The Ghostwriter Novels & Stories

At this rate, she was bound to go mad. She needed to get that divorce finalized as soon as possible. Then, she needed to figure out who she was. That was the only way to get rid of those leeches. After a moment of silence, she asked curiously, "What are you writing, Sienna?" "A part-time job. I'm ghostwriting for some extra income so we can pay off your debt sooner." She lifted her gaze toward her screen and saw walls of text. "What's a ghostwriter?" "I help people write novels. I just got a completely crappy book. It's hastily put together, but as long as I type fast enough, I'll be able to earn more."

“I’ve been looking for one.” I took in the length of her from top to bottom while she tried not to smile. “Of course, you go to the gym.” “It’s better than sitting at home and brainstorming ideas that don’t come.” “You said you’re a writer?” She shook her head vigorously. “Oh, I’m not a published one. I just scribble. I’m a ghostwriter.” “What’s a ghostwriter?” “Someone who writes for other people without a copyright.” “So, in short, your hard work and someone else’s name?” She bobbed and my eyes widened. “I would kill if someone took credit for my work.”

I’ll have to sign a nondisclosure agreement, and not tell anyone that the writers have taken over, and I’m not actually writing the show anymore, yet my name will still be credited as the main writer. I don’t know how to feel about that. Having my name on something I didn’t actually write. I know many super popular authors use ghost writers, but it’s also more or less common knowledge that they do. What if the showrunners write garbage episodes? Make the characters do something stupid or sexist or say something terrible and I’m blamed for it? That alone makes me hesitate. The producer promised I’d build up a good working relationship with their writers, and they’d continue the series as if I

A fragile misting of hope, an inextinguishable spark waiting to be fanned into an inferno once more. Scrubbing calloused palms over my gaunt cheeks, I rose on rubbery legs and began pacing with translucent purpose. Gradually, the veil of despair obscuring my sight thinned ever so slightly. I would meet this fighter at the event. Face Jake, and the others who refused to abandon me to the pits of destitution. Let their faith in me ignite the flames anew. And through the searing alchemical fire of vulnerability and hard-won perseverance, the Ghostwriter would be reborn from the ashes of his own destruction.

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?]

“Does it scare you?” Mala wrapped an arm around me. “I’ve been worrying since you stopped talking about shopping secondhand books and started talking spreadsheets and stock returns.” I sat taller at that. “Yeah, I’m scared that I traded in my pen for a paycheck, and forgot how to fight with words.” She let me sit in that, then she said “He didn’t just rewrite your memoir babe, he’s drafting your life, and ghostwriters don’t keep their names.” I inhaled. “But I agreed to it.”

Then the rider lifted both hands. Not in surrender. With caution. Like someone approaching a wounded animal. Their voice came out distorted through a modulator. “Ghost,” they said softly. Everything inside me stilled. Only three people ever called me that. One was dead—Saint. One should’ve been dead—Shade. And the third… The third was an ally long buried in the dark. A ghost from my old life. The rider reached up and slowly—very slowly—removed their helmet. My breath caught.

A short, bitter sound. “I spent twenty years chasing the wrong man.” Elias Mercer nodded quietly. “So did most of us.” ⸻ Amelia turned several more pages. The handwriting became rushed. Uneven. As if Daniel had been running out of time. One final paragraph had been underlined twice. The Ghost’s real name is Samuel Reid. He was once the finest investigator I ever worked with. When the Founders murdered his wife and daughter, he disappeared. The world believed he became a killer. In truth, he became my shield.

Ivan hesitated, clearly terrified to speak the name. “She’s made contact with him. The Ghost.” The temperature in the room dropped instantly. I looked between them, confused. “Who is the Ghost?” Nikolai’s face had gone deathly white. He slowly sat down, rubbing his face with both hands. “The Ghost,” he said quietly, “is a legend. A shadow. No one knows his real name. He doesn’t run a family — he destroys them. He’s the one who orchestrates silent coups. The one who makes entire bloodlines disappear overnight. Even my father was afraid of him.”

The thing about a name that isn't your name is that you don't know how much of you it is until it's gone. Chris Lee was the name on the documents — the cover, the construct, the paper person assembled from fragments of false history and convincing detail. I had carried it the way you carry a tool: useful, functional, not particularly attached. Ghost was different. Ghost was what I had made out of nothing. Out of nine years of work done precisely and without error. Out of the particular reputation that accrues when you operate in a world built on reputation and you operate better than anyone else in it. Ghost was the thing that preceded me into rooms — the knowledge of what I was capable of,