Ghostwriter Memoir Novels & Stories

I knew that they would do whatever they could to undo my deeds, from slandering my name to sending assassins. This realization led me to begin these memoirs. I decided that this was the best way to present my version of the truth, and to inspire others to rebel against the Black Vatican. I can only anticipate what will happen following this book’s release, but here is what I hope: the Cardinals will ban this volume wherever they rule, and this will only make more people want to read it. Each copy will travel through the black market, passing from one hand to the next, read in secret by mortals and immortals alike. Slowly but surely, whispers of rebellion will spread, until all unite to overt

Feeling that familiar iciness in the air surrounding them, the hairs on her body stood instantly. "Let's start with the basics, what is your name?" "Nicholas." What an ordinary name. So ghosts do have one. "You said something about being half dead and second chances, what does that mean?" "Recovering my memories gives me access to my body and its location." Oh, so he doesn't know where his body is. Poor ghost. "But, why me?" "I told you. Soulmate." All strength left her. Conversations with this ghost led nowhere.

“I remember men. Dirty, smelly, mean men. There were several of them. They tore my clothes off and held me down in the bitter cold snow while they took turns doing vile things to my body and laughing about it. They did painful and horrible things, over and over again. It was as if they were trying to outdo each other with their meanness.” Her cries turned into wails as the memories of what happened to her flooded back. Unsure of how to handle the moment, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to her bed. Perhaps she’d calm down and fall asleep. Sleep was the best thing in times like this. He was certain of it.

Leila carefully shifted Wolfie from her lap and got up from the hardwood floor. She gently placed the dog’s head on the Iranian rug with barely visible pattern. The dog didn’t wake up. Wolfie was busy chasing squirrels in her asleep, flinching her paws now and again and producing funny noises. Leila Weinrich couldn’t think clearly for a long few moments. There was a confused, vivid memory of a dead body in her aunt’s drawing room, and a confused sight of a mess created for no good reason. She shrugged and moved her tiny shoulders back and swept a slow look around the room, as if she didn’t see it before. But nothing changed. Then she went out past the young, sleepy husky, pondering over a pe

“Remember back in New Year, when you told me how you and Isaac had started Haunters and all that?” “I think I remember, why?” “And you told me about how the job changed you, and how you felt about the paranormal.” “Did I?” “You really don’t remember? Yes, you did. And when I said you should write about it, you told me how you would take voice notes for your pro writers.” “Say it already, kid.” “I think this is a great opportunity to do what we said we would back then. Pity you don’t remember. Else, you’d know what I’m talking about.”

"Amethyst, these are books that I recommend you to read. That...that is simply a tale. It does not contain relevant and accurate facts and data like what you are looking for," I looked down at the book in my hand. With him here, I had to admit, scouring through this massive book depository seemed easier. I allowed myself to utter my gratitude as I accepted the books he had offered. After a few moments, I began reading all over again. This time he was right. Pages after pages, I learned most of the basics. Rather than a creative narrative, the text appeared to be written like a memoir, as if the person who wrote the passages witnessed the brutality firsthand. It was making me feel nauseous al

He leaned forward, forearms braced on his knees, his gaze locked on the fire across the room. “I know that stare,” Ghost said finally. “The kind where your body’s here, but your mind’s trapped somewhere else. Vietnam did that to me. The jungle. The screams. The helplessness. You carry it back with you, and it never lets go. You learn to live with it, or it eats you alive.” His pale eyes shifted to Rhett, sharp. “That girl’s carrying the same thing. Not from war. From someone who made her life into one.”

The ground cracked open again, and from the crack rose the black journal with its pages flapping in an invisible breeze, glowing faintly red. The ghost's whisper enveloped them. “Every page is written except for the last one. Do you know why that is, fox? Because the last page holds her truth…the truth she has never spoken. If she writes it down, she’ll be free. But if she keeps it hidden, she belongs to me.” The journal floated toward Camela as one chain unwrapped from her wrist and pressed a quill into her hand. “Write it,” the ghost commanded. “Tell him…tell the fox what you’ve never told your father, your city, or even yourself.”

She always escaped early, always found somewhere to be that wasn’t there, with me. On my desk sat my journal. A page was open. I didn’t remember opening it the night before. I didn’t remember writing. But there it was: a page filled edge to edge with handwriting, my handwriting, except not, slanted, urgent, like someone drew words with trembling hands. “The dead don’t sleep. They are the light. They whisper. They remember what the living try to forget.” I slammed the journal shut. And for a long moment, I couldn’t breathe.

"Yes, I've already arranged everything. I'm leaving in five days." Beryl Montgomery hesitated. "Can you really bear to leave this place? To leave... my brother?" I frowned. "Why wouldn't I be able to? I have no memory of your brother. Did I love him or something?" Beryl picked up my phone, opened the notes app, and handed it to me. "You loved him to death. Everything is recorded here—your entire five-year pursuit of him." I scrolled through hundreds of densely packed pages. My chest felt tight, as if a heavy stone was pressing down on it, making it hard to breathe.