Slasher Book นิยาย & เรื่องราว

Curiosity tugged at me, urging me closer, step by careful step, to hear what was being said. Then, like a dagger to my chest, the words cut through the air: “Just kill her.” The book slipped from my trembling fingers, falling to the floor with a thud that felt louder than a gunshot. My heart froze. My breath was locked in my throat. Before I could run, before I could even scream, something sharp and heavy struck me. And then—nothing. When I woke, I was here.

She sighed and lay down on the makeshift bed she had made with dry leaves and old rags, waiting patiently for the dusk. Her eyes drooped, and she fell into a deep slumber dreaming about Asher and red roses. *** Asher let out an inhuman growl in frustration. Last night, another human was murdered right outside his territory. There was too much blood, some even seeping through the thin, white sheet that covered the victim’s body. The familiar metallic tang in the air made his gums ache, and at the same time, scrunch his nose. The human detective Ace Jackson approached him with a grim face. “Looks like the same MO,” he said.

“She’s inside and there is another man!” “Wait here.” Omar replied, helping the she-wolf to rest against the only wall not covered in blood. Omar moved calmly, pulling a hunting knife from his coat pocket. The way the blade winked wickedly in the pale light sent a chill down Chloe’s spine. She decided there and then she had seen enough of weapons and murder today and turned away from the door, gulping in air. Her throat burned and the bitter taste of bile still haunted Chloe’s mouth. Above her the clouds were breaking and golden sunlight was now filtering through, casting long shadows between the trees. It was too beautiful for the gruesome scene.

"Ahhh!" Then the shot rang out. The proles winced, half turned away from me to growl at something. I didn't even think about what I was doing. Suddenly the serrated knife was in my hand and I just rammed it in the side right into his heart. He yelped, jumped away from me, ripping the knife out of his own body, but the serrated blade did not voluntarily give up the tissue. The proles practically tore their own hearts out, stumbled another half meter and then collapsed bleeding. The eyes in which the aggressive madness of these creatures lived, fixed on me, he breathed out his last breath. There were two holes in his body. A small bullet hole in the flank and a large, deadly one in the heart.

Then the vision becomes blurry. A mirror reflecting the face of a man. A sedan car driving in the rain. Blood dripping from a neck cut. I open my eyes wide suddenly. I know who the throat slasher will kill next.

"Okay, okay. Well, the nickname first came to me because of a book I have read. You know the one with the psychopath that killed his victims every midnight." Jasmine frowned in distaste. Is this girl courting death? Why would she name a stranger after a psychopath? "The one you kept calling your baby? That died in the end and you mourned him for a whole week?" Ryder nodded. "He was precious and adorable and didn't deserve all that happened to him. My baby deserved all the love in the world." She stubbornly defended a psychopath from a book. The book was written by the same author that had written "The Ashen Soul" that she was currently reading, titled "Who Killed Midnight". This book was one

And the hand-drawn pictures showed magnificent animals, sometimes poised on a rock in the moonlight, other times racing through woods. The first chapters of the book were devoted to the history of shifters and the explanation of the Slavic term for them, vlkodlak. Now why did that suddenly sound familiar to her? Of course! Her neighbor, Mike Volka. He'd said his ancestry was Slavic. Was that the reason for his interest in werewolves? She needed to get the book out again and get back into it. She replaced what she called her library clothes with sweats and a long-sleeved tee shirt, leaving off her bra, a treat she gave herself in the privacy of her own home. Then she fed Mischief, fixed herse

Kill. I stalk over to the bed, the floorboards creakin' beneath my feet, but he doesn’t stir. I lean over him, my lips pullin' into a grin that feels too wide, too sharp. My mind buzzin', my body twitchin' with anticipation. I drag the blade across his throat in one swift motion, feelin' the warmth of his blood on my hands as it spills out. He gurgles, eyes wide with shock, but I’m already movin' on.

I wandered, fingers trailing along spines, until a thick, aged tome caught my eye: The Rift: The Blood Feud Between Shadowmoor and Nightfang. Curiosity burned. I sat, flipping through tales of broken treaties, stolen land, and one chilling entry about a Luna from Nightfang who was assassinated by a Shadowmoor spy. No wonder these packs hated each other. “I wouldn’t start with the war crimes,” a voice drawled behind me. “The poetry section’s less likely to give you nightmares.” I looked up sharply. A woman leaned against the bookshelf, arms crossed, expression wickedly amused. She wore combat boots, a half-buttoned uniform jacket, and a smirk that could slice steel. Her dark blonde curls were

It was my go signal. “I am looking for a book that is about catching a bad man, an abuser, a predator.” “And?” “I have read the Princess of Nile, Glory for Gloria, and even the The Dead Prince of the New Dynasty…” Her brows perched up from her barricade book, “and I want more.” She suddenly stood, and headed towards the last shelf on the hall. She walked back carrying a book like hers – with a make-shift false cover. She threw it on the table.