Ghostwriter

''Gregory Hale — famed writer, gone too soon.'' His novel The Shadows of Windermere became an instant classic, earning him both fame and fortune. But just as quickly as he rose to prominence, Hale vanished from the public eye. His reclusive lifestyle in a decaying mansion perched on the edge of a fog-choked lake only added to his mystique. Several months after he retreated into solitude, his body was discovered under disturbing circumstances. Authorities found the remains disfigured and unrecognizable, having fallen from a top-floor window of his mansion. The months of decay, the impact of the fall, and the crows had left the body ravaged. No one knew how or why he had fallen from the second-floor window. Twenty years later, strange rumours are still circulating about his untimely end and the book that made him famous. Hale was your uncle, though his disappearance happened just before you were born. You were told the story, and became more and more fascinated by Hale's talent and his tragic death. Thanks to your uncle's work, you have been enjoying a wealthy lifestyle, and you feel you owe it to him to solve the mystery of his death. [[Start->Arrival at the Mansion]]

You arrive at the mansion on a gloomy afternoon. The air is thick with mist, curling around the skeletal trees and the weathered stones of the estate. The house looms before you like a forgotten tomb, its windows dark, the ivy clutching at its walls. The air carries a faint, almost delicate scent of lavender, lingering just beneath the damp smell of moss — there's no lavender in sight, yet the fragrance lingers. You take a deep breath and push the door open, step inside, and close it behind you. The house is silent, as if resting. The spacious hallway is dim, the air damp. The walls are empty, and the few pieces of furniture left over are covered in white drapes. You take a few steps. The old wooden floorboards creak underfoot, their groans echoing through the empty corridors of the house. Ahead, a narrow staircase winds its way to the first floor. To the right, the kitchen. You pause, considering where to begin your search. [[Head for the staircase->The Stairs]] [[Explore the ground floor->The Kitchen]]

You enter the library. In front of you, a big desk faces a window. To the left, another window. You realise it's now dark outside. Luckily, you spot an oil lamp on the desk, and a matchbox next to it. You light the lamp, illuminating the right wall and revealing a long, tall shelf lined with books. A small wooden stepladder stands in the corner. The desk itself is cluttered with papers—pages of unfinished drafts, smudged with ink. This is probably where Hale sat down to write //The Shadows of Windermere//. You touch the wooden chair where he sat. How did it feel to write a book that was instantly recognised as a masterpiece? How tragic was his death at the peak of his success... You hope someday to write something that will have an impact too. This place is sacred. You can't help but feel tangled in mixed emotions: respect and awe towards Hale and his work, a discomfort at disturbing his space, but also... an increasing excitement to maybe uncover the truth. The oil lamp is casting long, eerie shadows on the faded wallpaper. As you stand in front of the desk, the flame flickers, then becomes still again. You hear a muffled sound. Footsteps. It seems to be coming from the other side of the wall, on the right, behind the shelves. You freeze, pause, and listen. The noise has stopped. Was it your imagination? [[Have a look in the other room ->The Master Bedroom]] [[Search the desk->The Desk]]

You approach the massive oak desk, its surface covered in dust. Papers are scattered across the desktop — documents, unfinished notes. Most of it seems irrelevant. Half-buried under the clutter, you find a letter. The paper seems fragile, the edges yellowed. The ink has faded in places, and the remaining handwriting seems erratic and full of rage. You settle in and start reading. [[Read September Letter]]

You are unable to move, petrified by this vision. The ghost looms closer, its figure slowly taking shape in the dim light. The air around you feels heavy, as if pressing down on your chest, making it harder to breathe. Long, tattered robes drag behind it, whispering faintly as they sweep across the floor. Its face is a pale, twisted mask of sorrow and rage, the features barely visible yet unmistakably filled with anguish. You can feel its gaze locking onto you, even though its eyes seem more like dark hollows. The scent of lavender floods your senses, overpowering, suffocating. A deep chill settles into your bones as the ghost stops a few steps away, unmoving. A low, rasping sound fills the room, as if coming from everywhere at once. You can sense its anger. The cold creeps up your spine. The walls seem to close in as the presence of the ghost grows more intense. Your pulse pounds in your ears. 'It's waiting for you to act, but what does it want?' [[Tell the Ghost you are Family]] [[Close your eyes]]

