Ghost Writer Versus Ghost Writer: Round 3
- Kali Kuzma
- 3 days ago
- 14 min read
Do Ghosts Spare?
A few years ago I started reaching out to authors to do guest posts as well as be more involved with ghost writers(to see what they had to say-not work on my own projects).
Similar to the last two rounds I hit up Fiverr.com again to find my two writers. In doing so I picked out individuals who focused on horror stories as I thought it would be fun genre. I spoke with them beforehand and gave both the following prompt. Let's see how this turns out.
Sentence: She wrote him a long letter, but he didn't read it. Characters: Roslyn McMillan, Preston
Word count: 1000
Ghost Writer #1
CHAPTER ONE
Roslyn sat at her desk, staring at the blank page before her. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting long, thin stripes of golden light across her cluttered workspace. Her desk was an eclectic chaos, filled with the remnants of countless abandoned dreams and unfinished endeavors. A notebook lay open, and its pages half-filled with disjointed poetry, fragments of thoughts she had never finished. An unfinished painting stood on the easel by the window, a half-formed landscape of colors that once seemed promising but had somehow fallen to the wayside. Stacks of novels, dog-eared and worn, sat in piles with corners folded where she'd marked passages to revisit but never did.
Each item in her space seemed to whisper a different story, a reflection of the creative ambitions she'd started with but ultimately let go of. They all had one thing in common: abandonment. Roslyn's heart was heavy with the unspoken truth, a burden she carried with her every day. She had the ideas and the vision, but somewhere along the way, she had stopped finishing things and stopped confronting her fears.
But today, there was no room for distraction and no more half-started projects to hide behind. Today was different. Today, she was going to face the words she had been avoiding for so long. The silence in the room felt almost suffocating as it pressed in on her from all sides, broken only by the faint scratching sound of her pen tapping against the desk. This anxious rhythm mirrored the nervous beat of her heart. Despite the overwhelming fear, Roslyn's courage shone through.
How could she possibly condense months of unspoken thoughts, a swirling storm of emotions, into words on a page? It felt impossible.
Roslyn closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, willing herself to focus. She needed the words to come. She needed to say what had been festering inside her for so long. She could feel the weight of the letter pressing on her, a weight she had carried in her heart for too long. It was a burden that had grown heavier with each passing day. She thought of McMillan—his eyes, his smile, the way he had always been just out of reach.
Memories flooded her mind like an unstoppable tide: the first time McMillan had made her laugh so hard she cried, her tears mingling with the sound of their shared laughter under the stars. The night they had sat in the park, talking until dawn, the world around them slipping away as the hours melted into something deeper. The way he had always looked at her, as if he wanted to say something, but the words never came. The way his gaze lingered for just a moment longer than necessary and the silence that followed.
Why hadn’t either of them said anything? The question had haunted her for months. She didn’t know the answer. Fear, pride, uncertainty—each one had played its part in weaving the silence between them. Fear of vulnerability. Fear of rejection. Fear of the unknown.
Her hand hovered over the paper for a moment longer. Then, as if propelled by some unseen force, her pen finally touched the page. The words started slowly, stumbling at first, but soon they came in a rush, tumbling out faster than she expected.
Dear Preston,
I don’t know where to start, but I think it’s time I try.
Her handwriting, usually steady and confident, wavered as she wrote, reflecting the hesitation in her heart. With each word, she spilled her heart onto the page, recounting the moments they had shared—the ones that had meant so much to her but which had remained unspoken. The connection she had felt every time their eyes met, the shared laughter, the quiet moments that felt like everything had aligned. And then, she dared to write the truth—the fear that had weighed on her. She was afraid of what his response might be, or worse, of what it wouldn't be.
The truth was, she feared silence more than anything else.
By the time Roslyn finished, the sun had long dipped below the horizon. Her room, once bathed in daylight, was now cast in the soft glow of her desk lamp, its warm light throwing long shadows across the room. The quiet felt heavier now, more intimate. She folded the letter carefully, as though holding something fragile in her hands. This letter, this culmination of her unspoken thoughts and fears, was a significant step in her journey. She slid it into an envelope, sealed it with a trembling hand, and, for the briefest moment, considered not sending it at all.
But she couldn’t keep it inside any longer.
She wrote his name, Preston, on the front of the envelope. It was simple but final. The letters seemed to burn themselves into the paper, like a small but irreversible decision.
