A Ghost In The Trenches Novels & Stories

“You—You can’t—” Ghost moved fast, the cloth twisting around the man’s throat, not choking, just enough to remind him of the line between air and none. He leaned in close, his voice a whisper against the man’s ear. “Who sent you here?” The man tried to laugh, but it cracked into a cough. “You think—” Ghost pulled tighter, just for a heartbeat, then loosened again, letting the man drag in a desperate breath. His pale eyes never blinked. “You think I won’t take you apart piece by piece?” Ghost asked softly. “I buried men alive in Cambodia and listened while they begged me to let the dirt finish the job. Compared to that, you’re a child playing outlaw. So I’ll ask again.”

She tried to cry out, but only a muffled squeak escaped. In a swift, practised motion, Ghost, no longer mumbling, shoved her into a large, canvas laundry sack that had been discreetly draped over the cleaning cart. The sack was surprisingly thick, suffocating. Darkness enveloped her, the scent of stale detergent and something metallic filling her nostrils. She thrashed, desperate, but her movements were severely restricted. Ghost moved with terrifying efficiency. He hoisted the sack onto his shoulder, the unexpected weight barely slowing him. He then sprinted down the corridor, his heavy boots echoing on the polished linoleum.

“Because if it fails…” “Everyone loses,” Puc finished. He turned back to his team. “Final sweep.” The ghosts moved faster now, diving into Veil-lanes, skimming the edges of reality, testing every approach vector. One ghost paused, head tilting. “Something’s wrong,” it said. Althea’s eyes snapped open. “What kind of wrong?” “Not hostile,” the ghost replied. “Just… crowded.” Puc frowned. “Explain.” “Veil traffic,” the ghost said. “Farther out. Small groups. Seven at a time.”

It was a distorted reflection of the original Spire, its chimneys belching black smoke into the vacuum. Inside the Ghost-Engine, the corridors were filled with the whispers of the "First-Gens." Audrey saw the faces of those who had died in the North, their eyes filled with a perpetual, icy fear. She didn't turn away. She walked into the "Heart-of-the-Furnace," where the "Core-Nightmare" was located. It was a massive, pulsing engine of "Pure-Sorrow."

This feels lighter, automatic—like stepping where the ground has already been mapped. They call me Ghost. It simplifies things. Ghosts don’t leave witnesses. Or questions. Or pieces of themselves behind. Conversation thins as I pass. People shift their feet. I registered the looks without meeting them. Curiosity from the younger ones. Calculation from the handlers. And something closer to superstition from everyone else. I am twenty-two years old. I’ve been killing since I was fourteen. The numbers don’t settle into pride or shame. They sit like inventory. A medic steps aside as I pass. His eyes drop to the insignia stitched inside my collar—black thread on gray. Ghost-class comes without ra

The funeral for Ghost feels slow. I stand over his tombstone and build up the guilt inside. Ghost was supposed to take my lead to destroy the secret bases of the Order, but the mole sent by them betrayed him. I let the rain pour down on me as I stare at his name and the titles he's been given: a comrade, a friend, a brother, a Dagger. His grave is in a private field owned by Odin for those who have fallen. I closed my eyes and wished to return to time and save him and Poppy.

The ground caved in, and a bone-chilling scream erupted as the elder was buried alive in the quagmire. Standing nearby, Chase gasped for air as his chest heaved. Despite his overwhelming strength, the elder had not been fully subdued. "These old ghosts are too cunning," he muttered while wiping the blood from the corner of his mouth. His fierce eyes remained fixed on the mound of earth in the pit before him. "Hmm?" Chase frowned and began digging through the dirt, but there was no trace of the elder's body. This was bad! Before Chase could react, the elder appeared behind him like a phantom. A dark dagger plunged into Chase's chest, and the blade pierced deeply.

I told him, and I didn't give him another second to look at the money before I pulled the trigger and let his heavy body slide down into the dark mud of the trench. ​"Paolo, tip that iron drum over right now so none of our boys touch the water, and then drag this piece of garbage down into the lower well where the old bones are stacked," I ordered as I wiped the grease from my gun slide and looked toward the tunnel exit where the rain was starting to seep through the brickwork again. ​The distant rumble of heavy trucks moving toward the northern highway echoed through the ventilation shafts and confirmed that the Butcher's army had swallowed the bait.

"Grace, look at the snow. They aren't throwing plumes. They aren't using tracks." The Ghosts on the Ridge” I leaned toward the glass, my breath fogging the pane. Through the swirling vortex of ice and wind, three massive shapes materialized out of the white. They weren't armored trucks, and they weren't Vesper exoframes. They were the First Drafts.

The Monadikos were cornered, their numbers dwindling as the Cartel forces and the Ghosted advanced in unrelenting waves. Mikhail, battered and breathing heavily, clenched his fists as he surveyed the battlefield. His men were being slaughtered like animals. The Ghosted moved like wraiths, striking from the shadows, their blades cutting through throats, slicing through tendons, leaving nothing but lifeless husks in their wake. The Cartel soldiers advanced with brutal efficiency, their gunfire drowning out the pained cries of the dying.