Here Lies North Read Online Ava Harrison

Categories Genre: Contemporary, Romance, Suspense, Thriller Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 102560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 513(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 342(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

Here Lies North

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Ava Harrison

Book Information:

It was supposed to be an easy article about Cain Archer.
Never did I think it would lead me straight into the arms of a serial killer.
When the magazine I worked for sent me to write a piece on The Elysian, and the recluse architect who created it, I didn’t know what to expect. It certainly wasn’t him.
He was supposed to be cold and cruel, but to me, he was intoxicating. Magnetic. And impossible to quit.
The deeper I fell, the harder it became to ignore that inner voice, screaming that darkness followed Cain.
I wanted to be wrong. Maybe it was all in my head. But I needed to find the answers.
Nothing prepared me for what I discovered…
What if the person you took into your bed isn’t at all what he seemed? What if he’s the monster you’ve been searching for?
Books by Author:

Ava Harrison


Sometimes you put walls up not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down.

~ Socrates


The Compass Killer - 2005

Evil is real.

As real as this cabin and the dirt floor we lie on in the dead of night.

The pungent taste lingers through the air.

I breathe it in. Allow it to filter into my blood.

Pulsing. Making me want to bask in it. Feed on it.

I can feel the wicked in me begging for an outlet.

Which is why I’m here, tucked away where no one would dare search for me.

The moonlight gleams off the blade in my hand, casting a stream of light across the dark room.

A flicker of a candle is all that illuminates the space.

I enjoy the shadows it creates on the aged oak walls.

The ambience relaxes me.

But it’s the body beneath me that brings me serenity. The way her chest rises and falls. Her trembles of fear that thrum through her cells.

It’s a heady aphrodisiac.

I want to bask in the atmosphere her fear incites.

Drink from her perspiration.

Live in the silence that isn’t truly silent.


One word. That’s all it takes for me to feel alive.

My eyes dart around the old cabin. Oh, the things this space has witnessed.

Passed down from generation to generation.

Now it’s my turn to leave a mark.

Moving closer, I hover over the woman on the floor.

The knife in my hand presses firmly on her throat.

Red bubbles to the surface as the blade pricks her delicate ivory neck.

But I can’t kill her yet.

I turn my head, looking around the room. When my gaze catches what I’m looking for, I smile.

It’s not a real smile.

It doesn’t touch my soul.

How could it?

Not when I’ve never had a soul for attaching such pathetic emotions.

“Please. You can’t kill me.”

I look back at my unwilling prey.

Spreading my lips wider.

“You should be honored.” I scoff. “I don’t pick just anyone.”


My free hand reaches out, silencing her before she can ruin the moment.

“Shh,” I coo as I trail the blade across her throat. The pressure isn’t enough to kill her. It’s just a warning. “Be a good girl.” She shakes beneath me, biting her lip to hold back a whimper, but she doesn’t have to say it. I know she feels the pain.

Terror keeps her from speaking, and she doesn’t move to answer me as I lift my hand off her mouth. Her eyes go wide at my movement. Her pupils blown out with panic.

I watch myself in her reflection for a second. Letting her emotions fuel me. Tears fill her eyes, but they don’t fall.


I would have liked to see her cry.

I lift the knife, and I’m met with a crimson line.

Red rivulets trickle out from the wound.

I follow the path as they collect in the hollow of her throat. I want to paint her skin in blood.

All in good time.

This isn’t about me right now.

Soon, I can drain her.

This time, when I lift the knife, I dig into her skin.

Carving the intricate pattern.

Cutting through creamy, soft flesh.

This time, she can’t hold back the cry.

It seeps up through her fragile throat.

Watching her bound and wriggling under my grasp, begging to be released, is the greatest thrill a man will ever experience. The pitch of her voice right before the blade takes a run across her throat.

That sound.

It alone will stand out to me for the rest of my days.

I will always remember this moment.



Seventeen years later . . .

My fingers hit the keyboard over and over again. The sound is like nails on a chalkboard. What did I do to deserve this torture?

I freaking hate this job.

Okay. I have zero excuse to say that, but I’m bored out of my mind.

I went to journalism school to be someone. To dig into the details and find the truth.

Instead, I’m writing about which faucet to buy to make your kitchen stand out.


A kitchen is for making coffee and reheating Chinese food. Or Italian. Depends on the mood I’m in. It’s most definitely my least favorite room in the apartment.

I didn’t come from a family that could cook—or bake. Hell, I came from a family that couldn’t communicate, let alone plan a meal and follow a recipe. No, I didn’t starve. But cooking for fun was not a thing either. And now, I get to write about faucets.

Doesn’t matter, though. No matter how much I bitch and moan, I still have to write this damn piece, and I shouldn’t complain. The truth is, I’m damn lucky to have this job.

Even if it’s not the one I actually want.

In my dreams as a child, never once did I imagine my life would revolve around faucets, light fixtures, and sconces. Writing about recessed lighting was definitely not what I had in mind when I took out a monster loan to go to school for journalism.