Ghosted Synonym Novels & Stories

An untraceable phantom known only as Ghost. Every target assigned to Ghost had ended up dead with a single, surgical puncture to the heart. No alarms tripped. No forensic evidence left behind. A true myth. Five years ago, the underworld partner I had been trading logistics networks with was murdered overnight, and rumors whispered that Ghost had been the weapon. Then, the assassin vanished completely from the grid, leaving the name to gather dust in the archives of the syndicate wars. I opened my eyes, my gaze shifting to the rear-view mirror.

That person is called a 'mate', and they spend the rest of their lives with that person. And if they ever lose that person, through death or shit, then they would be miserable for the rest of their lives. Ghost always thought it was a stupid and sick bargain. He detested it, having one's life forever tied to another. So right now, hearing her say that word to his face created a maddening rush inside him. "Your…mate?" He scoffed, brushing off the strands of hair on her face. It was gentle, even though he hadn't intended it to be. He just wanted to look at her face a bit more. For the last time.

I told her some truth, and the ghost rejoiced, "Yes! She is talking to me! You said it! You are talking to me, Sydney!" "Stop that, Syd. It's not funny anymore." My friend commented, looking so unusually freaked out by me, and I just smiled a cheeky one at her. "Oh, I could kiss you right now, Sydney. Stop being so cute! Thanks in advance if you really are going to talk to me, by the way. It means so much to me. That's your ride? I'll go in with you." The ghost let out, sounding so delighted, and walked ahead to the car, while I... I still can't process in my nervous system what she just said. Kiss what?

“I imagine it might seem that way to you and me, but they have different beliefs. Let’s just give the fella a chance. If this place is really haunted, he’s the one to help us. Besides, it would me mighty rude of us to have him come here and then turn him away.” Melody’s lower lip protruded forward as she contemplated his words. “You said it was haunted. Now you say if it is haunted. Which is it?” “I don’t rightly know for sure. I’m not an expert with ghosts.” Adam grabbed the coffee pot and a cup. “I say we give the guy a chance. Lord knows, I’m not worth a salt when it comes to spirits.” Melody looked at her father with raised brow. “Do you think it’s haunted too, father?”

The word felt automatic, the default explanation I'd been giving for weeks whenever anyone asked why I'd become a ghost haunting the periphery of my own life. "Lame." "Necessary." "More like tragic. You've ghosted me for a month. A whole month! I've been texting into the void like some kind of digital hermit." The guilt hit immediately, sharp and deserved. She was right. I had been ghosting her—ghosting everyone, really, except for Milo and the relentless demands of ValeCorp. When had my world become so small? When had I stopped making time for the people who actually wanted to spend time with me?

A ghost. My reflection barely visible in the glass. Scarlet eyes watching. Watching back. Unblinking. Unforgiving. Her lips form a name. A whisper. A farewell for a name I will never call out again. The word falls like a tomb's final stone. Sealing everything away. Forever. “Goodbye, Nicoli.”

Guilty people let calls go to voicemail and then hid behind vague excuses. I pulled up our message thread and saw the last text I'd sent yesterday. Me: I'm so sorry for leaving like that. Family emergency. Can we reschedule? Right. But I'd never actually set a time. Had just left it hanging there, vague and open-ended, like I wasn't really serious about meeting with him at all. No wonder he was calling. He probably thought I was ghosting him. Again. That I'd gotten cold feet about the whole arrangement and was too cowardly to just tell him outright.

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.

Steve replied. “You can call me Ghost,” Ghost smiled. “When I was younger, I used to get a thousand texts from the ladies and of course I would want to differentiate the important ones from the regular ones with a different chat tone. The one I just heard isn’t very familiar so I figured.” “That’s very smart sir,” Steve laughed. “I mean…Ghost.” “My daughter is telling you to come over tonight because her father is on a business trip isn’t she?” Ghost asked, his eyes fixed on his long nails.

“I was not prepared for your appearance. I’m rarely caught off guard.” “So we are becoming friends?” Ghost cringed at the word again. What the hell? His non-answer silenced me for the rest of the ride home.