Ghostly Reaper Novels & Stories

Faelon watched as the woman's ghost flew across the floor and the reaper jumped up and caught her in his hands. "I must get that stupid bitch," the spirit groaned eerily. "Shut the fuck up!" Atlas grunted and cursed as the woman struggled against his hold. "Some help here," Atlas groaned and Faelon wrapped his large hand around the ghost's throat and let his hellfire release a tiny bit. It stunned the spirit enough for Atlas to send it to the hole that formed in the floor. Inky black hands rose from the abyss and grasped the spirit. Atlas let go and the ghost wailed out as she was dragged below.

Will she achieve her goal or become a pawn in his sick world? Once again, you have been warned and can turn back if you are uncomfortable with the warning. Welcome to The Silent Stalker!

“If she casts me out, I will meet you at the edge of the River Styx and kill you in Purgatory over and over until the Ferryman comes to collect us. And if Hades allows, I will continue to kill you in the Underworld until the end of time.” “I underestimated you.” He chokes up blood. “Everyone does.” I whisper and lay my full weight against the pommel, extinguishing any light left in his spirit. Screams and howls erupt in the distance. I look away from the blood flowing out of his body and move toward Reaper. “They know he died?” I lean heavily against him, suddenly exhausted. “They’re retreating?” Reaper huffs with a nod and gently lowers his body so I can climb onto his back.

It struck the ground a dozen feet in front of them. Where the beam hit, the scrubby grass, the tough little weeds, the hardy insects, everything simply… turned grey. Not dead. It was still standing, but all color, all vitality, was instantly leeched from it. It became a perfect, static sculpture of its former self, frozen in a moment of absolute apathy. A Reaper. That's what the Overseer had written. Deploy Reapers to sanitize the sector. Their weapon didn't kill. It preserved in a state of non-life. It was the ultimate expression of the Grey Sorrow's philosophy.

The bone man followed my lead, exploring the world through my eyes. He looked at the lines on my hands, the swell of my breasts and legs. The sinews and tendons fascinated him. We walked barefoot together. He tasted the air with my lips. I've missed my heart, you know. His bones rattled, aching for life. The black shroud wrapped round us, and he formed himself from the wind. Will you dance with me? said the Reaper. “What are you?” I asked. Your companion. He looked at my hands, now his. They were bare bones. Maiden, you will never be rid of me.

It was a summons from one power to another, laced with the undeniable urgency of a life-or-death emergency. For a long minute, nothing happened. The only sounds were Damon’s ragged, pain-filled breaths and the frantic beating of my own heart. Then, a shadow in the corner of the room, one cast by a towering obsidian sculpture, deepened. It grew unnaturally dark, pooling on the floor like spilled ink. He didn’t arrive in a storm of fire or a crack of thunder. He simply… stepped out of a shadow that hadn’t been there a moment before. Donn, the Reaper.

[The Ghost Army] The heavy oak door of the wine cellar didn't just open; it exploded inward, reduced to a spray of splinters by a synchronized kinetic charge. Through the dust, four Ghost units moved with a terrifying, insectoid grace. Their tactical visors weren't glowing with the standard blue of the Regency; they were pulsing with a deep, oily black—the mark of the Heir. "Dante!" I screamed, diving behind a row of ancient, dust-covered casks.

And right in the middle of it all—he waited. Jax. They called him Reaper—because death followed him like a shadow, a silent, inevitable companion. The kind of man who could kill with a glance and leave no trace but silence and a cold void where a life once was. The instant his eyes, obsidian chips of ice, sliced through the noise and landed on me, the world shrank to that frozen moment. My breath caught, a jagged shard in my throat. I knew—without a doubt—that I was standing in the eye of a storm, and I was the fragile thing about to be torn apart.

"Isabella Moretti, just like you ordered." The man turned around slowly. Grey eyes locked on mine. No warmth, no smile, just a cold calculation, like he was sizing up a new weapon. This had to be Damien Voss—the Reaper. I'd heard the name in passing from my dad's rare phone calls, but nothing prepared me for the real thing. I straightened up, ignoring how my hands shook. "You'd better have a damn good reason for dragging me out of my bed in the middle of the night. I have a life. An apartment. Students who expect me in class tomorrow."

Cale whispered. "I live here. This is my studio." "Get out!" Cale grabbed the brass lamp from the floor. He threw it. It flew through the ghost. It hit the easel. CRASH. The painting of the Reaper fell. It landed face down on the floor. The ghost vanished. Cale slumped back onto the couch. He was gasping, sweat stinging his eyes. "Hallucination," Cale chanted. "Chemical imbalance. Not real." But the question remained.