Writer X Serial Killer Novels & Stories

added Alex Brian and Clarissa were worried, they think that Alex will be worse than before and he is close to be like DEREK MCFALTON. "Brian , tell the men to be ready. This weekend w are going to a war and I have accepted it,"he said Brian and Clarissa gasped with shock. He is trying to kill himself. This thing didn't sit well to him. "I need to talk to Anna,"whispered Clarissa to Brian.

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.

“Now everyone will believe that you’re a famous mystery writer.” His bicep was taut for a split second before he relaxed his muscles again. “I’m done with being a writer, Xy. I can’t keep on living a double life. Triple even.” He shook his head and took a glass of punch from a passing waiter, then took a big gulp. “Being a mafia, werewolf, and writer. It’s too much for me.”

com/webserial *** ABOUT THE AUTHOR - writing as Alexia Praks (romance) and Bella Chan (BL) Alexia is a self-proclaimed hermit, puppers-loving girl who likes to write anything romance—be it contemporary, historical, fantasy, paranormal, BL, or a combination of any of these. Currently residing in Aotearoa (land of the long white cloud), she spends seventy percent of her time watching anime and reading w*******s and the other thirty percent daydreaming about food and procrastinating. Whatever’s left she actually uses to write books that may or may not bring her a few precious gold coins to support her lifestyle.

"Elizabeth knew great pain as she saw the lives of her children come to an end. All she could do was stare at the man who made the murder of her children possible. His last name was derived from a word attributed to small. He was called Paul Littlebed and he rubbed his chin in delight as he felt the weight of being an accomplished Christian dawn on him. He was proud of himself as he watched Elizabeth Blackwheel suffer and though she constantly lamented saying her children didn't deserve any of the torture they were facing, he didn't stop. He couldn't stop what he was doing to Elizabeth Blackwheel because he felt great pain in his heart. All he could think about was his innocent wife that had

Anthony was a father. It was the third time he was receiving the unappreciated news of the murder. The killer was torturing the victims before slitting their necks. Zain still couldn't find the weapon and the next clue. The only thing he found an identical clue was the chemicals. The serial killer was maybe some kind of worker at any company or maybe he was a... " Do we have any painters in our town?” Zain asked furrowing in confusion.

Penelope gulped it down while listening to their introduction. “I am X. A serial murderer and an assassin. I don't choose the gender when killing. If I wanted to kill someone or someone paid me to do so, no matter who it is, I would kill that person.” “I am 01. I was sent to a black mental hospital before, but I escaped after killing all the people in that hospital, including the patients and doctors. I am skilled at torture.” “I am Ace. I just love killing people and I specialized in all types of torture.”

“He’s a football player. She’s too small to murder him.” I shrugged. “There’s lots of ways to kill people.” He furrowed his brow at me. “Why do you know that?” I rolled my eyes at him. “I’m a writer. I sometimes research true crime stories for inspiration on ways to kill off characters.” Kamron stopped walking, and ended up pulling my arm a little. “Seriously?” “Some people are worried others will find porn in their search history,” I shrugged. “My dirty history is full of murder.”

All right, let’s start over. My name is Sarah Killian, and I am a professional serial killer. No, goddammit, I am not a mother-fucking assassin, goddammit. Sorry. Again. That was my Tourette’s. I just have issues with assassins. They’re jackasses. Every. Single. Last. One. Jackasses. Let’s just say that it’s no coincidence the word starts with two asses, because one ass is not enough for those douche bags.

“Talk about burying the lede, Paul. So . . . do they think it’s a serial killer or something? Are they going to call the FBI?” Riley had read Thomas Harris’s Red Dragon the year before and since then had done some research on FBI profiling. He had a sudden and exciting vision of being the first reporter to get in on an emerging serial killer story. That would raise his profile, all right. He could be like Jimmy Breslin with Son of Sam. The idea that Nowak might want to report on the story himself never entered Riley’s mind. Nowak was buckling under small-town pressure already. He’d never give two beheaded girls the proper consideration they deserved.