Ghost Story Writing Novels & Stories

"I've seen a few. I know there are different kinds of hauntings. Some ghosts are really just...echoes, I guess, of some traumatic event. Those just repeat the same actions over and over, which rules you out since we're having a lucid conversation. Others are spirits who've chosen, for good or evil, to remain on this plane for some reason, whether it's protecting their descendants, guarding a sacred site or seeking revenge. Finally, there's the type who are here with unfinished business. My guess is you fall into that category since you asked me for help." "I do. You know a lot for such a young man." "Not so young. I'll be thirty-five on Halloween." He stepped out of his chair. "Can you sit?

But the fear that had been gnawing at her for days pushed her forward. She opened the book. The first pages were cold, filled with business notes and travel schedules. But as she flipped forward, the handwriting changed—it became jagged, frantic, and deeply personal. Her eyes landed on a single sentence near the end: Some ghosts don’t stay buried because they were never dead. A chill crept down her spine, turning her blood to ice. Before she could process the words, the lights throughout the estate flickered once, buzzed, and died. The house fell into absolute, suffocating darkness.

In the moonlight, a woman in a white lace dress was kneeling on the stone steps of the chapel, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders trembling. She had no feet. Below her dress, there was only a swirling black mist. "I see her." Lorenzo let out a low whistle. "Two years ago, Marco put her in the ground right there. Her ashes are buried under the rose bushes behind the chapel." I didn't stop, walking straight toward the chapel. Giovanni froze behind me but didn't dare to call out. As I reached the bottom of the steps, the female ghost's head snapped up. She lunged at me, her face a sickly pale green, her eye sockets empty black pits.

He stood up and walked to where he used to out his books, he took a small but old looking book and came back to where he was sitting, next to me. "I read it in this book , there is a certain theory which say that people might have ghost clones, these clones looks and dresses exactly like the original you and they can do anything you can do. Sometimes if you are lucky you can have a good clone but if you are unlucky you are likely to have a bad and evil clone , which means you are unlucky because yours is evil" he explained. His explanation shocked me , i have never heard such things and I've never believed in ghost theories.

"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.

“Ghosts aren’t usually this… flexible.” “Exactly,” Alexandra said. “They’re usually trapped in a loop—stuck in how they died.” “But this one keeps switching up his whole persona,” I said. “What kind of ghost changes its story mid-haunt?” Alexandra shook his head. “None that I’ve ever seen. Usually, how they die defines their entire pattern. This? It’s all over the place.” He paused. “Wait.” I glanced up. Alexandra was frowning at the screen, eyes narrowed.

But your mother's about to die—I know you'll show up. Her words jolted me back to reality. I pressed a hand to my chest, where my heart ached with a dull, numbing pain. How I wished I could tell her myself. That I've been here all along. It's just that... I've been dead for four years.

He unlocked the door but shut it. While under the shower, he ran through how it will all play out in his head. He won't allow that ghost to touch him again. Once he sets his eyes on her, he is so calling her name and let her be gone. If he can successfully free himself from this girl or ghost, he will give skirt-chasing a hard break. Lost in introspect, he was brought back to his living nightmare by a soft knock on the door. He kept quiet waiting to be sure it wasn't in his head. The knock came again, this time louder.

The ghost asked casually, while appearing to be pacing the floor. "What? Like the human who turns into a giant man-wolf during a full moon?" Miranda demanded, but she didn't let the ghost answer, "yeah I've heard about it. So much so that people write books about young girls falling in love with them, and those books have so much smut, its ridiculous." Miranda laughed. It was now the ghost's turn to send Miranda a deadpan look. "What?" Miranda asked when she noticed the look. "And what do you think of vampires?" The ghost continued to quiz.

It was that kind of feeling where I knew something big was about to happen, and I was caught between wanting to run toward it and bolt the other way. Every nerve in me was on edge, my brain working overtime trying to play it cool, even though all I wanted to do was roll my eyes at how ridiculous it was. Ghost’s text flashed across my screen: “Send me your address.” I had sent it to him hours ago, and he responded with his usual cryptic edge, warning that he wouldn’t tell me when he’d show up or give any other details. It was all part of his game—keeping me on edge, making sure I never felt too comfortable.