The Ghostwriter Novels & Stories

"But first of all, what's your name?" "I'm Prince but my fans call me Ghostwriter." "You're a writer?" She asked and stared at me in all smiles and I couldn't help but ogle. "Yes, I am," I answered after getting back myself and secretly parted my dick which kept jigging in my shorts. An expression flashed in her eyes and she mumbled some incoherent words I couldn't quite grab. "Any problem?" I curled up my brows at her. She shook her head and tousled her long silky hair. "You asked why I'm smiling right?"

He sounded so carefree as if he was making fun of his master's helpless situation. "You just want me to sit idle and do nothing? So, what if I am a ghost?" His master asked in resentment. "You're not in a stable condition yet." Replied Little Veen. "So, you're not powerful enough." The man grunted as he ran his fingers in his head. “How can this be?!" He roared angrily. Little Veen just watched him with his cute poker face that didn't show any hint of care. "You're technically a ghost now. Nothing more. You don't even have a body, to begin with." He explained. ‘I thought you realised it from the day we've been tossed here’, his eyes said.

Tasha was devastated about the reality of her being a ghost. She thought she was dead, she had dreams. Even if she acted like a slut whose only interests were parties and getting boys hard for fun. She wanted to be a doctor, just to save lives. But everything was never gonna happen for her, and she thought everything had ended for her.

As he flipped through the yellowed old pages, he sat down on the neatly made bed and began to read, curiosity etched on his features. Don Carianno’s writing was in beautiful cursive. It looked like he took his time to scribble, dotting all his i's and crossing his t's. He flipped through the first pages, there was an entry about a new shipment, but it didn’t make sense. He could not decipher the code words. He flipped through a few more pages, and that was when he saw an entry about him. It read: "Ghost, that’s what we’re going to name him. He’s, after all, a Ghost."

Tears rolls down his mom’s face while Evelyn spirit walks into the office smiling and she flashes back to how her spirit comes out of Marylyn’s body and keeps following her mom, she was feeling pitied for her at the party that she doesn’t know she was dead only for her to see her buying chemical at the chemical shop and injecting it to her drink and gives it to a waiter to bring it to Marylyn who was sited finding everything strange. She was shocked to see her mother inject the drink and wanted to give Marylyn because she thought she was the one and she when the waiter was about bringing it she entered into the waiter to control her at that moment and she changes the drink and she serves her

He stood up and walked to where he used to out his books, he took a small but old looking book and came back to where he was sitting, next to me. "I read it in this book , there is a certain theory which say that people might have ghost clones, these clones looks and dresses exactly like the original you and they can do anything you can do. Sometimes if you are lucky you can have a good clone but if you are unlucky you are likely to have a bad and evil clone , which means you are unlucky because yours is evil" he explained. His explanation shocked me , i have never heard such things and I've never believed in ghost theories.

She placed the fruit platter on the table and gently urged him to eat. However, Patrick had no appetite. As he looked at the neatly arranged fruit, an overwhelming sense of bitterness and loss surged through him. Once upon a time, I was the one who had done this for him. Whenever he had a bad appetite, I would always prepare fruit for him before meals, coaxing him to eat. During dinner, he would nibble on fruit as he casually shared the details of his workday. Meanwhile, I would sit quietly across from him, listening intently to his every word.

had stopped caring about their descriptions. "You can't do this!" I roared, my violet-silver fire erupting in a blinding arc. "The Audit is over! We are the Un-Written!" "You are the Un-Edited," the Ghost replied, its form stabilizing into a tall, faceless figure draped in a cloak of Liquid Ink. "And an un-edited story is a failure. I am here to provide the Final Edit." The Ghost raised a hand, and the "Sovereign Static" began to Solidify. The lavender fog turned into Iron-Hard Lines of Text that wrapped around the villagers, pinning them to the ground with the weight of their own pasts.

Chapter 100(whew!!!) The Author's Yap If you've made it here... Hi. First of all, thank you. Seriously, thank you. This is my very first completed novel, and I honestly don't know how to explain what this journey has been like. Before writing this book, I worked as a ghostwriter. My job was simple in comparison. I was given outlines, chapter breakdowns, character directions, and all I had to do was bring someone else's vision to life. It wasn't easy, but there was always a map.

This feels lighter, automatic—like stepping where the ground has already been mapped. They call me Ghost. It simplifies things. Ghosts don’t leave witnesses. Or questions. Or pieces of themselves behind. Conversation thins as I pass. People shift their feet. I registered the looks without meeting them. Curiosity from the younger ones. Calculation from the handlers. And something closer to superstition from everyone else. I am twenty-two years old. I’ve been killing since I was fourteen. The numbers don’t settle into pride or shame. They sit like inventory. A medic steps aside as I pass. His eyes drop to the insignia stitched inside my collar—black thread on gray. Ghost-class comes without ra