and charred tarot cards. One stuck to the sole of my shoe as I inched my way inside. I paused in what used to be the hallway and bent over to pull it off. I caught a glimpse of the picture as it fluttered to the ground. A hooded skeleton holding a razor-sharp scythe. Death.

The smell is dump and putrid, like the stench of death. "This is amazing." Theodore's morbid side is like in cloud nine because of what everything around him. He felt like he opened a time capsule. Everything looks old, and the ambience is like frozen in time. As he roam around the dungeon, he saw a trap door. At first, he thought it was meant for escape, but when he opened the door, pointed his flashlight on it, he saw what seems like a hundred skulls mounted on top of each other. It's like

After waiting five minutes, I decided to find them myself. I stepped into the walk-in closet and nearly had my jaw drop at the sight. His walk-in closet resembled a private boutique, with floor-to-ceiling walnut cabinets displaying perfectly tailored suits, military-inspired uniforms, expensive watches, polished leather shoes, and neatly arranged accessories. I searched the drawers for a long time before I finally found a pair of T-shirts and sweats.

The moment it touched the floor, something inside him cracked. He wasn’t running away. He wasn’t giving up. He just… couldn’t stay here. Not in this room. Not tonight. Not with the guilt clawing at him like this. He unzipped the suitcase and started packing. Shirts, trousers, toiletries—he shoved everything inside with mechanical movements. He didn’t even fold them properly. The perfectionist in him didn’t care, and that alone frightened him. Roy Sinclair always cared. Tonight, he felt completely disconnected from himself.

Atlas listens to the rhythm of his dad’s footsteps, the muted sound of a kitchen radio turning on, and lets himself breathe. He’s not rotting yet. They all know the signs. The way the skin dulls, grays, softens in places like bruised fruit. The way your hair starts to loosen, coming off in your brush in wiry clumps. It starts slow, but no one survives it. The town doesn’t even bury them anymore; there’s no point. The bodies dissolve until there’s nothing left but dust. And it only happens when you fall in love.

The world had ended two years ago, and somehow, Jesse still hadn’t died. He blamed Marcus for that. Marcus, with his stupid muscles, gorgeous face, and unwillingness to die no matter how many zombies tried to use his guts as an offal meal. They were holed up in a half-collapsed roadside motel in Nowhere, Nebraska. The sky outside was smeared with blood-red clouds and ash. Their last meal had been nearly expired protein bars and something that might’ve been squirrel or worst—a sewer rat.

Two boys and a girl were having a threesome. “Oh shit!” He exclaimed in horror, quickly slamming the door, “Please memory, forget what you just saw.” He moved on to the next door and opened it. “Oh fuck!” He exclaimed once more at the gruesome scene and shut the door, “Is Professor Stiles even home? How the hell am I to leave here.” He moved on to the next door and placed his eye on it. All he heard was moans, he moved to the next one, to the next and then to the last door on the passage.

“That’s not true. You know what I do for a living and my mother’s name too.” “You know what I mean.” I rolled my eyes. “For all I know, you could be a mafia boss with literal skeletons in your closet.” He gave yet another infuriatingly vague answer. “Baby, everyone has skeletons in their closet.” Not me. Fine, I did have a skeleton or ten, but who’s counting?