Ghostwritting Novels & Stories

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📖(✿˶˘ ³˘)~♡ MIMO'S POV (｡❛ᴗ❛｡)📖 A month has taken its place, and I finished writing my first ever werewolf tragedy love story. I made it so steamy that he will not reject reading it. I kept getting nightmares about what happened to us in the hotel, and that moment has inspired me to write some scenes in the story.

CHAPTER 01. UNREALISTIC DREAMS. SHELLY. “Coming Mum.“ I yelled for the umpteenth time, but didn't move an itch from the worn-out marble floor I laid. My gaze was still fixed on the small television which was just few metres away from me, with my chin on my hands for support. Excitement had the best of me and nothing else seemed to matter at the moment. It was that period of time that comes every year when the 'Greygott conglomeration' makes an exemption for a lower-class to get admitted into the prestigious Greygott high-shool.

"I'll go back home and continue my normal life but I'll never have anything to do with ghosts anymore. I won't even do like I see them and will continue my story writing and studies." "Will you write my story, Chris?" "Never. It's a secret." I vehemently shook my head. "Why? You don't want people to know you see ghosts?" "Yes, I don't. Moreover, people hardly believe you guys exist so it's of no use writing it and trying to convince them." "But I want you to write my story, Chris. I want the world to know how I died, what caused my death, everything. Including the way, my mum cried when she found out about my death till the very end when I'm gone."

“I just need your help with a little thing.” Lance stopped rotating his chair. “Go on.” “I need you to publish a book,” Calvin said. “Yours? You need a ghostwriter?” Calvin frowned. “What’s that?” “Someone who’ll write your idea at a price,” Lance explained. “The name on the book will be yours, of course. No one will know you used someone else. Is that what you want? Why do you need a ghostwriter?” “I never said I needed one.” “But you want to publish.”

"Scared of everything. Scared to live, scared to take risks, scared to be anything more than mediocre. It's exhausting being related to you." "That's not true," I whispered. "Isn't it?" Tanum sat on the arm of the couch, looking at me like I was a particularly boring insect. "Name one brave thing you've ever done. One impressive thing. You're a ghostwriter, Mia. You don't even write under your own name. You're invisible. Forgettable. Why would anyone choose you when there are better options?" I wanted to argue. To defend myself. To tell them they were wrong.

She whispered close to his face to prevent himself from getting numb in front of her and getting embarrassed even more She noticed his questioning and numb eyes, swallowing her saliva, whispering in a shaky voice " Just a while ago while you were choking Jeff, I felt a quick movement inside me, and the faint whisper of a raspy voice terrified me." His pupils widened, "How?" Her eyes trembled, her lips trembling, and she whispered in a frightened voice He was saying mean and bloody "I am the devil here, I am the one who easily robs the souls of all these pathetic wolves, no you Zayn" ...

Her heart began to pound, slow at first, then faster, louder—until she could feel it in her chest, in her throat, even in her fingertips resting on the edge of her laptop. “That’s not possible,” she whispered under her breath. She leaned closer to the screen, rereading the email carefully, this time searching for hidden details, fine print, or anything that would expose it for what it had to be—a scam. Because it had to be. No one paid that kind of money for writing. Not in her world. Not for ghostwriters, who worked quietly behind the scenes, earning just enough to get by while someone else took the credit. She had written countless stories for clients—romance, drama, even personal memoirs—

But they didn’t hit bottom. They landed on a soft, glowing surface—a giant open book, appearing out of nowhere. Near the edge sat a young man in a t-shirt and jeans, a pencil behind his ear. He looked like any student. “Nice catch,” said the young man, smiling kindly. Maya helped Julian up and held the iron key, ready to fight. “Who are you? Are you an Editor?” “Me? No,” the kid laughed, standing up. “I’m the Ghostwriter. The Author hired me when she was too tired to finish your story. I’ve been keeping you alive while the Board tried to delete everything.”

My voice carried down the aisles. Not loud. But true. “Past Key Authors,” I called. “The ones you saw in the ink. The ones I saw in the Graveyard. The ones he burned as batteries and archived as failures. If you’re still here, help me end this for good.” The Admin laughed, a horrible, static‑ripped sound. “ARCHIVAL GHOSTS HAVE NO AGENCY,” it spat. “THEY ARE LOGS. VESTIGIAL DATA. THEY CANNOT—”