The bookshelves stretch from floor to ceiling, towering over you and packed with old tomes, their spines cracked and faded with age. Most of the books seem untouched for years, their subjects ranging from famous literary works to dense volumes on philosophy. The titles are barely legible on some, worn away by the passage of years, but one item stands out among the sea of forgotten texts. It's a manuscript—the one that launched Gregory Hale to fame: //The Shadows of Windermere//. At the sight of it, your heart skips a beat. As you are about to turn the first page, something on the shelf catches your eye. High up, a small photograph, its golden frame catching the dim light of the oil lamp. The picture shows two men side by side, posing together in a familiar manner. The dust is thick, but you recognise one of the men as Hale. You can't make out the other man's face, but wonder if he could have sent the angry letter. As you gaze at the photograph a bit longer, you feel an almost magnetic pull to it. The small photograph is just out of reach. You realise you might be able to reach it by climbing on the stepladder. [[Redirect your attention to the Shadows of Windermere->The Shadows of Windermere]] [[Go for the photograph->Pull on the Photograph]]

After a quick look, you can tell the bed has nothing to offer out of the ordinary, and you instinctively turn to the nightstand and the lonely cup. Its contents have long since dried, but the faint, lingering scent of lavender still clings to it. It feels as though someone had prepared to spend the night before tragedy struck. A chill runs down your spine. The air grows colder, and suddenly, you feel a presence behind you. Turning around, there is nothing, no one. But the silence is heavier than before. Turning your attention back to the cup, you extend your arm to take it in your hand. That's when you see it: a faint figure standing in the corner of the room—its face pale and indistinct, its form shimmering in and out of focus. [[Next->The Ghost]]

Your throat feels tight, and the room is suffocatingly cold, but you gather your courage. The ghost lingers, its pale, twisted face watching you in silence, waiting. You swallow hard and speak, your voice trembling. “I know the truth,” you say, hoping to calm the spirit. “I know about James Thorpe. He was your ghostwriter. He wrote The Shadows of Windermere but became bitter when you got all the recognition. He couldn’t handle it. He—he killed you out of jealousy, didn’t he? That’s why you’re trapped here, because you never got justice. Thorpe was envious of your success, and he took it too far.” You wait, expecting relief, but the weight of its gaze only grows heavier. You continue: "Hale, you're my uncle, I'm here to help—" [[The Wrath]]

You are in shock. The image you had of your uncle—his story, his end—everything was a lie. The reality about him shatters your world. Yet you can't unmake it. You agree to help Thorpe. With his help, you gather the evidence—letters, drafts, and Thorpe’s fragmented memories—it all begins to make sense. Hale had invited Thorpe to his mansion under the pretence of discussing how to share the credit for //The Shadows of Windermere//. But that night, Hale’s intentions were far darker. Thorpe, eager for the recognition he deserved, had stayed in the guestroom, unaware of the betrayal that awaited him: a cup of lavender tea, the delicate floral scent masking the deadly poison laced within. As Thorpe sipped the tea, his body slowly succumbed. Once Thorpe was dead, Hale carried out the next stage of his twisted scheme. He threw Thorpe’s lifeless body out of the guestroom window, leaving it to be battered and broken beyond recognition. When authorities eventually found the body, Hale had already fled. In his vanity, he preferred to abandon comfort, wealth, and family rather than risk ruining his reputation—while his mysterious alleged death would keep his name alive for decades. [[Leave the mansion->Justice for the Ghost]]

You expose your uncle’s crime to the world by piecing together the truth in a chilling narrative of ambition, betrayal, and murder. The letters, the evidence, and the haunting presence of Thorpe himself give life to the tale that no one had ever known. The literary community is shattered. Hale’s reputation, once revered, crumbles under the weight of his deceit, and his name is forever disgraced. After publishing the book, you return to the mansion only once. In your final, quiet moments in the house, the ghost of James Thorpe appears one last time, his face no longer twisted in rage or sorrow. He looks at you with a nod of silent gratitude, and then, like the mist that had always surrounded the mansion, he vanishes into the night, finally at peace. The book you’ve written becomes an instant success. No fame for you, however; you publish the book under Thorpe's name. THE END [[Credits->The End & Credits]]

