Ghostwriters Writing Ghost Stories

In honor of the spooky season, we asked the writers here at The Writers For Hire to come up with ideas for a short ghost story. What we received reminded us that great writing is not just a matter of skill, but of imagination as well. Have a look at the story below and let us know what you think.

The Final Page

He woke up in the middle of the woods, cold and confused, with no memory of how he had gotten there and no idea who he was. His head felt empty, as if every speck of who he was had been emptied out of it.

Staggering to his feet, he noticed a distant light flickering through the trees. He didn’t know why, but something about it felt familiar, like a half-remembered dream or a place long forgotten. He staggered toward it, his knees weak and his gait unsteady.

The house was waiting for him, as ancient as the earth itself, standing in the middle of a clearing, its silhouette etched against the midnight blue of the night sky. The front door, large and imposing, felt solid as his hands touched its surface. Immediately, it gave way beneath his fingers, swinging silently open to the darkness within. He stepped inside, following his instinct as it guided him deep into the mansion, through the thick darkness and up a creaky staircase that he somehow knew to follow.

Finally, golden light reached him through the murky blackness framing a closed door ahead. Hesitantly, he pushed the door open.

The study was more extravagant than he could have imagined. Grand wooden shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, lined with ancient tomes cast in the warm glow of the many candelabras set throughout the cavernous room.

He looked around at the treasure surrounding him. It must be worth a fortune— even just one book would fetch a good price on the black market. He moved toward a ladder running along the shelves nearest him, starting up its steps, eagerness pulling him higher.

There! A flash of gold caught his eye. A magnificent tome, unlike any he’d ever seen, sat on the shelf right above him. He reached out his hand, stretching to grasp the book.

Suddenly, the ladder jolted as if shaken by a spectral hand. Losing his grip, he fell to the floor below. Dazed, he lay blinking up at the bookcases surrounding him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a movement. He jolted upright. It can’t be…

On the massive mahogany desk in the center of the room, a large book lay open. Above it, as if held by invisible hands, a feather quill hovered in the air, scratching inked words onto the yellowed pages below.

It must be some kind of trick. He cautiously stepped closer. Looking down, he gasped.

The words slithered and crawled across the page, describing a life with startling accuracy: his life.

It was all coming back now. Every triumph, every sorrow, every moment he had forgotten. He watched as the spectral quill recounted the events leading up to his memory loss. The night, many months ago, when he had surrendered his memories to this ancient house, believing it would unburden him of his heavy loads. That it would free him of his pain.

He grasped the edge of the desk, his knuckles turning white as he read about what his life had been. Of how he had lived with no care. And yet, what had it brought him?

The last page of the book flipped open; the quill continued to scribble across the page. It was coming to this very night, this house, this library. Space was running out. Was this it? Was this the end of his life?

As the spectral quill continued to write, he realized with gut-wrenching clarity the truth that had always evaded him. And then, with a final, haunting stroke of the ghostly pen, the book was complete.

Right there on the page were the words he had most needed to know—the wisdom he had not known he was looking for. In the dense silence, he whispered it to himself and felt the truth seep through him:

“Just don’t be a jerk.”