Ghost Diary Novels & Stories

“Weren't you just seen with a dead body? You should be resting, not running around playing vigilante," “How can I rest when someone is tossing bombs into my room,” I replied as I gave him a photo I pulled from the airfield surveillance unit. It was a picture of Mr Ash. “I need to find that man,” “Ash Hoshiri,” “You know him?” He exhaled deeply as he shredded the paper with nervous breaths, “Having just that endangers you. He is a ghost, you don't find ghosts. They haunt you,” “Ever watched Ghostbusters?” “Damn it!” He grabbed my shoulders fiercely, unable to contain his terrors.

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

I managed to whisper, my eyes fluttering shut. "The ledger is finished," Silas said, his voice a low rumble that was blissfully silent in my head. No psychic echo. No judgment. Just the cold wind. "Now we start the design for your ghost." As he carried me toward the Northern Citadel, I felt the "Voice" of the Crescent Pack finally fade into static. Roman was screaming into the void, but for the first time in a long while, I couldn't hear him. The pavement had cracked. And I had finally fallen through.

I call ghost, he got more than one skill, and opening closed-door virtual and real ones are one of his many skills. He uses his key locks tools and messes with the door for a bit until it opens. Finally, I walk down with ghost behind me, I find a small girl laying naked on the floor. She's thin, too thin, her blond hair match mine only hers is dirty and matted on her head. Her blue eyes are hardly open, I can see bruises all over her fragile body. Taking off my shirt I cover her quickly and pick her up leaving this hell behind. "You're safe now baby sister" I whisper in her ears she closes her eyes letting darkness take her.

“I should’ve billed Bernard extra for emotional damages.” Another pizza roll disappeared. “You know what?” I pointed toward the screen. “I’m taking toilet paper with me next time anyway.” Not because I planned on visiting another porta-potty. Because Ghost had a sense of humor. I could appreciate that. Most hackers tried to disappear. Ghost entertained their self while disappearing. That told me something about them. More than you would think. They wasn’t panicking. They wasn’t reacting. They was planning. That made them dangerous.

"A ghost doesn't leave digital footprints in a high-security relay, Chalida. Ghosts don't have secondary signatures." Pim tapped the screen with trembling fingers, her eyes darting between the fluctuating lines of the code. "This user is actively scrubbing our location, yet they’re leaving breadcrumbs. Why?"

Holly (grinning): “Stop looking like someone died. I’m literally right here.” Malik (voice cracking): “They put up missing posters.” Holly rolls her eyes so hard the ghosts laugh. Holly: “Tell them I ran away to join the circus. Or that I’m Elvis’s secret love child. Anything but the truth. Mortals can’t handle the truth.” She drags us to the bar, pours ghost-root beer that tastes real, and makes us dance until 3 a.m.

The way he had in the basement library, when he was trying to decide if he could trust me. "Ghost doesn't take money," he said. "He doesn't take favors. He takes pieces of people. Memories. Secrets. Things you can't get back." "Then we make sure we don't give him anything we can't afford to lose." --- The number on Miriam's card connected after two rings. A voice answered. Not male. Not female. Something in between. Processed through a modulator, scrambled beyond recognition. "You reached the line," the voice said. "State your business."

Then the rider lifted both hands. Not in surrender. With caution. Like someone approaching a wounded animal. Their voice came out distorted through a modulator. “Ghost,” they said softly. Everything inside me stilled. Only three people ever called me that. One was dead—Saint. One should’ve been dead—Shade. And the third… The third was an ally long buried in the dark. A ghost from my old life. The rider reached up and slowly—very slowly—removed their helmet. My breath caught.

Or will you always be chasing that first, brutal, ice-to-fire penetration on the parlor rug? You traded loneliness for an eternity with a passion that was born from despair. You warmed a ghost back to life with the heat of your own orgasms. That’s a hell of a love story. It’s also a hell of a horror story. And I think, for you, that’s exactly the point. Her thumb slipped between the pages again. “And… If this is real, can I have the address?” she added dryly. Then she opened the diary and turned to the next page.