Ghostly Hitchhiker Novels & Stories

I reached out and pressed the radio button on the steering wheel. My voice was cold, cutting through the static. "Mason Vale, do you see a ghost in your mirror?" I said coldly into the radio. Those words pierced straight through Mason's last line of composure. His car hesitated for an obvious instant on the straight. Now. I smashed the throttle down. The car tore through the air and pulled alongside him. Ahead was a chain of fast S-curves. Seeing that I was about to pass, a vicious look flashed through Mason's eyes.

His head lolled, eyes glassy and unfocused, but he kept chanting, 'ghost, ghost, ghost,' like a fucking mantra from hell. Even when I slammed him back against the cold metal wall, the impact rattling the shelves nearby, he didn’t stop chanting. “Who is Ghost?” I snarled. “Look at me and tell me who the hell Ghost is.” His head lolled again, and his mouth kept moving, his voice hoarse and cracking. Spit drooled from his mouth to his chin, and his pupils were wide, staring through me. “Ghost… ghost… ghost…” My patience snapped. My hybrid senses were still buzzing from the Veil trace, and I couldn't wait for answers the usual way. Pressing my palm flat against his forehead, I pushed in, seeking

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.

FREDERICK The Ghost was dead. It was the only thing I could think of as I staggered along on the dirt path beside the highway, hooking out my thumb as yet another wash of yellow headlights blinded me and sped past, blowing dust in my eyes. “Bloody hell,” I groaned, struggling not to breathe too deeply as my lungs burned from the pain that had not stopped tearing at my sides and back. I fisted the phone I had fished from the gray-eyed man’s shirt pockets firmly in my hand, the memory of the pike thrust firmly through his open mouth and shooting out the back of his head and chest as his bloodied eyes stared on sightless burned into my scalp.

But in the dark, in our hyper-scared state, it looked like the ghost from the movie. “Drive faster!” I screamed, gripping the wheel—oh wait, I wasn’t driving. I clutched the seat. Taranis slammed the accelerator, almost hitting a pothole. “I am not dying because of a ghost! She’s real!” We both shrieked simultaneously as the figure passed by, her long white coat flapping like wings in the wind. When we were safely past the highway, I peeked out the window and realized: it was just an old lady, walking home from somewhere in her long white cardigan.

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.

I could hear whispers—low, guttural voices speaking in a language I didn’t understand, their words laced with malice. The tombstone shifted, the stone creaking as it began to rise, revealing a dark, yawning pit beneath it. My heart raced, my breath coming in short, panicked gasps. This was it. The moment we had feared. The witch’s resting place had been disturbed. Suddenly, a bone-chilling wail pierced the air, and a ghostly figure began to rise from the tomb, her form shimmering and translucent. She was cloaked in shadow, her face obscured, but her presence was undeniable. Power radiated off her in waves, and the air crackled with dark magic.

I knew this man was going to be my doom and I was willing to embrace that doom with opened arms. Silently, I raised a brow, indicating that his presence confused me seeing how he was a stranger who just barged into my space like he owned the place. With an outstretched hand, his deep, rough voice reverberated. “I’m Ghost.” I took his hand, shaking him professionally but startling at how small my hand was compared to his. “Ghost?” I repeated and he hummed a response. “A messenger for the Sanchez’s.” I immediately withdrew my hand from him with a snare. “My meeting was scheduled with the head of your famiglia.” Again, he hummed a response as he threw himself on the couch with a sigh.

She called out, her voice echoing eerily in the vast emptiness. "Ghost?" she whispered, her voice barely a sound. A chuckle, low and sardonic, filled the darkness. Then, a single figure emerged from the shadows. Tall and shrouded in darkness, its face hidden beneath a hood, this was Ghost.

He drummed his fingers on the table. “Ghost. No last name. Adopted by Christopher Blackwell as a child. No blood relatives listed. No history of lasting relationships.” Vladimir put special emphasis on that word before trailing off. “Greymount, you said you sensed something earlier?” “I have commitment issues.” Snatching the olive from my drink, Ghost placed it between his teeth. “My favorite food is pancakes and I last took a shit this morning. I’ve also been having this reoccurring dream lately—”