The Tell Tale Heart Audiobook Novels & Stories

I spun the screen to face her with my oldest manuscript on display, less than proudly. “Feel free to take a look,” I said, but she shook her head, her eyes sparkling in her beautiful fascination. “No. I love audio. I want to hear your voice, please. Can you read it to me?” I wasn’t sure about that, but she carried on asking, spinning my screen back to me. “Please, Julian, you have the best voice in the world.” That was enough of a compliment. I cleared my throat and began to read my story. One I’d written around college, when I was about her age. A thriller, about a man who wakes up to find his wife gone, with nothing more than a note on their sideboard saying sorry.

I replied calmly, trying to keep my own irritation in check. He scoffed, a sound that resembled a particularly disdainful cat. “Working? You call this working? You’ve barely scratched the surface of this story, Zoey. Weeks have gone by, and you haven’t produced a single decent scoop. I’m starting to think you’re chasing shadows instead of facts.” His words stung, but I refused to let him see it. “I’m close, Theodore,” I insisted, my voice firm. “I can feel it. There’s something bigger here, something Pushkin is trying to hide. I just need more time.”

Perhaps she'd given a hint on who murdered her in cold blood when the person hadn’t been caught. As I opened the first page, I heard a voice in my head. But it wasn't my wolf talking to me. The voice was incoherent, but it sounded like a warning. I ignored it and started reading until the voices grew so loud that I had to drop the book to maintain focus.

They were covering their ears. "Stop it," Silas wheezed. "Stop." Richard pulled back. The pressure in the room snapped like a rubber band. I stood there, breathing hard. My shirt was soaked with sweat. My heart was thudding so hard I thought it would burst. Richard didn't move. He kept his hand on my shoulder. "The Audit is over," Richard said. Silas looked up. He looked at me. Not as a mate. Not as a doctor. He looked at me like I was a ticking bomb.

This I know without even asking, and that’s another thing: this book, its pages, and the words on them, that shift and flow and quiver when looked at from the corner of my eye, that practically command me to read them. I tap the table next to the book, because I don’t want to touch it again, not yet. “What’s in the rest of this book? How does it relate to the Timmy Danvers case, Anne Marie Hauer, and everything else? Are you saying . . . that some THING, like in your story took them, that . . . ” Gavin shakes his head. “No, nothing like that.” “Then how the hell are these stories supposed to help me?”

It was too vivid, too real to dismiss. It pleasured me against my will, forcing a release that left me shaking and hollowed out. No amount of silver, no holy scripture, could stop it. I’m tired. I’ve tried everything, yet I can’t escape this life. I am a monster.” --- Clap! The sound of a sharp clap echoed through the room as the book slammed shut. The figure holding the book lingered for a moment. It then used his fingers to trace over the worn leather cover and the grooves of the embossed initials: R.H.—Raven’s diary.

She studied him, searching for tells, but his composure was maddeningly steady. The grandfather clock in the hall chimed, each note sinking into the room like an omen. Cass forced herself to breathe evenly, to keep her mask in place. But she couldn’t shake the sense that something was moving underneath the surface, slow but unstoppable. Leo leaned forward, elbows resting lightly on his knees. His voice dropped, low enough that she had to lean in just to catch it. “If you keep looking too closely, Cass, you’ll find things you can’t put back.”

“You better hope you survive long enough to find whatever it is that you’re looking for.” As Elena’s gaze lingered on the drawer Nico had slammed shut, a sudden, high-pitched beeping noise broke the stillness, barely audible beneath the layers of dust and silence. Her eyes flicked to a small, blinking device wedged just beneath the desk—a timed explosive, hidden and waiting. Her pulse surged as the realization dawned, but there was no time to warn Nico.

For someone with an empathy problem, you're making a lot of sense. "Mmm… I take your point.... personal but not too expensive...." I drop the lid of the laptop on Richard Burton and Scheherazade. ***** Later, scouring eBay, I find what I'm looking for. Second-hand, but beautifully produced and illustrated; a collector's edition, slightly dog-eared but not enough to spoil a gorgeous binding and a minor work of art. And before I wrap it, I take time to read some of the tales inside.... Fuck me.... and I thought these were stories for children....

His forehead was warm, and I knew it was a call of distress. Audrey soon returned with a book. She opened a page and looked at me. "Soul Cry," she said, and I frowned. "It is a god's ability. You can hear his soul crying," she said, and I did not know how that was going to help. "If you can hear him, then you can reach in and wake him up. " She said, and I frowned at her. "How?" I asked, and she flipped the pages quickly. Audrey had always been a bookworm. After living over four hundred years, I wouldn't be surprised if she had read and memorised all the magical books ever written and printed. She was a walking library.