Street Tales Of Terror นิยาย & เรื่องราว

😂❤️ I’ve decided to make the chapters in each collection longer so you can spend more time with the characters, experience the tension, get more steamy moments, uncover the secrets, and really get lost inside every story. So please… keep your toes up! 👀😂🔥 Because I may have added a few twists here and there that you definitely weren’t expecting. 😏🌚🖤 Just when you think you understand what is happening… I might turn everything upside down. 👀💀 I want Dark Tales of Midnight to be the kind of book that makes you say, “Okay, just one more chapter…” and then suddenly realize it’s 2 a.m. 😂😭🌙

And it’s already had a taste . Tales from The Lake Vol.1 anthology—Remember those dark and scary nights spent telling ghost stories and other campfire stories? With the Tales from The Lake horror anthologies, you can relive some of those memories by reading the best Dark Fiction stories around. Includes Dark Fiction stories and poems by horror greats such as Graham Masterton, Bev Vincent, Tim Curran, Tim Waggoner, Elizabeth Massie, and many more. Be sure to check out our website for future Tales from The Lake volumes.

📖 ⸻ Words appeared across its pages. ⸻ TITLE: THE LAST STORY ⸻ The stars outside flickered. ⸻ Reality trembled. ⸻ The Mother froze. ⸻ The Father looked horrified. ⸻ Because they recognized it. ⸻ The final story. ⸻ The story currently being written. ⸻ The story of Ilyaan. ⸻ 😨 ⸻ 🌙 The Horrifying Discovery Ilyaan stared at the pages. ⸻

"My car died about a mile back and the road just vanished behind me." "Sit down," he replied, already moving to the small kitchen area where a woodstove glowed red. He poured steaming coffee from a battered pot into a heavy ceramic mug and handed it to me, our fingers brushing. "Storm like this can last days. You're not going anywhere tonight." "I'm Nora Kane," I told him after the first careful sip burned pleasantly down my throat. "I'm a travel journalist. Supposed to be writing about people who choose to live off-grid, but I clearly picked the worst possible week to try it."

His rolled up sleeves reveal the thick veins in his forearms, and the scent of him, that woodsmoke and sharp musk, seems to drift across the rows of desks, clogging my lungs. "Most writers fail because they are afraid to feel," Professor Tyler begins, his eyes snapping back to mine for a split second before moving on. "They describe a scene like a blueprint. But a story is not a blueprint. It is an experience. If you want your reader to bleed, you have to describe the coldness of the blade. If you want them to burn, you have to make them feel the heat of the skin."

I mumbled, relaxing on one of the pillars in the mansion and shutting my eyes, my shoulders shrugged as my thoughts weighed me down like lead. “You always ruin everything,” Ralph accused, his voice venomous. “Your anger keeps getting in the way and you end us destroying things, Raymond,” Ralph grumbled. “Shut the bloody hell up, Ralph!” I muttered as sweat dripped down my face. I could feel fear crawling down my spine, my breath coming in short gasps. I was reeling in confusion, unsure of what would happen to my little boy if the anonymous caller took his threats seriously. “Fuck it,” I cursed under my breath.

He shook his head in disappointment, his shoulders steeling in resolution, “I’ll tell you one thing, Natalie. I’ve been so used to living my life with no friends, and that is not going to change just because you took a chance with me.” He scoffed bitterly, “You know what? I’d rather be alone than associate with someone who takes the words of others and makes assumptions about me.” He spat at her angrily, and then with nothing more to say, the tattooed guy turned to walk away, but Natalie chased after him, grabbing his arm. “Parker, wait! I’m sorry.” She apologized earnestly. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. It’s just… things have just been so weird at my house, and I’m scared. Strang

Seventy-six Windy Gate was a small triangular house that resembled a pointed hat, or that appeared as if perhaps there was a larger house under the ground that was beginning to sprout. A hedge of wild roses shielded the neat lawn from the road. At the end of the gravel driveway was a sign, painted purple and green on black, that read THIstLE StuDIo & TEARooM and beckoned passersby to stop in for a visit.

As the stories got scarier, I noticed a few of the younger pack members huddling closer to their parents, seeking comfort and reassurance. Soon, it was my turn to share a story. Feeling the weight of the moment, I cleared my throat and began my tale. "In a small village, there was a haunted mansion. It was said that the spirit of a vengeful witch roamed the halls, seeking revenge on anyone who dared to enter her domain..." I let my imagination run wild, conjuring spine-chilling scenes and mysterious characters. The pack leaned in closer, their eyes wide with fascination, hanging onto every word I spoke. The suspenseful atmosphere made my heart race with excitement.

But now… “Great! Now that’s done let me explain the rules of the new game. You are going to tell me a story. All you have to do is survive the story. Simple right?” Of course, it was not as simple. Anderson knew very well that anything concerning a demon would not be as simple. What was worse, this particular demon was very different. So, who knew what twisted game of story telling the demon had in mind? Anderson nodded warily at the demon’s enquiry. Whatever was coming he knew very well the odds would be against him as such he had his guard up. It was funny; He was rather feeling like the trapped one.