Showing results for "Storytime" in Anthologies & Short Stories

All three volumes of It’s Scary Story Time, bundled into one massive, bone-chilling collection. These 65 tales, woven in a gripping true-story style, will haunt your nights and stalk your dreams!

Prepare to lose sleep tonight! Another collection of standalone scary stories from the maniacal mind of international bestselling author, Steve Hudgins is here! This series can be listened to in any order. 23 Tales of Horror told in a chilling true story style that will make your blood run cold!

This collection of scary stories from the maniacal mind of international bestselling author, Steve Hudgins, will have you sleeping with the lights on as you grip your covers in terror! Brace yourself for 23 Tales of Horror told in a chilling true story style that will curdle your blood and send shivers down your spine!

Prepare to be terrified as international best-selling author Steve Hudgins unleashes a spine-chilling collection of standalone horror stories that will haunt your dreams!

This unique presentation combines classic children's favorites with an anthology of stories, poems, and songs of the holiday season.

In a quiet, timeless bookshop—where every shelf cradles secrets of lost days and every well-worn page murmurs forgotten dreams—the solitary Book Collector has spent his life safeguarding memories too fragile to be left unspoken. Hardened by a past filled with unnameable loss, he has grown accustomed to the steady rhythm of solitude amid the rustle of paper and the soft glow of lamplight. Then, one fateful afternoon, a mysterious young boy wanders in. His eyes, wide with innocent wonder, seem to carry an inexplicable pull—a spark that unsettles the collector’s carefully maintained reserve.

A father’s devotion. A son’s courage. A timeless bookstore that holds the power to heal lost hearts. The Book Collected invites you into the poignant world of a father and son torn apart by life’s harsh realities—divorce, distance, and dashed dreams.

Poor John was greatly troubled, because his father was very ill and could not recover. Except for these two, there was no one in their small room. The lamp on the table had almost burned out, for it was quite late at night.

A mother sat by her little child. She was so sad, so afraid he would die. The child's face was pallid. His little eyes were shut. His breath came faintly now, and then heavily as if he were sighing, and the mother looked more sadly at the dear little soul.

There was once a perfect gentleman whose whole household goods consisted of one bootjack and a comb. But he also had one of the most remarkable shirt collars in the world. I'll tell you a story about it.

Once upon a time there was an old poet, one of those right good old poets. One evening, as he was sitting at home, there was a terrible storm going on outside; the rain was pouring down, but the old poet sat comfortably in his chimney-corner, where the fire was burning and the apples were roasting.

The Emperor of China is a Chinaman, as you most likely know, and everyone around him is a Chinaman too. It's been a great many years since this story happened in China, but that's all the more reason for telling it before it gets forgotten.

I am a poor lad, and live in one of the narrowest of lanes; but I have plenty of light: my room is high up in the house, and there is a good prospect over the roofs of the opposite houses. During the first few days I lived in the town, I felt very lonely and low-spirited. Instead of the forest and the green hills of the country, I had nothing but black chimney-pots on the horizon of my view. And then I had not a single friend, nor one familiar face to greet me.

Es war so schön draußen auf dem Land, es war Sommer – die Weizenfelder waren golden, der Hafer war grün, und unten zwischen den grünen Wiesen stand das Heu aufgestapelt. Dort schritt der Storch auf seinen roten Beinen umher und klapperte auf Ägyptisch, was die Sprache war, die seine Mutter ihn gelehrt hatte. Rund um die Felder und Wiesenländer erhoben sich riesige Wälder, in denen verborgene tiefe Seen lagen. Ja, es war in der Tat wunderschön dort draußen auf dem Land.

A couple of large ships were sent up toward the North Pole to discover the boundaries of land and sea and how far it would be possible for the human race to penetrate in that direction.

There was once a young man who studied to become a poet. He wanted to be a poet by next Easter, so that he could marry and earn his living from poetry, which he knew was just a matter of making things up. But he had no imagination. He firmly believed he had been born too late. Every subject had been used up before he had a chance at it, and there was nothing in the world left to write about.

The country around the town of Kjöge is very bare. The town itself lies by the seashore, which is always beautiful, although it might be more beautiful than it is, because all around are flat fields, and a forest a long way off. But one always finds something beautiful in the spot that is one's own home, something for which one longs, even when one is in the most wonderful spot in the world.

There came a soldier marching down the high road-one, two! one, two! He had his knapsack on his back and his sword at his side as he came home from the wars. On the road he met a witch, an ugly old witch, a witch whose lower lip dangled right down on her chest.

There is an old fairy tale: "The Thorny Road of Honor was trodden by a marksman named Bryde, to whom came great honor and dignity, but not until after manifold adversities and peril of life." More than one of us had heard that tale in childhood, and perhaps read it in later years, and thought of his own unsung "thorny road" and "manifold adversities." Romance and reality are very nearly alike, but romance has its harmonious ending here on earth, while reality more often delays it and leads us to time and eternity.

There was once a king's son, no one had so many beautiful books as he. In them he could read of everything that had ever happened in this world, and he could see it all pictured in fine illustrations. He could find out about every race of people and every country, but there was not a single word about where to find the Garden of Paradise, and this, just this, was the very thing that he thought most about.