The garden is lit by moonlight, and the trees are moving with the wind, their shadows dancing against the wall of the house. Suddenly, without warning, the wood beneath your hands gives way with a sharp crack. The window swings open violently, and before you can react, you are thrown forward, tumbling out of the window. Your scream is swallowed by the howling wind as the ground rushes up to meet you. The world spins in a blur. You hit the ground with a sickening thud, your body breaking under the impact. Pain shoots through every limb, and your vision blurs. As the darkness closes in, you catch a glimpse just to your left—a large, overgrown lavender shrub swaying gently in the breeze. If you'd fallen just a bit to the side, you realise, you might have landed on it and survived. A bitter thought flickers in your mind: ''Hale had been murdered—you are now convinced—and no one will ever know.''

Haunted by the relentless ticking of the clock, you rush into the room and abruptly close the door behind you. You step into what you can only assume is the guest bedroom. The bed is made, the linens undisturbed. A single cup sits on the small nightstand, where you decide to leave the oil lamp to observe the rest of the room. On the left, a large window, its dusty panes barely letting in the dim light from the moon outside. You realise with a sinking feeling that the window is right above where the body was found. There’s a strange, unsettling tidiness to it all, as though the room had been prepared in anticipation of someone. You realise the sound of the clock has stopped, leaving the place in a deep silence. [[Walk towards the bed->The Bed and Nightstand]] [[Inspect the window->The Window]]

Moving along the hallway, you start climbing the stairs. The banister is smooth and polished, though the wood beneath your hand feels cold, almost damp to the touch. Each step you take reverberates through the stillness, as if the house itself is listening. Reaching the landing, you pause for a moment, your breath catching in your throat. Before you, one large, imposing door. Further down on the landing, to the right of the first door, a smaller one. At the end of the landing, across from the small door, the stairs continue up. As you ponder whether to keep going up or not, the large door in front of you creaks softly—as if inviting you in. With one last glance down the corridor, you approach the door, the smell of old paper and faded ink wafting from the darkened room beyond. [[Enter the library->The Library]]

You step into the kitchen, a cold and dusty room. The cast-iron stove sits in one corner, its once polished surface now coated with rust and grime. The smell of stale air and long-expired food fills your nostrils, though there’s something else beneath it — the faint scent of lavender, lingering still. The heavy oak table in the centre of the room is scarred with deep cuts, likely from decades of use. On the counter, an old teapot. It's cold in here — you wish you could make some tea, though you wouldn't dare drink the water from those abandoned pipes. [[Approach the Counter]] [[Search the Kitchen]]

Even though you can't make tea, you still move towards the teapot. Your hands shaking a little, you grab its handle and open the lid. The teapot is empty, but you can still smell a lavender scent emanating from it. As you breathe in, you close your eyes, trying to imagine Hale's life here, his time writing his novel, and his last moments. As you open your eyes again, the room spins slightly before you. You find the nearest chair and sit there for a while, breathing slowly. You hadn't expected today to feel so intense, but the house's atmosphere is heavy. A few breaths later, feeling better, you decide to start your exploration. [[Search the Kitchen]]

Back on your feet, you head toward the pantry, a small door off to the side. Inside, the shelves are mostly bare, but you find a few jars of pickled vegetables and ancient tins of food, long past their prime. There’s nothing particularly useful, and the cobwebs and layers of dust make it clear that no one has used this place in years. Satisfied there’s nothing more to find here, you turn back and exit the kitchen. [[To the staircase->The Stairs]]

