Gravestone Stories Novels & Stories

“Vincent! Don’t give in!” His roar thundered through the chamber. “I won’t! I swear it!” The ghost’s voice slid into the atmosphere, sharp as a knife yet smooth as silk. “Swear all you want, fox. The gravestone tells no lies. One name carved in it means one silence sealed. And when it's done, the bride will vanish forever.” The dark hole beneath the gravestones widened further, sucking in all the air and pulling the chains even more. The fire hissed as if it were alive.

looking helpless as he lost the only thing that made him a god: his land. "You look like you're staring at a funeral," Silas rumbled, standing by the window. His silhouette appeared massive against the grey sky. "I am," I whispered. My voice was a dry rasp, like a dead leaf when crushed. "I'm watching the burial of the Crescent Alpha. I just didn't expect the scene to look so... boring, and ordinary…" My cough broke the silence, a deep, racking tremor that made my ribs feel like they were being snapped back one by one. I pressed a tissue to my mouth that quickly soaked in a dark, thick crimson. I didn't panic; that was for people who still had a future.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR The Flesh-and-Blood Ghost “You have to understand what this land means to my family,” she started. “I grew up hearing stories from my grandmother about how our ancestors were buried here, people who had been forced to come to this country in chains and treated like beasts of burden. Then, when they died, either from mistreatment or being worked to death or in some cases taking their own lives to try and find freedom in the afterlife, they were thrown in unmarked graves in a slave cemetery that no one cared for. As if to add insult to injury, when the city began to expand, they built right on top of the graves. They didn’t bother moving the bodies. Why would they? They did

CHAPTER NINETEEN 1 THE FOLLOWING DAY The Rock River Guardian carried a story about the newest plague pit found near town, and how the grisly remains of twenty-four hapless souls had been pulled from the mass grave so far. There was no mention of Henry Putnam’s inexplicable rebirth last night, of course, just a short paragraph regarding the family’s tragic carbon monoxide deaths.

Anne wished they hadn’t spoken to that batty old man, listening to his riddles and dead-end tales. The later discovery of alternate tales, crude folklore and legends betrayed by a handful of the old or wandering mad reinforced Damon’s suspicions of an ancient grave site, though there was no recorded information of its existence until Damon’s final research paper. There Damon recounted it by name, “The Mourner’s Cradle.”

Much like the cemeteries of the Outside, there was a series of stones planted in the ground to mark the graves of each fallen Ravennite. Rowan headed over to the grave site, with Alex following behind her, as she approached the newest additions to the small burial ground. She stopped and rested on her knees before the largest stone among the array of graves. Alex came to stand by her side, placing his hand on her shoulder as he knew whose grave they had come to; Darowe’s.

The above sentences are the thoughts of the author about what he thinks, but it is my duty to tell all the things he has in his mind. The space science and the beginning of the human era, why I always talk about the past, why I'm interested in the dead stories, why I tell a tale of another time, why I don't like the present and, also why I'm not narrating about those dumbasses who were about to close the mysterious case of random killing by an unidentified criminal (creature)? You might have so many questions and confusions about the fact that I puzzle a simple story in what we call a Riddle…? But you can still believe in me that I'll give you a gift tomorrow.

The evening began to stretch and soon enough it was 7:00pm. The house , usually silent and cavernous, felt warmer when Mrs. Graves finally arrived. She looked as elegant as ever, her presence a whirlwind of maternal affection and expensive perfume. “My favorite two people!” She exclaimed, pulling Zion and I into a tight, shared hug. She squeezed us so hard I could feel the thrum of Zion’s heart against my shoulder. “Congratulations on the Harvard admission, darlings. I couldn’t be prouder of the two of you.”

Afraid that Griffith might feel uncomfortable with her sitting on him, she thought of getting up. Unexpectedly, Griffith slightly straightened, pulling her closer, his chin resting on her shoulder. He took a deep breath. "I don't like telling stories," he said. Charlotte turned her face, her cheek touching his hair. "Why?" "Because my stories aren't lighthearted." All of them were about loss, death, and parting. As she had stated, she was his only close relative now. Without their marriage certificate, he would be alone. Charlotte fell silent momentarily before saying, "Then don't tell me the whole story. Just tell me this much: have you committed any crimes?"

“No. As in something strange happening in their territory.” “I don’t think so. I haven’t been keeping tabs for the last few days though.” “Maybe there’s no news.” “Is there something specific you want to know?” Marc stroke a match and dropped it down. The flames roared. “Probably. It’s still too soon.” After filling the dirt over the ashes, they exited the Western Umbre Graveyard, which was occasionally filled with ghouls even though it was illegal to dig old graves and eat the bodies. Witch Bones was decorated like a medieval cavern: gloomy atmosphere, wooden tables, and tall stools. On the walls were animal skulls and horns. Honestly, she often wondered how they had never been sued for tha