Dark Bride

DARK BRIDE

A Psychological Horror Novel by Johny Griffith   Architect of Chaos. Builder of Truth.

Chapter One: The Man Who Knew Too Much

Dr. Markus Damius Frank didn’t believe in coincidence. He believed in patterns. In blood. In silence.

He was a man of science—PhD in molecular pathology, master of forensic toxicology, and a quiet practitioner of the black arts. Not the cartoon kind. The kind that whispered through old books and bled through candlelight.

He lived alone in a Victorian house on the edge of Ashvale. The kind with creaking floors and a basement that held more than wine. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with skin the color of polished mahogany and eyes like wet coal—still, unreadable, and always watching.

Sandra had been his wife. His only love. She died of cancer five years ago. He never remarried. Never even dated.

Until Diana.

Chapter Two: The Woman Who Wasn't

She called herself Diana Vex. But her name had changed more times than the moon.

She was stunning. Not just beautiful—dangerous. Her skin glowed like candlelight. Her body was sculpted: perfect breasts, a waist that curved like a question mark, and hips that moved like prophecy.

Men stared. Women whispered. She stayed young for her age. Too young.

She moved into Ashvale like a shadow with perfume. Rented the penthouse suite. Drove a black Jaguar. Wore sunglasses at night.

She studied Dr. Frank for weeks. Watched him dine alone at The Hollow Fork. Always the same table. Always the same silence.

She made her move.

“Mind if I join you?” “I never mind a mystery.” “Then you’ll remember mine.”

They talked. They laughed. They danced around truths neither dared name.

Six months later, they were married.

Chapter Three: The Poison

It started with wine. A bitterness that lingered. A numbness in his fingers. A shadow in his dreams.

He said nothing. He’d seen poison before. He’d used it.

The second time, he vomited blood. Still, he remained silent.

But silence is not surrender.

He hired a man who didn’t flinch at corpses: Detective Ramon Salami. Ex-homicide. Ex-occult crimes. Now, ex-patient of mercy.

“You’re not asking me to find a killer. You’re asking me to find a ghost.”

Chapter Four: The Covenant

Ramon dug deep. Found aliases. Marriage certificates. Death certificates.

Found whispers in police files. Men who died with smiles carved into their faces. Men who died screaming into pillows.

Found something older than Diana. A covenant. A pact with an entity whose name was erased from every book.

“She’s not just a killer. She’s a vessel.”

Chapter Five: The Ritual

Dr. Frank didn’t just investigate. He invoked.

He entered his back room. Lit candles. Drew symbols. Prayed in a language that made the walls sweat.

He summoned protection. He summoned rage. He summoned truth.

Chapter Six: The Confrontation

He walked into the living room. She was reading. She looked up.

“Why do you want to kill me?”

“What? Who? Me? What’s wrong with you?”

“Stop lying and speak, witch.”

Her face twisted.

“You think you’re the first?”

He threw an envelope on the table. Photos spilled out—her past lives, her dead husbands.

She screamed. Ran to the shed. Grabbed an axe.

She returned, eyes wild.

“You should’ve stayed blind.”

She threw the axe. It missed.

He blew powder into her face—crushed bones, ash, salt. She collapsed.

Chapter Seven: The Sacrifice

He carried her to the altar. Lit the candles. Chanted in a tongue older than blood.

She woke, bound. Eyes wide. Mouth gagged.

“You fed on the living. Now you feed the dead.”

He plunged the ceremonial blade. She convulsed. The room shook.

Then silence.

He buried her in the woods. The coroner ruled it natural causes.

Chapter Eight: The Vow

Dr. Frank never married again. He kept her ring in a jar of salt. Burned her photos every year on the anniversary.

“She was beautiful. She was brilliant. She was death.”

And so the Dark Bride met her final groom. But the entity she served still waits. Still watches. Still hungers. Author’s Note

By Johny Griffith Architect of Chaos. Builder of Truth.

This story is real. I just added sauce.

There are many Dianas. They smile. They marry. You die.

I don’t write to entertain. I write to exhume. Read carefully. Or end up buried.