Ghost Story Book Peter Straub Novels & Stories

Some were made of leather, others of scales, and some in what might have been human skin. In the center, a pool of black water reflected no light. “The Library of Things That Were,” the ghost announced. “Every book here tells of the old agreement, the first prophecies. The Bridge especially.” Tamara moved to the nearest shelf. The books whispered as she passed, like they recognized her. “This one,” the ghost said, pulling out a book that looked like a piece of the night sky. “Start here.” Tamara opened it. The words weren't English. Weren't any language she knew. But she understood them.

“Then I’m right beside you. Whatever happens.” When they pulled up to the front entrance, the heavy metal gate buzzed open slowly, and the first person they saw was Brenda. She was already waiting on the sidewalk, a scuffed navy duffel bag at her feet, her shoulders hunched slightly as if she still expected to be turned away. She looked completely different from the sharp, furious woman they had last seen in the burning warehouse—her hair was pulled back in a plain low ponytail, her face was free of the heavy makeup she used to wear like armor, and the hard, possessive fire that had once burned in her eyes was gone, replaced by a quiet, weary peace. A tattered copy of The Little Prince peeke

The ghost is miraculously gone! She carefully stepped away from where she was standing and continued her search. After a while, her eyes were caught by a blue light flickering in front of her. She walked towards it and found out the books she threw. "Could it be?" She removed the books and found out that there's a small broken projector chip. All of a sudden, she heard strange noises coming from the window. She immediately hid behind the bedroom's door and waited if something or someone is coming. "It was you all along!" she spoke to man wearing a bonnet, "So, coming back to the crime scene, eh?"

"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.

Robert was working on something and appeared oblivious to the happenings outside. "Robert... The mansion is under attack! The people...they- they had no faces.. no body..they were like air... and-" "They are the spirits of the forgotten," Robert said interrupting, he put his hand on her shoulder calming her down. He walked towards the shelf and pulled out a big dusty book. He opened and turned pages and finally stopped at a specific page. "Is this what it looked like?" He asked, pointing at a ghostly image on the book page.

Frank nodded—that was good enough for him anyway. "We're here!" the beggar exclaimed and suddenly stopped, pointing at a nearby hill. Frank stretched out with his senses to see that there was a graveyard halfway up the hill, and that there were people there. To be precise, it was more a curious energy signature that lingered there like when Frank turned invisible! "All the stuff about ghosts and haunting is but tall tales the forefathers told to spook each other," the beggar said.

Juliana again asked him. "Alberto… Alberto Mathews". He answered in his American accent. Pain was evident in his voice. "You danced with me at my birthday party. You were also photographing yesterday at my shoot. Why are you stalking me?" While making her voice from low to high, Juliana asked. "Because I like you!" Without any hesitation, Alberto replied. Juliana's heart started beating fast. She was lost for a moment and then she said in a low voice, "What?"

"When it comes to gossip, nothing gets past me." At 11:00 PM, an understated luxury car pulled up at the school gates. Helena and Howard got out. Celeste and I had already set up snacks and drinks at the reading pavilion, waiting for them to settle down. After they arrived, Celeste cleared her throat. "Helena, what I'm about to tell you might sound unbelievable, but you have to believe me. I'm not crazy." In about ten minutes, Celeste laid out everything about my shadow. I chipped in with details to make the story as airtight as possible, hoping to make it seem as real as we could.

I sighed and prepared to microwave a box of macaroni and cheese. But when I turned around, I spotted a note pressed under something on the table. It was in Nathaniel’s familiar handwriting, though this time, his note held a hint of cold anger. [Wasteful.] I was stunned for a moment before I burst out laughing. This ghost was not just a good cook, but he was also thrifty and responsible. I liked that. I immediately picked up a pen and wrote back. [My bad, Nat. It’s just a joke. Let’s just stick to homemade food from now on. I won’t bring up that extravagant nonsense again, okay?]

His books told me otherwise. I didn’t break my rhythm, stacking, straightening, dusting as though nothing at all had caught my attention. But the pattern was set, and I never ignored patterns. Three days in a row. Three books building a trail into shadows. And I was already following. ~~~~~~ The fourth day. He returned. No glasses slipping down as he read this time. No quiet hours spent in the chair by the window. He walked straight to the shelves, ran his hand along the spines, and pulled out a book without lingering. Chasing a Ghost No One Can See.