HORROR books online

Reading books horror If you are looking for a good book horror, you should visit our website. Electronic library is gaining popularity. Influenced by modern technology and the advent of new gadgets, people are increasingly turning to electronic libraries because it allows them to read online everywhere . Every reader thanks to his smartphone, laptop or computer, can visit our website at any time. Reading ebooks help people to make good use of free time. Our elibrary has a huge selection of genres for every taste and request.


Today we want to introduce you horror genre. Horrors are very popular among people who like to tickle their nerves. Main characters in the horror genre are demons, evil spirits, monsters,vampires and ghouls. But it’s very often, when book based on true events, for example psychological thrillers.
In Ancient Greece and Ancient Rome, horrors were told to each other like myths, that carry the story of the death and afterlife. Ancient people believe that reincarnation exists. Modern horror novels are include new fantastical creatures, like ghosts, vampires, werewolves, and witches.



Nowadays it’s very hard to force a person to believe in the truth of history, but modern reader just expects to be frightened and shocked. Horror books on our website are elicit a sense of dread in the reader through frightening images, themes, and situations.
The atmosphere of the book provokes our imagination. If the book will in your mind long time after reading , so the horror writer did his job well. After horror genre books you can even get insomnia or very bad and scary dreams.But that shouldn't stop you from reading horror ebooks. So our electronic library invite you to be a part of the mystery world of free ebooks without registration.




Take a look at the Thriller or Mystery,Crime section where you can find your favorite books

Read books online » Horror » The Man by Bram Stoker (best book reader TXT) 📖

Book online «The Man by Bram Stoker (best book reader TXT) 📖». Author Bram Stoker



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to tear himself, even for a night, away from Normanstand and Stephen, wrote to his old friend asking him to come to him. An Wolf gladly promised, and for a week of growing expectation the Squire looked forward to their meeting. Each found the other somewhat changed, in all but their old affection.

An Wolf was delighted with the little Stephen. Her dainty beauty seemed to charm him; and the child, seeming to realise what pleasure she was giving, exercised all her little winning ways. The rector, who knew more of children than did his, friend, told her as she sat on his knee of a very interesting person: his own son. The child listened, interested at first, then enraptured. She asked all kinds of questions; and the father’s eyes brightened as he gladly answered the pretty sympathetic child, already deep in his heart for her father’s sake. He told her about the boy who was so big and strong, and who could run and leap and swim and play cricket and football better than any other boy with whom he played. When, warmed himself by the keen interest of the little girl, and seeing her beautiful black eyes beginning to glow, he too woke to the glory of the time; and all the treasured moments of the father’s lonely heart gave out their store. And the other father, thrilled with delight because of his baby’s joy with, underlying all, an added pleasure that the little Stephen’s interest was in sports that were for boys, looked on approvingly, now and again asking questions himself in furtherance of the child’s wishes.

All the afternoon they sat in the garden, close to the stream that came out of the rock, and An Wolf told father’s tales of his only son. Of the great cricket match with Castra Puerorum when he had made a hundred not out. Of the school races when he had won so many prizes. Of the swimming match in the Islam River when, after he had won the race and had dressed himself, he went into the water in his clothes to help some children who had upset a boat. How when Widow Norton’s only son could not be found, he dived into the deep hole of the intake of the milldam of the great Carstone mills where Wingate the farrier had been drowned. And how, after diving twice without success, he had insisted on going down the third time though people had tried to hold him back; and how he had brought up in his arms the child all white and so near death that they had to put him in the ashes of the baker’s oven before he could be brought back to life.

When her nurse came to take her to bed, she slid down from her father’s knee and coming over to Dr. An Wolf, gravely held out her hand and said: ‘Good-bye!’ Then she kissed him and said:

‘Thank you so much, Mr. Harold’s daddy. Won’t you come soon again, and tell us more?’ Then she jumped again upon her father’s knee and hugged him round the neck and kissed him, and whispered in his ear:

‘Daddy, please make Mr. Harold’s daddy when he comes again, bring Harold with him!’

After all it is natural for women to put the essence of the letter in the postscript!

Two weeks afterwards Dr. An Wolf came again and brought Harold with him. The time had gone heavily with little Stephen when she knew that Harold was coming with his father. Stephen had been all afire to see the big boy whose feats had so much interested her, and for a whole week had flooded Mrs. Jarrold with questions which she was unable to answer. At last the time came and she went out to the hall door with her father to welcome the guests. At the top of the great granite steps, down which in time of bad weather the white awning ran, she stood holding her father’s hand and waving a welcome.

‘Good morning, Harold! Good morning, Mr. Harold’s daddy!’

The meeting was a great pleasure to both the children, and resulted in an immediate friendship. The small girl at once conceived a great admiration for the big, strong boy nearly twice her age and more than twice her size. At her time of life the convenances are not, and love is a thing to be spoken out at once and in the open. Mrs. Jarrold, from the moment she set eyes on him, liked the big kindly-faced boy who treated her like a lady, and who stood awkwardly blushing and silent in the middle of the nursery listening to the tiny child’s proffers of affection. For whatever kind of love it is that boys are capable of, Harold had fallen into it. ‘Calf-love’ is a thing habitually treated with contempt. It may be ridiculous; but all the same it is a serious reality—to the calf.

