Simon Ghost Novels & Stories

It wasn’t something she owned. In fact, the last time she had seen that dress was… Oh, fuck! ——— “Hm,” Simon hummed into the phone, nodding his head ever so slowly. “Alright. Thanks for letting me know,” he disconnected the call and patiently slipped the phone into the inside pocket of his suit. Then, he sighed and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, to look at the man on the floor. Beaten. Bruised. Bloody. But that was to be expected after what he had done.

Then, without a second thought, he joined her in the water, slashing at his own wrist. As the blood mixed with the water, Grayson's vision blurred. In his final moments, he saw me—there, standing at the edge of the bathtub. His face lit up with a wild, desperate joy as he tried to stagger toward me, calling my name. "Honey," he cried, his voice full of longing. I stared at him, my eyes cold and distant, a disgust so sharp it cut through everything. "I'm not your honey," I said. "Not in this life, not in the next, not in any life to come. Not ever."

None of that meant that I had to grow up a deadbeat Simon’s harsh childhood was not a ticket for him to cheat, or to spit on his wife any chance he got… No one asked him to be a criminal, or to kidnap Anika… no one told him to kill himself. These were all choices that he made and there is no one else to blame for that. I cleared my throat “while I sympathize with you, I know that you are not here to narrate to me the story of your life. What can I do for you?” He looked up at me with pleading eyes “without the company, I have nothing…. I need the money to at least give Simon one final burial” he said. “Do you want the company or money?” I asked.

"You bastard! Do not touch her!" Adrian lunged forward to shove Lucien away, but his hand passed straight through Lucien’s body, unable to affect him at all. Helplessly, he watched as Elowen bit her lip in pain, tears falling silently as she let Lucien feast on her body. Her eyes stared into the void, as if she were begging him to save her. Adrian’s eyes looked as though they were about to crack apart, the energy around him surging violently. Elowen stared wide eyed at the dark shadow floating in front of her. It was Ms. Ghost, her only friend.

I expected to maybe see him the next day so we’ll talk but that wasn’t the case anymore. “Simon, how did you even get in here? How did the security let you in?” “Hmm,” he giggled, his hands dipped in his pocket as he walked towards me. “It seems you’ve forgotten I was once a HPA, being an agent a least should guarantee me a pass to see my friend here,” “Oh,” I smirked. I forgot he was once a member of the Houston police and also an ex-marine. Maybe that explains why he got the aura to wall in.

"Dante said eight. That's eight. We're good." "We're not good," Simon muttered, already pulling out his equipment. His fingers were moving over the small handheld device he used for everything — scanning frequencies, monitoring channels, patching into surveillance feeds. He was the quietest one of the group, which made it stranger when he spoke up. "There's chatter I don't like." "What kind of chatter?" Dante asked. "Encrypted, short-burst. Could be nothing." Simon didn't look up from the screen. "Could be a second sweep team. I want to go around the east block and check."

Simon saw his father and let out a long maniacal laughter that shook everyone. “I finally have her.” He said incomprehensibly. “I have the woman you gave your soul to get but never could. The woman my mother died trying to be like so she could get a little bit of space in your oh-so-black heart. The woman you neglected us for. I woke her up from the dead.” He paused to catch his breath and laugh again. Peter was astonished at the drama unfolding before him. The more words they said, the more confused he got. What was this thing about bringing people from the dead? Was Simon a necromancer?

The coincidence was just too much to be true. He took another look at the name on the ID card; with his imaginative eyes he slowly turned the name Heaven backwards and it appeared as Nevaeh. He has been sleeping with a ghost he concluded. There was no need to call a prophet to reveal it, even the blind will see and understand this. He needs to drive this thought away, make the pain and fear disappear, he needs to get drunk; so he ran away from the morgue and went to a beer parlour.

I shrug my shoulders. “I just assumed someone was trying to kill me.” “Kill you?” he laughs menacingly. “In order for someone to want to kill you, you would need to be significant.” “Significant enough for your Rogue King to continually attack my pack.” I retort. Simon rolls his eyes and huffs back into his seat. “He heard a whisper, and he followed it on the wind,” he says begrudgingly. “Oh, and what whisper would that be?” “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Simon drifted through the house, lights off, footsteps soft. Every room still carried her—her laugh in the hallway, her scent on the couch. He pressed his palm to his face, exhaled, and tried to shake her out of his head. His phone vibrated. Unknown number. He frowned and answered. “Hello? Who’s this?” “Damon.” Simon straightened. “Why the fuck are you calling me?” A pause. “Trust me, it’s not my pleasure either.”