Spooky Writing Novels & Stories

The words written there looked rushed, almost messy, like whoever wrote them was confused and scared. “Why do I feel different from humans?” “Why do I crave blood?” “Why do I feel like tearing human flesh apart?” “Why do I feel like an animal?” “Why is it that anytime I see the full moon, my whole body starts vibrating?” “Why do I wake up feeling like I went somewhere… like I fought someone… like I ate humans?” The last line was written bigger than the others. “What am I?” The moment my eyes finished reading those words, the book slipped from my hands.

CHAPTER NINE Nancy Drew, Part 1 People say Forest Hills memorial is so old even the ghosts don’t remember who they are… I’d be cautious when visiting the place though. Some stories claim that a daytime visit to the cemetery might mean you get a visitor at night too. #ForestHills #Spooksville — Tweet from Raven_Eye. The following message was read from the email of Jonathan Day and later added into the live journal of Jessica Day; Jono,

"Damn you, Annabelle." As I continued my solitary journey, the shadows cast by the towering trees became more menacing. Each twist and turn in the road seemed to reveal hidden horrors, imaginary figures lurking just beyond my peripheral vision. My overactive imagination conjured images of malevolent entities hiding behind the gnarled trunks, their eyes glinting with malicious intent. A shiver ran down my spine as I quickened my pace, desperate to escape the oppressive darkness that enveloped me.

And the details were written about those pictures. She named them as demonic power spells. I sighed while going through the diary. Then came the pages for ghosts. She had written stories about the ghosts. Full stories like how she learned about a ghost in a place. Then she fought the ghosts and scared them away. The whole diary was filled with crazy things. Ghosts, spirits, Angels, demons, hell, heaven and God. By the end of that diary, I started to think that all the stories were real. I started to believe everything I saw in that diary.

It body got drained of blood, has no leg to move but rather moves through the air, it head was of the exact shape of a skeleton. I couldn't control my feet anymore for the speed exceed that of Usain Bolt athlete. As I tried to run inside the house, she was right behind me just as I read it in the Black Cults book that ghost in Tortuga are faster than any human. She almost entered the house with me but Sorcerer pointed a stalf at her, casting the spell, "INCENDIO" with wide range of fire coming out. And then she vanished.

"I'll go back home and continue my normal life but I'll never have anything to do with ghosts anymore. I won't even do like I see them and will continue my story writing and studies." "Will you write my story, Chris?" "Never. It's a secret." I vehemently shook my head. "Why? You don't want people to know you see ghosts?" "Yes, I don't. Moreover, people hardly believe you guys exist so it's of no use writing it and trying to convince them." "But I want you to write my story, Chris. I want the world to know how I died, what caused my death, everything. Including the way, my mum cried when she found out about my death till the very end when I'm gone."

Slowly, she stepped back, but the bus just waited, its entrance gaping open like a whale ready to swallow her whole. Willa wasn’t stupid. She knew danger when she saw it. “Hey…” she screamed, but nothing came out. Her voice didn’t go beyond her ears. At only twenty-one, she had become the most sought-after ghostwriter in the country. Platforms like Ellalux, Febnovel, and even the mighty master of webnovels, Koodnovel, had sought her services. Known as the horror-story specialist, she crafted dignified deaths, haunted struggles, and glorified survivals.

Come and infest on this ill-gotten soul that I presented to you. All the doors and windows crashed open, wind swirling in and sending everything flying as huge black spiders begin to climb inside. Even with such noise, Mary and James didn't hear it. Lora suddenly screamed out in fear as the huge spiders descended into her room seem hideous. “Be quite Lora, they are not here to hurt you.” The Sluagh fairy told her. Daisy shook her head and whisper some words. The black spiders disappeared as quickly as they came. “Didn't I told you that you weren't the only one who had read that book. So every of your next spells, I know how to destroy them.”

The foliage has begun reclaiming sidewalks and parking lots, even poking through the street’s asphalt. But not here. Nothing grows here. “I grew up reading a lot of classic horror, Stephen King, H. P. Lovecraft, especially,” Father Ward says. “Dad did, too. He was a different sort of pastor. A little more relaxed. Anyway, there’s a scrap of poetry by Lovecraft. Goes something like this . . . ” Father Ward closes his eyes and with a thoughtful expression recites: The Thing, they whisper, wears a silken mask Of yellow, whose queer folds appear to hide

Maybe that is the reason why I have no problem in communicating even if I don’t talk to people much. ‘This Time I Will Not Love You' This novel sounds so hurting. I think I won’t be interested in this since I have no love life or whatsoever. ‘To The World I Wish…’ ‘Reckoning Love…’ ‘Mystery Caller' ‘Untold Secrets…’ ‘Unfolding Secrets…’ JUST WHY THE HELL DOES IT SOUNDS SO SPOOKY?!?!? “Alright let’s look for other books to read...” I tried to calm myself just to not let me feel the spookiness in the titles of the books I saw. A very interesting book caught my attention. Unlike the others, it was… handwritten.