The next morning, Roslyn stood at the mailbox, the envelope clutched tightly in her hand. Her fingers trembled, and she found herself staring at the metal slot as if it might swallow her whole. Once she dropped the letter inside, once it was sent, it would be out of her hands. There would be no going back. Whatever happened next—whether it was a reply, silence, or something in between—would be up to him. She couldn't control it anymore. The anticipation of this decision was almost unbearable.
The cool morning breeze brushed her cheeks, bringing with it the promise of a new day, but Roslyn felt the weight of that one decision anchor her in place. She hesitated one last time before she finally dropped the letter into the mailbox. The sound of it landing inside was final, irrevocable, echoing in her mind. A strange mix of relief and dread settled in her chest. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm that matched the rush of her thoughts.
She walked away slowly, the feeling of the letter now gone from her hands but still heavy in her heart. It was done. The weight of her decision, the uncertainty of his response, and the fear of potential silence weighed heavily on her. She was left to grapple with the aftermath of her actions, her heart aching with a mix of relief and dread.
The days that followed were an exercise in patience—and in pain. Every time her phone buzzed, a surge of hope would rush through her, but each time, it wasn't him. Each time, it wasn't the words she desperately needed to hear. The anticipation of his response and the subsequent disappointment she felt with each passing day added to the emotional turmoil she was already experiencing.
Nights were the hardest. Roslyn lay awake in her bed, staring at the ceiling, her mind replaying every word she had written, wondering if she had said too much or not enough. She would close her eyes, only to see his face—his smile, his eyes—haunting her thoughts. What would happen if he didn’t respond? What would happen if he did?
Each day dragged on, each minute stretching out into infinity. She wanted to believe that she had done the right thing, but the uncertainty gnawed at her, a persistent ache she couldn’t escape. And still, the letter remained a question mark, an unopened door that only he could choose to open.
CHAPTER TWO
The envelope sat on McMillan’s kitchen counter, standing out like a sore thumb amid the clutter. Its crisp white edges contrasted with the haphazard pile of takeout menus, unopened bills, and stray receipts that had accumulated over the past month. His apartment wasn’t messy in the way some homes were—there were no overflowing trash bins or dishes stacked precariously in the sink. But it wasn’t pristine either. It was the kind of space that reflected a person going through the motions of life without stopping to appreciate the details. Functional, but devoid of warmth.
The letter had been there for days—weeks now—but it seemed to have a presence of its own. McMillan noticed it constantly, no matter where he was in the apartment. It was there when he shuffled into the kitchen each morning, bleary-eyed and groggy, to pour his first cup of coffee. He would glance at it, the name on the front written in Roslyn’s familiar handwriting, but he’d always look away before his mind could linger too long.
It was there again every evening when he came home from work. He’d toss his keys onto the counter, often landing them just inches from the letter, and the sight of it would send a pang of guilt through him. Still, he ignored it, convincing himself he’d deal with it later.
It even seemed to haunt him during the quiet moments of his day. On weekends, as he lounged on the couch, flipping through channels he wasn't really watching, the envelope would catch his eye from across the room. The urge to pick it up, to rip it open and finally face whatever it contained would rise within him like a wave—only to be stifled by the same fear that had held him back from the start.
"She wrote him a long letter, but he didn’t read it."
He couldn’t.
McMillan had never been good at confronting emotions, especially his own. He’d always prided himself on being steady, reliable, the kind of person who avoided unnecessary drama. But that steadiness often came at a cost. He preferred to keep his feelings locked away, safely out of reach, where they couldn’t cause him—or anyone else—pain.
The sight of Roslyn’s handwriting on the envelope made his chest tighten every time he saw it. He knew, deep down, what the letter contained. Roslyn had always been the brave one, the one willing to put herself out there even when the stakes were high. It was something he had admired about her from the very beginning. But it was also something that terrified him.
What if the letter was full of feelings he couldn’t return? The thought gnawed at him. Worse still was the possibility that the letter might contain truths he wasn’t ready to face—truths about what they were, or what they could never be.
Days turned into weeks. The letter didn’t move from its spot on the counter, but it seemed to grow heavier with each passing day. Over time, it became part of the background, blending in with the clutter of his life. But it was always there, a silent reminder of what he was avoiding, like a ghost haunting the edges of his mind.