You climb on the stepladder, the manuscript under your arm. Carefully balancing, you stretch your arm toward the top shelf. Your fingers finally graze the frame, and with a triumphant smile, you bring it closer. Unfortunately, as soon as you reach the photograph, the stepladder wobbles violently beneath you. As you let go of the manuscript in an effort to stabilise yourself, the pages fly in all directions and obstruct your vision. You lose your balance entirely, toppling backward with the picture still clutched in your hand. Your head strikes the edge of the massive oak desk with a sickening crack, and your vision fades instantly to black. The last thing you hear is the sound of the frame hitting the floor and bursting into pieces beside you. Far away, you hear the sinister sound of a clock ticking. You die slowly, felled by too much curiosity and a wobbly stool—the identity of the second man in the photograph remaining a secret out of reach. And the truth about Hale's death never to be found. Perhaps next time, you'll think twice before reaching for something you can’t quite grasp.

You disregard the photograph and go back to the precious manuscript. As you turn the first page, the energy of the room shifts, becoming heavier. Too excited, you fail to notice. You flip through the pages and find strange markings in the margins—notes taken by someone discovering the manuscript. Who would have had access to the manuscript and added these remarks and questions? You are not sure what to think. As you reach the end, something falls from the back cover. Looking down, you see a crumpled envelope. You unfold the second letter. [[Read August Letter]]

//Windermere House September 10th, 1927 Hale— Do you think I’m some kind of fool? That I’ll just sit by and let you walk away with everything? I thought we were partners, and more importantly, friends. Your silence tells me all I need to know. You’ve been hiding, avoiding me, but you can’t avoid what’s coming. I won’t be ignored any longer. You’ve stolen everything from me. Don’t think I won’t…// You can't finish reading. The ink has faded, leaving the end of the letter and the name of the sender unknown. Someone was very angry at Hale. What did he do to generate such hatred? You go through the rest of the desk. Nothing else is of interest, and you move towards the bookshelves. [[Examine the Bookshelves->The Bookshelves]]

//Windermere House August 3rd, 1927 Hale— I’ve stayed quiet long enough, but I won’t anymore. You promised me recognition. You swore my name would be there, on the title page, right beside yours. But I see now what you’ve done. You’ve taken everything we worked on—everything I wrote—and claimed it for yourself. It’s my work, Hale, not yours. Do you even feel a shred of guilt when people call you a genius? I’m sick of living in your shadow, of pretending like this arrangement is fair. I wrote The Shadows of Windermere, every last word of it. You know it, I know it, and soon the world will too. You owe me what’s mine. I expect a response, and soon. —James Thorpe// [[Next]]

A cold shiver runs down your spine as you finish reading. This was no collaboration—this was theft. Your uncle had used a certain Thorpe’s work and passed it off as his own. Could the original //Shadows of Windermere// manuscript really have been written by this man, and only the markings in the manuscript actually be from Hale? The handwriting is a match, you can't deny it. It’s clear that this man wasn’t just demanding recognition—he was threatening Hale. Did Thorpe mean to harm Hale? You decide to keep exploring. You leave the room with the oil lamp in your hand, and head for the stairs to the second floor. As you slowly climb, you start hearing the deep sound of a clock ticking, echoing through the whole house, growing louder and louder. A heavy chill fills the space, and the atmosphere presses down on you like a weight. You reach the top of the stairs. The gongs of the clock are now terribly loud and ominous. Two doors stand tall in front of you, and the relentless sound seems to come from the room on the left. [[Enter the room on the left->The Clock room]] [[Enter the room on the right->The Guest Bedroom]]

You stand still, in shock, your mind racing. You can't believe it. You came here to honour your uncle's memory—forever grateful for the wealthy lifestyle his successful book provided you, following his tragic death. Unfolding the truth had been your goal. But when the world knows what truly happened, Hale's name will be disgraced, and you will lose everything. You can't take that risk. You came here to solve the mystery of his death. But you never said you would share the truth with anyone. Thorpe is dead; there is nothing you can do about it. Better to keep the truth buried here. With one last look at the ghost of James Thorpe, you head back to the door. [[Next->Choke]]

As you turn the doorknob, a wave of freezing cold washes over you, choking you with its sweet, suffocating fragrance. Panic grips you as the ghost’s unnatural hands reach for you, and its voice scratches at your thoughts, desperately demanding something. You are not staying one more minute here. Opening the door with speed, you bolt for the stairs, your heart pounding in your chest. Disoriented, your left foot misses the first step, and you lose your balance. Your body rolls down the stairs like a rag doll, your head striking the ground. The smell of lavender thickens, clinging to your skin, as you see the ghost standing on top of the stairs, looking at you. You collapse in your blood, and as darkness closes in, you realise that indeed, the truth will never see the light.

