Ghost Of Hollywood Novels & Stories

PART ONE: THE TAKING 9:47 PM - The Plaza Hotel, Manhattan The penthouse door opened without a key because Ghost had already handled that part. He'd slipped inside twenty minutes earlier, wearing a maintenance uniform, moving with the mechanical precision of a man who'd spent seven years learning how to be invisible inside systems designed to trap people like us.

After a while, Leslie stretched and yawned, feeling the weight of sleep. ​"Hey, I'm tired. Let’s go back, it’s really late," Leslie suggested. ​"You go ahead," Scarlett replied firmly. "I’ll head back later. I just want to stay a bit longer." ​Leslie looked at her with a mix of worry and resignation, but finally nodded and began walking back to camp. Scarlett was left alone by the lake, unaware that she was being watched from the other side of the water. ​Across the lake, Zafira and her sister Zahia—two gorgons, women with serpent tails instead of legs—hid in the shadows. Zafira, her serpentine body coiling around itself, watched Scarlett with a mix of surprise and overflowing rage.

She radiated a terrifying presence. However, there was a problem. Eliza, a famous ghost from the fog-shrouded city of Blackmoor, already dominated the long-haired ghoul archetype. Viewers would automatically compare this ghost to Eliza and dismiss her as ordinary, leaving her perpetually at the bottom of the NPC popularity rankings.

He stood straight with a serious face as he began his explanation. "Ghosts are the souls of dead humans who... well, aren't ready to rest in peace. They don't have powers. All they can do is move from one place to another without being seen. Well, not by everyone though." "But... if you're a demon, why then are you in this form?" She couldn't help but ask.

Every golden bloom shivered—not toward Jeff’s exit—but toward the corner of the greenhouse. Where nothing stood. Where nothing should be. Eva’s breath fogged the monitor. "She’s not in the network anymore." "She’s not dead." "She’s somewhere else." The screen glitched. A new message scrawled itself across the footage: "FIND THE FIRST GARDEN." The first rule of hunting ghosts: don’t let them know they’re dead. Jeff stood in the greenhouse long after midnight, a bottle of Macallan dangling from his fingers—not the cheap whiskey he pretended to drink for visitors. The security feed played on a loop in his peripheral vision: 00:03:31. The reflection that didn’t move.

After a moment of silence, she whispered, “They say this place is haunted.” Jackson’s jaw tightened as he struggled with a response. Should he admit to her that he agreed with the rumor? Should he tell her that, like Mike and her father, he’d seen and felt things that shouldn’t have been there? He hadn’t even admitted that to the men. He’d only admitted to the place giving him the creeps. Something inside of him kept him from voicing it. It was as if voicing it would make it real. “I saw that woman looking out of the window,” Melody confessed. “She’s not right. She looks dead.”

Blood covered the walls the night my best friend, Cody Colfax, was murdered. His body twisted and twitched before my eyes, like a fish out of water splashing around on a boardwalk without anyone to put him back. The possession of his body from the unknown source, the scientists call 'The Ghost,' has haunted the bystanders for weeks now. When we found him, his body was half-naked and covered in ashes. The hairs on his arms were fried by the electrical chords wrapped around his arms. The tattoos on his body were symbolic, otherworldly. The Ghost left them there to make their presence known.

Those eyes lifted and locked on mime and the glass instantly stopped moving. “The dead has no business with the living, Riven Cole,” he said, voice low enough that only I heard the tremor under it. “We don't tend to corpses here.” I crossed the distance, my boots leaving wet prints on sawdust, then I placed my hands on the counter and said in a low voice, “Then pour one for a ghost.” The room seemed to respond to my words like they heard me, a hush spreading round. I heard a chair scraping the ground and seconds later, someone in the back muttered “traitor”.

he murmurs, “if you ever get tired of the silent brooding type, there are more fun options out there.” “Is that so?” I reply, my voice light. “Absolutely.” Before I can throw a retort back at him, someone slides into the space between us with the kind of smooth, quiet force that only comes from someone used to being obeyed. Ghost doesn’t say anything at first. He just plants himself squarely in front of Hectic, shoulders loose but energy sharp. Hectic blinks. “Well, hello—” “I’d move back a bit if I were you,” Ghost says, his voice low, steady, and far too calm to be casual.