While McMillan avoided the letter, Roslyn unraveled. At first, she tried to convince herself that he was just busy. Maybe he hadn't had time to open it yet, or maybe he needed space to process what she'd written. But as the days stretched on and her phone remained silent, doubt began to creep in.
Had he even received the letter at all? The thought plagued her. She debated texting him, but every time she picked up her phone, a knot would form in her stomach, and she’d put it back down again.
One rainy evening, Roslyn found herself at their favorite café. It was the place where they’d spent so many hours talking about everything and nothing, where laughter had come easily, and the rest of the world had always seemed to fade away. The familiar smell of coffee and pastries greeted her as she walked in, but it didn’t bring the comfort it once had.
The barista, a friendly young woman with curly hair and a warm smile, greeted Roslyn by name. But Roslyn barely noticed as she made her way to the corner booth where she and McMillan had sat countless times before.
She wrapped her hands around a steaming cup of tea, the warmth seeping into her fingers, but it did little to chase away the cold ache in her chest. The silence around her was deafening, broken only by the quiet hum of conversation from other patrons.
What was she waiting for? A miracle? A sign?
It was a Sunday afternoon, months after the letter had first arrived when McMillan finally found it again. He had spent the morning cleaning his apartment, attempting to clear the clutter that had accumulated in both his home and his mind.
When he came across the envelope, buried under a pile of papers, he froze. For a long moment, he simply stared at it, his heart pounding in his chest. All the fear and guilt he’d been suppressing came rushing back in a wave that nearly knocked the breath out of him.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, he sat down at the kitchen table. His hands shook as he tore the envelope open, the sound of the paper ripping unnervingly loud in the quiet apartment.
Roslyn’s words hit him like a tidal wave.
She wrote about her fears and dreams, about the connection she felt with him, about the moments they’d shared that had meant so much to her. She wrote about the things they’d left unsaid, the things she could no longer keep bottled up inside.
The letter ended with a single request:
If you’re reading this, and it’s not too late—meet me where it all began.
McMillan closed his eyes, the weight of regret settling over him like a lead blanket. He could see the park clearly in his mind, the bench where they’d spent hours talking, the way her laughter had filled the air like music.
When he finally went there, the bench was empty. The park was quiet, save for the rustling of leaves in the breeze. Roslyn was gone, her chapter with him closed.
My Thoughts
Let me just say I am not happy with my experince with this author/story. I can tell from the writing style this person went ahead and used AI to write it. In doing so, they still missed the mark of my initial request of wanting a short horror story. The story itself is double the word length which defeats the purpose of the challenge as well as didn't use the names correctly(going between Preston and McMillan for the same person).
When I had first reached out to the author they seemed genuine and excited to do the challenge yet when I asked them to redo some parts(like including the one sentence asked to be inserted they delayed the process because they needed a new synopisis and just inserted the sentence randomly. Very disappointing to say the least. As for the story I am not going to critic it since a computer did it and not a person.
In case you were wondering, yes I did leave them a 1 star review.
Ghost Writer #2
The Letter No One Read
In a quiet, small town, Roslyn McMillan lived in an old, sprawling house on the edge of a dense forest. It had once been her sanctuary, comforted by sunlight warming the creaky wooden floors and the soft rustling of leaves outside, reminding her of gentler days. It belonged to her grandmother, who often called it a safe haven from life’s chaos. But Roslyn wasn’t so sure anymore.
The house felt different now, heavier. Silence pressed on her, and shadows seemed to move when she wasn’t looking. She had moved there after her mother’s death, retreating from friends and her former life. Even Preston, her closest friend, had drifted away. She told herself she preferred being alone, but at night she huddled under a blanket, unable to shake the feeling that the house was watching her.
During the day, the house still held traces of its charm. Sunlight streamed through the windows, catching dust motes in the air. Birds sang, and the forest felt alive and welcoming. But at night, the house changed. The soothing sounds of the woods turned into strange murmurs, faint and hard to understand, like someone, or something, speaking just out of reach. The wind howled, shaking the brittle window panes, and the trees seemed alive, their branches clawing at the sky like skeletal hands.
One moonlit night, Roslyn sat by the window, gazing at the forest. The treetops glowed silver, and for a moment, she relaxed. It was quiet, apart from the rustling leaves. Then she heard it. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound was soft, barely there, like knuckles brushing against glass. Roslyn froze.
