Ghost Graphic Novels & Stories

"With everything that happened. Starting with me trying to go back to Boston, then realising I'm a ghost. I went back there and jumped into that empty grave, Trying to kill myself" "Wait wait wait." Austin interrupted her, smiling. "You knew you were a Ghost, and you tried to kill yourself " he raised his hands in apology, as he couldn't control his laughter. He saw she wasn't having any of it, and stopped laughing, but the smile on his face couldn't fade away.

The laboratory didn’t just smell of chemicals; it tasted of ancient rot and artificial lightning. As the Ghost Wolves—those twitching, violet-veined abominations of my father’s desperate making—scrambled out of their shattered glass coffins, the temperature in the room plummeted. They didn’t move like the wolves of the Roux pack. There was no grace in their limbs, no ancestral intelligence in their eyes. They moved with a jerky, stop-motion horror, their bones snapping and resetting with every lunging step, as if their bodies were rejecting the very muscles that drove them forward.

Bryan was sure that Mr Ben would give in to their demands, being that this was the only lead to the Italian mafia that they had so far. Luis and Marco shivered as they entered the first room in the abattoir, which served as a cold room. The room was filled with the carcasses of dressed pigs ,that were hung with hooks at the end of chains, which were connected to beams that ran across the ceiling. They made their way through, till they got to a metal door at the end ,which they knocked at. Few seconds passed before the door was opened by two muscular men who frisked them, before allowing them passage into the inner part of the abattoir.

"Wait. I need to know. Why did, uhm, whatever, carelessly pick me?" "Go back." The woman wasn't paying her any attention. She kept on plucking cowries and attaching them to her head. "What is he? Oh, don't answer that one. He's a ghost. I know that. Why is he in that state? No, no, why can I see him? Why can l feel his touch, ghosts can't do that, can they? What does he need me for?" The old woman stopped her scaly hands from further movements and stared directly at Geneva through her foggy eyes that obviously saw clearly.

He was trembling and on the verge of getting panic attack. Stopping the black Porsche just an inch away from him the driver gets out of the vehicle as if in a trance. "Come back to Tehran." He snarled on the face of Victor, his face purely white with an ugly black scar right on the middle of his forehead. He went to the switch board fixed to one of the pillars in the parking lot and put his finger into the socket. His body shook with passing electricity surprising Victor and he died on the spot.

It was nice to have someone to talk about his romantic life with –semi pseudo paraplegic romance –even though it wasn't for free. It felt regular and archaic and old and a total cliché when he took his first step towards the man. He expected to feel something new, but it was still the same. From the ground floor elevator to the third floor where Hamilton's office was; the purple orchid that hung to right side of the door; the room thirty seven copper plated office number with Dr H. E. Greenfield boldly inscribed beneath, everything up unto this moment felt too predictable and strangely insipid.

I didn’t take my eyes off Lex. “Talk,” I said. Lex exhaled slowly, almost like he was bored. “Ghostshade grows in two nearly identical strains. One heals. One accelerates blood corruption. The difference is in the root coloration after harvest.” Maeve froze. “That’s not in any known record.” “No,” Lex agreed calmly. “Because most healers die before they can record it.” Silence hit the room like a physical force and my wolf surged hard beneath my skin, pressing against control I was barely maintaining.

The "Gold-Grey Static" from the CEO woman hit Silas Blackwood like a wave of conceptual acid. It wasn't the "Biological Remorse" he was used to; it was a "Synthetic Grief"—a simulated version of his own 30-year pride, amplified and distorted by the human’s unstable marrow. Silas fell to his knees on the white-glass floor, his gold-and-sapphire skin "glitching" as the human’s parasitic hunger tried to "Down-sample" his soul.

​The Ghost-Archive ​"They’re ghosts, Aara," I realized, touching the flickering wall. The static reacted to my "Presence," momentarily forming the shape of a face, a city, a line of alien script, before dissolving back into chaos. "This is what happens when you don't ground your story in the stone. You become a 'Residual-Echo.'"

"Elle, you need to see this.” Ghost calls out. I push the knife a little harder into the Collector’s shoulder before jumping to my feet. I give him one last look before turning my back on him. His fingers have stopped twitching; even if I take the knife out, the damage is most likely permanent, and he’s no threat to me anymore. I see Ghost has walked behind the counter; he has a computer in front of him and the glow of the screen is lighting him up, making him look like some kind of otherworldly ghost. I kind of get the name but it seems more like a punishment to me, like his parents judged him on how he looked when he was born and decided to brand him with the name forever.