Pac-man In The Ghostly Adventures Novels & Stories

Carson shushed us. A strange breeze rushed across the hallway killing the torchlights, then from the pools of blackness left in the wake of the snuffed-out torches, emerged a long, wavy thing. Isis held my hand and squeezed it, and I huffed. My eyes blinked rapidly when a second phantom followed. They whipped about, as if they were some massive antennae, trying to find a signal. "It's Ok. They are just ghost children playing," Carson whispered. "The mansion looks different," Lance uttered as he ran his fingers over the oozing walls. Something like puss or sap was leaking from the creases.

Dante muttered beside me, already pulling out his phone. The blue glow of the screen lit up his face as he dialed rapidly, stepping aside and barking into the phone. "What the fuck is going on? Kill that signal now. Now!" But no matter how many calls he made, the masked man didn't vanish. He only flickered on the screen every now and then. "My name..." the man announced. "Is Ghost." "And I mean no harm…if you just listen." I frowned, confused. But for some reason, I still listened. There was some kind of mystery around this "Ghost" that instantly made me eager to hear what he had to say.

“You heard me.” I blinked. “The fuck I am.” “You will,” he said, tone flat. “Or Ghost drags your ass back to the strip club .” “You have arms. Use them.” He exhaled through his nose. Slow. “I don’t need my arms, ragazza. I need obedience.” My skin prickled. Ghost wasn’t here. He’d left hours ago to go get Pietro. The hacker. The weird one. The one who kept giving me looks like he wanted to bite me and cry about it after.

When both sides grow desperate, then deliver the true location. But fate rarely follows plans. As the ghost scribbled his scheme on a napkin, a voice interrupted him. “You look like a man thinking too hard,” said the stranger. The ghost looked up. His heart froze. It was one of Marquez’s men. The man’s eyes were smart, his smile real. He sat across the table without invitation. “You’ve been busy, ghost. Too busy. Watching houses that aren’t yours. Whispering things that don’t belong to your tongue.”

I sighed and prepared to microwave a box of macaroni and cheese. But when I turned around, I spotted a note pressed under something on the table. It was in Nathaniel’s familiar handwriting, though this time, his note held a hint of cold anger. [Wasteful.] I was stunned for a moment before I burst out laughing. This ghost was not just a good cook, but he was also thrifty and responsible. I liked that. I immediately picked up a pen and wrote back. [My bad, Nat. It’s just a joke. Let’s just stick to homemade food from now on. I won’t bring up that extravagant nonsense again, okay?]

Amanda snapped, her simmering anger reigniting at the stranger's audacious familiarity with her full name. "I am Ghost."

My ghostly form seemed to grow heavier with every step, weighted down by the bitterness of seeing the man I had loved so deeply pamper another woman so thoroughly. He visited a food stall next, braving a long line to buy a snack Alice particularly enjoyed. I watched, hollow and aching, as he carried out this act of devotion. It struck me that, during our time together, even asking him to pick up strawberries on his way home was met with annoyance and excuses.

I had no choice, so I dug through every gift Zoe had ever given me, but I found nothing. Just when I was about to give up, I shook a pillow, and a tiny paper figure floated out. Its face was drawn to resemble Lucas, and his birth details were written on the back! The fortune teller exclaimed, “That’s it! The lock and the paper figure work together, and since you've touched the lock, the effect on you is stronger. Luckily, you found it early.” I broke out in a cold sweat. That same day, I slipped the paper figure under Miles’ pillow and instructed my parents to watch him while he slept.

I looked at him. ​"I have to do this, Alaric. For my father." ​"I know," he said. ​He walked to the wall and pressed his thumb against a scanner. The heavy locks on the penthouse door clicked open. ​"Run along, little ghost," he said. His voice was cold again. The man from last night was gone. "Go play your game. Let’s see who wins." ​I didn't wait. I ran. ​ The First Symptom

"I understand. Good luck, mysterious man." I pushed open the door and stepped out into the cool evening air. In the distance, a train whistle blew as it headed out into the vast, empty desert. My satellite phone rang. It was my handler. "Ghost, got a new job. Eastern Europe. An arms dealer. S-class difficulty." "The price?" "Twenty million. US." I started the engine, feeling the deep rumble. "I'll take it." I ended the call and hit the gas. The truck shot forward into the twilight like an arrow.