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Murder Your Soul

Book By: Blackdragon99

Murder was once human. The world is now plauged by hell creatures known as Sins, their opposite are the Pilgrim. The Pilgrim are souls who believe in heaven and dreams so they fight for the world. Murder doesn't know just how important she is, all she knows is her whole bloodline will die unless she can kill her sins, and close hell from the world of the living.

Submitted:Oct 28, 2011    Reads: 28    Comments: 6    Likes: 0   

Author's Note:

So I know I have a habit of so far not finishing stories but this is the preface to a new book I am working on after Committed to the Nothing is finished. The story will be a third person following a young woman struggling with her new found power and quest. Cheesy? You bet everything write is cheesy but hey if ya like my style then I'm a happy camper. So Anyways here's the start I hope it tickles your interest.

WARNING: religious, sexual and mental issues raised through this book. So if you are offended by some religious bagging, gay characters or mental health please be careful what you read.


There is no heaven. No Gods. No Angels. Only Death.

Long ago when the world was created it was not spun by god but by a mistake in the balance of existence, creatures we know as Sins were created. Shadow figures able to change their form to hunt and feed on the souls doomed to hell. Yes there is really a hell but heaven, it is unknown. Is it a place of peace, or is it a place of boredom? Is it beautiful or bland? Are the people there clean or are they drug addicts? Questions, questions, questions.

The truth is, for every person there is at least 7 sins that only they can destroy but humans, they don't know of these creatures. They had become blind to their demons. That was until the event. Now Sins roam the world freely at night like a disease killing all of life and scaring children in their homes. I pray our world can be saved by the Murder, whoever he is I pray he rises to conquer as he has since the beginning of time…

The man paused his quill to stare into the shadows, haunting breathing rung quietly into his ears. Nothing was there. It crept. It leapt. Its claws sliced the old man's neck and face. Blood flicked over the pages of his old book, followed by his body. Dead. He was already dead despite he gagged trying to stop his neck releasing his life in a shade of crimson; only time could spare him now.

Time. We are out of time.

The Blood Screams.

We are out of time.


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