The Ghostwriter Novels & Stories

This guy should be the one named Nathan Garcia, a horror writer, and the current owner of the cursed book. A headless phantom in priest attire stood, or rather, floated next to the unconscious guy. But just like the hanged ghost, it immediately roared and ran off at the sight of Leyte. It even let out an exaggeratedly shrill scream. Leyte blinked, then lowered down his eyes to the guy. "So he fainted due to that headless ghost?" He frowned because he initially planned to talk with this ghostwriter, but the latter was already forced to sleep by that ghost. He could do nothing but stare at the ghostwriter helplessly.

I can use something better with the wretch instead of killing her. “Mr. Owen, I want to hire a writer, a little help for I am getting a little tired and bored due to mental block sometimes. If I continue to write garbage, your wife wouldn’t be pleased. I will hire her as my ghost writer, and she’ll not going to deny my offer.” For human like her couldn’t reject a huge amount of money. “She will be a great help into my writings.” @Death Wish

She thought for a second and replied, "I found a bracelet, turns out it belongs to a ghost and now I can't get it off." "Really." Her father said. "Yes, am sorry I never told you." "That's alright, we all make mistakes." Her mother walked into the living room with a tray filled with muffins and offered all, the ghost seeing that the atmosphere had calmed down became visible. "Greetings", he says as he bows, "I am Aidan West, an Irishman born in Britain, but I am popularly known as Aidan, do not worry I am not here to frighten you all."

“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.”

He drove with purpose, and I, like a phantom shadow, drifted along in his wake. I followed him as he made his rounds in a department store, buying things he had never once considered buying for me. It wasn't hard to see the distinction between love and indifference. 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.

“I’m done having lunch with Mr. Anonymous. You want to tell me something? Say it now. Over the phone. Like normal people.” There was a pause on the line—short, but heavy. Then, quietly: “I’m a writer.” I blinked. “A writer,” I repeated slowly, more to myself than to him. “As in... books?” “No,” he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice, even though he sounded nervous. “Well—sometimes. But mostly I write stories for brands. People. Companies. I help them find their voice. Sometimes under my name. Sometimes not. Depends.”

To my dismay, I see a bunch of “Cameron black” My God! I am running mad. I fall on my bed and roll on my back. My door swings open and Meg stands in front of it. “Krystal, um…There's an opportunity for writers online like… " "Not interested! It's all those massive companies, , and they are looking for writers to dope…steal from. I am…" "It's some sort of empowerment for small writers, and it's Cameron Black, a well-known Business Tycoon, investor…!"

" She looked surprise. Shit! Don't be so stupid, March. "Because I already have a job, attorney." “Oh. What is your work?" "I am currently into ghost writing," "Really? How was it?” "It's fine. It's enough to provide for us." "Us?… you mean you and your husband?" she asked, apparently confirming if I was talking about my husband. Damn it! “Yes,” "What's the name of your spouse?" Suddenly, I immediately thought of my firstborn. "EJ," "EJ?” “Yes, attorney,”.

She was richer than she ever was within the Blackwood house in this down-at-heels apartment with its down-at-heels walls and second-hand treasures. Because they were hers. --- Days became survival rituals. Preheated bottles, on her diapers, revised manuscripts, pecked-at books at midnight with the two babies sleeping wrapped up like two halves of a soul. Ghostwriting and reception work were subcontracted to the publisher. Deadlines loomed overhead, but with each email that she was getting — every sentence of appreciation from her three million readers for her work — she was filled. “Your stories feel alive,” one fan had written. “Like you’re speaking directly from your heart.”

The fabric slipped slightly, exposing more of my skin to his gaze. “And me?” he let out a humorless laugh, “Most of the time, I’m Alessandro Costello. A tech genius. A mobster. A killer. A hacker. A murderer. But then—” he paused, snapping open another button, “Then there’s Ghost. And Ghost? He’s pissed at the world, Red. So fucking angry. At everything. At women. Especially women. And he doesn’t even know why. He doesn’t understand what made him this way, but he’s past caring.” Alessandro’s hand stopped on the last undone button of the jacket, the fabric now barely holding its place on my shoulders and then with a mere twist of his wrist, the last button popped open.