Harold’s new-found affection was as deep as his nature. An only child who had in his memory nothing of a mother’s love, his naturally affectionate nature had in his childish days found no means of expression. A man child can hardly pour out his full heart to a man, even a father or a comrade; and this child had not, in a way, the consolations of other children. His father’s secondary occupation of teaching brought other boys to the house and necessitated a domestic routine which had to be exact. There was no place for little girls in a boys’ school; and though many of Dr. An Wolf’s friends who were mothers made much of the pretty, quiet boy, and took him to play with their children, he never seemed to get really intimate with them. The equality of companionship was wanting. Boys he knew, and with them he could hold his own and yet be on affectionate terms. But girls were strange to him, and in their presence he was shy. With this lack of understanding of the other sex, grew up a sort of awe of it. His opportunities of this kind of study were so few that the view never could become rectified.

And so it was that from his boyhood up to his twelfth year, Harold’s knowledge of girlhood never increased nor did his awe diminish. When his father had told him all about his visit to Normanstand and of the invitation which had been extended to him there came first awe, then doubt, then expectation. Between Harold and his father there was love and trust and sympathy. The father’s married love so soon cut short found expression towards his child; and between them there had never been even the shadow of a cloud. When his father told him how pretty the little Stephen was, how dainty, how sweet, he began to picture her in his mind’s eye and to be bashfully excited over meeting her.

His first glimpse of Stephen was, he felt, one that he never could forget. She had made up her mind that she would let Harold see what she could do. Harold could fly kites and swim and play cricket; she could not do any of these, but she could ride. Harold should see her pony, and see her riding him all by herself. And there would be another pony for Harold, a big, big, big one—she had spoken about its size herself to Topham, the stud-groom. She had coaxed her daddy into promising that after lunch she should take Harold riding. To this end she had made ready early. She had insisted on putting on the red riding habit which Daddy had given her for her birthday, and now she stood on the top of the steps all glorious in hunting pink, with the habit held over her arms, with the tiny hunting-hoots all shiny underneath. She had no hat on, and her beautiful hair of golden red shone in its glory. But even it was almost outshone by the joyous flush on her cheeks as she stood waving the little hand that did not hold Daddy’s. She was certainly a picture to dream of! Her father’s eyes lost nothing of her dainty beauty. He was so proud of her that he almost forgot to wish that she had been a boy. The pleasure he felt in her appearance was increased by the fact that her dress was his own idea.

During luncheon Stephen was fairly silent; she usually chattered all through as freely as a bird sings. Stephen was silent because the occasion was important. Besides, Daddy wasn’t all alone, and therefore had not to be cheered up. Also—this in postscript form— Harold was silent! In her present frame of mind Harold could do no wrong, and what Harold did was right. She was unconsciously learning already a lesson from his presence.

That evening when going to bed she came to say good-night to Daddy. After she had kissed him she also kissed ‘old Mr. Harold,’ as she now called him, and as a matter of course kissed Harold also. He coloured up at once. It was the first time a girl had ever kissed him.

The next day from early morning until bedtime was one long joy to Stephen, and there were few things of interest that Harold had not been shown; there were few of the little secrets which had not been shared with him as they went about hand in hand. Like all manly boys Harold was good to little children and patient with them. He was content to follow Stephen about and obey all her behests. He had fallen in love with her to the very bottom of his boyish heart.

When the guests were going, Stephen stood with her father on the steps to see them off. When the carriage had swept behind the farthest point in the long avenue, and when Harold’s cap waving from the window could no longer be seen, Squire Norman turned to go in, but paused in obedience to the unconscious restraint of Stephen’s hand. He waited patiently till with a long sigh she turned to him and they went in together.

That night before she went to bed Stephen came and sat on her father’s knee, and after sundry pattings and kissings whispered in his ear:

‘Daddy, wouldn’t it be nice if Harold could come here altogether? Couldn’t you ask him to? And old Mr. Harold could come too. Oh, I wish he was here!’

CHAPTER IV—HAROLD AT NORMANSTAND

Two years afterwards a great blow fell upon Harold. His father, who had been suffering from repeated attacks of influenza, was, when in the low condition following this, seized with pneumonia, to which in a few days he succumbed. Harold was heart-broken. The affection which had been between him and his father had been so consistent that he had never known a time when it was not.

When Squire Norman had returned to the house with him after the funeral, he sat in silence holding the boy’s hand till he had wept his heart out. By this time the two were old friends, and the boy was not afraid or too shy to break down before him. There was sufficient of the love of the old generation to begin with trust in the new.

Presently, when the storm was past and Harold had become his own man again, Norman said:

‘And now, Harold, I want you to listen to me. You know, my dear boy, that I am your father’s oldest friend, and right sure I am that he would approve of what I say. You must come home with me to live. I know that in his last hours the great concern of your dear father’s heart would have been for the future of his boy. And I know, too, that it was a comfort to him to feel that you and I are

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