The Ghostwriter Novels & Stories

She pointed. “That–” I followed her finger. “Oh that's my journal.” “You write?” She eyed me. “I like to write. But lately, I've ran out of inspiring topics.” “Hmm, you did say you were a fan of my blog, right?” “Yes.” “So what do you say I pay you a thousand dollars weekly to write a piece for my blog? Of course it'll pass as mine. You'll just be like a–” “Ghostwriter?” I questioned feeling that cloud of disappointment again.

The conqueror had won by inventing a game where victory meant no one else had to lose. Dr. Sharma walked away, her notebook full of facts, her mind full of a silence that was not empty, but profound. She would write her book. It would be a book about a ghost who had haunted the world into waking up. And the ghost, she knew, would have hated every page. Which was, perhaps, the final proof that he had succeeded.

The other two… Those were where the fun happened. I dropped into my chair, set the plate beside the keyboard, and cracked my knuckles. “All right, Ghost.” My fingers danced across the keys. “Where are you?” A dozen command windows sprang to life. Lines of code streamed down the screens faster than most people could read them. Numbers, IP addresses, encrypted tunnels, relay nodes… Beautiful. Most people looked at this and saw gibberish. I saw fingerprints. Ghost was good. Better than good. They managed to stay invisible while making half the underground think they knew where they was. That alone was impressive.

So she doesn't have a choice but to read it part by part. The author was a ghost writer. As far as she know, no one saw the author in person yet. Even the author's name and gender was still unknown to everyone. But that makes the writer more mysterious and interesting. "Nurse Tasia!" Someone shouted her name this time and Anastasia knew that she will be doomed if she wouldn't leave the room immediately. "Coming!" Taking a last glance at the book, she decided to fix herself first before going out on the nurse quarters. "Doctor Lim!" She acknowledges and gave him an awkward smile.

Rafaelle had a sullen look as he explained. “Before that, I got the trademark of who it was. It’s Ghost.” I rubbed my jaw at the information. Now it made sense why we were having difficulty tracking the phone calls in the beginning. No one had ever seen Ghost before but he was reputed to carry out any scheme without being traceable in the least. Hence, the name Ghost. The interesting part was that Ghost didn't work for anybody and only performed a one-time task. This meant Gaetano was paying him millions to keep him around for longer.

“Have you ever read ‘Ignited: The story of a comet made man.” Angela nodded. “Where did you read it?” “I wrote it.” She said curtly, already was beginning to distrust the man, he knew about the book she had ghost written before for a billionaire writer. That job had allowed her to pay her way through college. “That’s a shame. It’s a really splendid book.” Soprano complimented her. Angela didn’t say anything. “Can I ask a personal question?” Mr. Soprano said politely. After getting a nod from her, he continued. “Why leave ghost writing for journalism? You would have been living more comfortably if you had stuck to it.”

"Wait. I need to know. Why did, uhm, whatever, carelessly pick me?" "Go back." The woman wasn't paying her any attention. She kept on plucking cowries and attaching them to her head. "What is he? Oh, don't answer that one. He's a ghost. I know that. Why is he in that state? No, no, why can I see him? Why can l feel his touch, ghosts can't do that, can they? What does he need me for?" The old woman stopped her scaly hands from further movements and stared directly at Geneva through her foggy eyes that obviously saw clearly.

He stood straight with a serious face as he began his explanation. "Ghosts are the souls of dead humans who... well, aren't ready to rest in peace. They don't have powers. All they can do is move from one place to another without being seen. Well, not by everyone though." "But... if you're a demon, why then are you in this form?" She couldn't help but ask.

It’s too early also, the guards won’t probably let me leave during class hour, so I stayed here. My eyes automatically shut when I felt the wind hugging my body. I heard my phone rings, I smiled when I saw that a lot of my readers have read the recent poem I just published earlier. I’m a writer, I write poems and novels ever since I found out that my passion is writing. I won’t deny the fact that a lot of people are reading my pieces on the platform where I’m writing, but they don’t know that I’m the writer behind those pieces. In a simple meaning, they just know my penname but they don’t know that I’m the one who’s writing behind my penname. It’s my choice though, I chose to be a ghost wri

I hope it is what I am thinking. Mr. Ken Washington, was the founder of Cypress Narrative House, a top tier autobiography ghostwriting firm in New York. He had landed a big client for a firm. A client that I personally wanted- needed to be the one handling his autobiography. Barb Stone and I, were they two senior ghostwriters in the firm and the gig would go to either of us. And Barb was a fierce competitor. I just hope my charms and presentation was enough to land me this job. I knocked on the door before pulling it open. Mr. Washington stood by the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the city with his hands behind his back.