You close your eyes and take a deep, steadying breath, trying to calm your racing heart. The cold air stings your lungs, and that ever-present scent of lavender lingers, but it brings a strange clarity. When you open your eyes again, you look more closely at the ghost, its form shifting and flickering in the dim light. Something catches your attention—a small but unmistakable detail. There, on his hands, you see the faint outline of ink stains, splattered across his fingers. Your mind races as the pieces click into place. Those are not the hands of a man who wielded a pen for fame, but a man who worked tirelessly in the shadows—writing, drafting, rewriting. The ink-stained hands… the ghost before you isn’t Hale. Suddenly, the truth hits you with a chilling finality: the body they found, the one disfigured beyond recognition, wasn’t Hale at all. It was James Thorpe, the ghostwriter—the true author of //The Shadows of Windermere//. The victim, killed to keep your uncle’s secret buried. And now, his angry ghost stands before you, demanding justice. [[Expose the Truth]] [[Bury the Story]]

You silently leave the library with the oil lamp, your ears on the lookout. You find yourself in the hall and go towards the next door. You take a deep breath, and slowly turn the doorknob. There is no one here. The sounds are no longer heard. All you see is a bed with a small nightstand on the left, a washstand with a mirror in the corner, and old heavy velvet curtains around the single window on the right wall: Hale's bedroom. But nothing else—only complete silence. Your imagination must have been playing tricks on you. You go back to the library and have a look at the desk. [[Search the desk->The Desk]]

As you open the door and enter the room, the ''gong'' strikes grow deeper and louder, reverberating off the four walls. There is nothing here but a longcase clock. You approach the clock, your ears screaming with pain. The minute and hour hands are still, the pendulum not moving a bit. Terrified, you decide to leave and run across the hallway to the other room. [[To the guest bedroom->The Guest Bedroom]]

The ghost lets out a low, guttural growl, its form beginning to distort, becoming more chaotic and frenzied. The air crackles with fury, and the room darkens, as if the very shadows are feeding off its anger. The ghost’s face twists further, its eyes narrowing in rage. You take a step back. "No!" the ghost hisses, its voice dripping with venom. Petrified, you can't make any movement. The ghost is now convulsing and its horrible face is moving slowly towards yours. As it does, its contour becomes clearer, and realisation slams into you like a cold wave of dread: this is not Hale. The ghost is now inches from your face and rasps in a low voice, "You fool!" As the ghost descends on you, its cold fingers tightening around your throat, the smell of lavender becomes unbearable—thick, choking, wrapping around you like a shroud. Your vision dims, and the last thing you feel is that sweet, twisted scent drowning you. You failed in your quest for the truth.

THE END — Credits: Idea: humans (Unsatisfying) Draft: bot Story skeleton: humans Story: humans Review rounds: humans Final spell-checking: bot Tool: Twine Tech: humans Love: humans

''The Shadows of Windermere'' A <a target="_blank" href="https://edwardpackard.com/cyoa/">choose-your-own-adventure</a> story. By <a target="_blank" href="https://noeliemartin.com">Noélie Martin</a> and <a target="_blank" href="https://nmattia.com">Nicolas Mattia</a>. [[Prologue->Prologue: The Mystery of Gregory Hale]]

The window is slightly ajar, and you notice scratch marks along the sill. You hear the wind outside. A cold breeze wafts through the crack, carrying with it stronger hints of the oddly soothing scent of lavender. You lean in, placing your hands on the windowsill for a closer look. The wind outside seems to grow stronger, whistling through the crack. You press your face closer to the glass, squinting to see through the mist that covers the windowpane. [[Step back and walk towards the bed->The Bed and Nightstand]] [[Look at the crash site->The Fall]]