Her breath caught, and her eyes darted to the window. She saw nothing beyond the darkness. Tap. Tap. Tap. It was louder this time. Her heart raced as she stood and rushed to the door, checking the lock. It was secure. Her hands trembled as she whispered, “It’s just the wind.” But deep down, she wasn’t convinced.
The next morning, heavy rain pounded the windows. Roslyn sat at her desk, the loneliness pressing on her. The events of the night before wouldn’t leave her mind. She thought of Preston, the one person who might understand. They hadn’t spoken in years, but her desperation was stronger than her hesitation. She took a deep breath and began to write.
Dear Preston,
I miss you more than words can say. Something is wrong in this house. At night, I hear voices calling my name. Shadows move where they shouldn’t, and I feel like something is watching me. I’m scared, Preston. I don’t know what to do. Please come. If you find this letter and the lights are out, don’t come inside.
Roslyn read the letter over and over, her hands trembling. Finally, she folded it and sealed it in an envelope. She wasn’t sure if Preston would even read it, but she had to try.
That evening, Roslyn braved the storm. Clutching the letter, she made her way to Preston’s house. The forest loomed around her, dark and forbidding, and rain soaked her coat. When she reached his door, she knocked, but no one answered.
She sighed and slid the envelope under the door, turning back toward the forest. Her heart raced, caught between hope and fear. Preston had always been there for her before. Surely he would come. “She wrote him a long letter, but he didn’t read it”.
The wind had blown it off his porch that morning, leaving it crumpled under a bush. When Preston came home later, he spotted the envelope’s faint white outline. Picking it up, he brushed off the rain. “From Roslyn,” he muttered. But something stopped him from opening it right away. He placed it on his kitchen counter, intending to read it later.
That night, Roslyn sat alone in her dim living room. The wind howled, and the house groaned as if its timbers were restless. Wrapped in a blanket, she stared at the door, waiting for Preston. Then she heard it again. Tap. Tap. Tap.
This time, it was louder, echoing as if it came from inside the walls. Roslyn held her breath as the lights flickered once, then went out, plunging the house into darkness. “Preston?” she called, her voice barely audible over the storm. There was no reply.
A cold whisper brushed her ears. “Roslyn…” She spun around, her eyes straining to see in the dark. The voice came again, closer, curling around her like icy fingers.
“Roslyn…”
Her heart thundered as she backed toward the door, pulling at the handle. It wouldn’t budge. Her fingers slipped as panic set in. The house seemed alive, its walls creaking as if it were breathing.
She stumbled into the living room, her pulse pounding. On the table lay the letter she had written to Preston. The envelope was open.
Her name was scrawled on it in jagged, unfamiliar handwriting. With trembling hands, she unfolded the paper. The words inside weren’t hers.
The house groaned, the floor trembling under her feet. Whispers filled the air, growing louder and louder until they became an unbearable roar. Roslyn dropped the letter and stumbled back, her eyes darting around the room.
A cold hand brushed her shoulder. She screamed, spinning around, but there was nothing there. The whispers turned into deep growls as the walls seemed to close in on her.
Roslyn ran, the darkness swallowing her whole. The house felt endless, its hallways twisting and stretching into a maze of doors and shadows. Barefoot, she ran on the cold floorboards, gasping for air. Finally, she burst back into the living room. The letter lay on the floor, the words changed again.
The walls shook, and the house roared, a deafening sound that filled Roslyn with dread. She clutched her head, tears streaming down her face. “Preston…” she whispered. But Preston wasn’t coming. He hadn’t read the letter. He didn’t know.
A final whisper echoed through the house. Cold and final, it said, “You are ours now.”
The room fell silent. Darkness swallowed Roslyn, and the house became still once more. Outside, the wind howled, and the old house creaked, standing alone at the forest’s edge, waiting for its next visitor.
My Thoughts
My thoughts are similar to the last story. This was sadly written by AI which again defeats the purpose of the challenge. This one was a little better with the names as well as the horror story I wanted originally. BUT, they still just inserted the sentence.
I honestly didn't even finish reading it because it was so bad. Hopefully you did the same.
Final Thoughts
Overall, I am very disappointed in this round of Ghost Writer versus Ghost Writer. We will see if I shall be doing this again if I keep getting stories like these.
If you are looking for a ghost writer, I say do your research before hand and speak with the person directly as well as get some samples of their work.
On a good note, if you are looking to find some great writing prompts to get your creativity flowing check out 45 Writing Prompts for Basic, Intermediate, and Advanced Writers for only $8.99!
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