The Man With The Ghost Novels & Stories

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.

He guided me forward, and I let him. The room was a whirl of movement—women in jewel-toned gowns, men in masks so ornate they were almost ridiculous. Waiters weaved through the crowd with trays of champagne and caviar. At the far end, a stage stood draped in deep crimson velvet. That’s where the man Elijah wanted gone might be. I glanced up at him. “So… where’s tonight’s unlucky corpse?” He didn’t answer. He simply reached into his jacket and, without looking, slid a small folded piece of paper into my palm.

I had to settle for holding his hand. The gloopy sounds of a transformation began. Bones broke and rearranged. The bear disappeared, and a mountain of a man took his place—a bearded, very hairy mountain of a man. “I’m here to see the Colonel. You, Esmerelda?” I nodded, and a low growl vibrated in Ghost’s chest. “Don’t mean no harm. He said you keep tearing up his lawn with your witchy skills.” He chuckled. “That man loves his lawn. The name’s Boomer.” “This is Ghost, my mate.”

Dante muttered beside me, already pulling out his phone. The blue glow of the screen lit up his face as he dialed rapidly, stepping aside and barking into the phone. "What the fuck is going on? Kill that signal now. Now!" But no matter how many calls he made, the masked man didn't vanish. He only flickered on the screen every now and then. "My name..." the man announced. "Is Ghost." "And I mean no harm…if you just listen." I frowned, confused. But for some reason, I still listened. There was some kind of mystery around this "Ghost" that instantly made me eager to hear what he had to say.

He was not worthy of being called a man. If he could possess someone’s body, the first thing he would do would be to beat that bastard Lucien senseless. Watching the small girl continue to cry softly, the ghost raised his hand and placed it gently on her back in comfort. Then he mocked himself for being childish. He was only a ghost. How could she possibly feel his consolation? Yet Elowen truly felt a cool sensation against her back. She immediately straightened up and looked around. Seeing no one, she quietly thought that she must be having hallucinations again.

Trapped. “Who are you?” The man pulled back his hood. Kai’s heart stopped. He had seen that face before. In the photographs. In Damon’s locked room. “No,” Kai whispered. “You’re dead. Damon said—” The man smiled. “I know what he said.” He stepped closer. “But you can’t kill a ghost, Kai. You should know that by now.” Kai stared at him. A face almost identical to Damon’s. Younger. Harder. Wrong.

My gaze slides past the walls and lands on the corner of the room. A figure sits in an old wooden chair. At first glance it looks like a department-store mannequin dressed in women’s clothing, but the longer I stare the wronger it becomes. The skin tones don’t match. The limbs are stitched together with crude black thread. Hair has been glued in uneven patches. One eye socket is empty, the other holds a glass eye that doesn’t quite line up. Ghost’s voice is barely a whisper behind me. “That’s not a mannequin. Those are parts of people.”

He moved closer, quiet but deliberate, his eyes fixed on the stranger. The man looked up suddenly, and their gazes locked. His eyes were dark, lined with years of sorrow, but sharp far too sharp for someone pretending to be just another visitor. “Can I help you?” Harry’s voice carried, calm on the surface, though his chest thrummed with unease. The man didn’t answer right away. He studied Harry instead, as though weighing him against something he already knew. Finally, his lips parted. “This place…” His voice was rough, gravel worn down by time. “It carries ghosts.” Harry stiffened.

I whispered, “Who… who is that?” The man stepped forward into the red emergency light. Damien’s face turned white. Because the person standing behind Mason the one who disarmed him Was a ghost. A man we all thought was dead. A man who was supposed to be gone forever. Damien whispered, voice shaking: “Father…?”

From the cold stone, a ghostly image emerged. It was a translucent man veiled in white, his face twisted as he unleashed muffled, eternal screams. He was sentenced to live his most heartbreaking moments over and over. “Who the hell is that?” Adem asked, fear shaking his voice. “Is that a ghost?” Adlee asked, his voice dropping uneasily. “No, silly. This is our fathers soul,” I said calmly. “You see, Manolya figured it out so well… I didn’t expect her to, but she did.”