EternalGhostwriting scam

After a year and a half of going back and forth with Eternal Ghostwriting, I was emotionally drained—but I hadn’t forgotten what I was owed. I had done everything they asked. I waited patiently. I gave them time. I followed up respectfully. I didn’t demand instant results. I simply trusted the process, because I believed in the contract.

When the one-year mark passed—and neither of the contractual promises had been fulfilled—I reached out, calmly and directly, to request the refund they had guaranteed.

That conversation happened with Rose Daniels, the voice I’d grown used to over months of polite check-ins and scattered updates. She had always been warm, even conversational, at times opening up to me about her personal life and emotions—sharing things that felt oddly intimate for a business relationship. But I appreciated the human connection, even if it didn’t seem to move the marketing forward.

This time, though, the tone shifted.

I reminded her of the terms clearly outlined in the signed agreement:

• Return on Investment (ROI) within 6 months
• Bestseller status on Amazon within 12 months
• And this critical clause:“If we are unable to fulfill our given guarantees, you will be refunded for the amount paid.”

What she said in response stunned me.

She told me—very matter-of-factly—that the contract I had was “not supposed to be sent” to me. That the version I signed was not the correct one, and that the representative who issued it had since been fired.

I was confused, yes—but I stayed composed. I reminded her that this wasn’t about the employee who had been fired or whether an outdated contract had been “accidentally” sent. The agreement was made with Eternal Ghostwriting, as a company. It bore their name, their logo, and their representative’s signature. As a client, I wasn’t responsible for their internal miscommunication or staffing issues. I had signed in good faith, based on the documentation they themselves had provided.

I told her, gently but firmly, that I wasn’t angry. I wasn’t looking for someone to blame.

“I’m not here to point fingers,” I said. “I just want the company to honor what was promised.”

But instead of resolution, things only got stranger from there.

She suddenly claimed they didn’t even have that version of the contract on file.

“Could you send it to me?” she asked.

That’s when a heavy wave of realization hit me. This was their contract. Written by them. Signed by them. Issued by them. Why would they need me to send it back? Why wouldn’t they already have access to something so fundamental to our business relationship?

If this were a legitimate, well-structured company, this wouldn’t happen. Internal contracts don’t “disappear.” You don’t ask a client to produce a legal document you wrote and signed.

Still, I forwarded it.

A few days later, I followed up. She now acknowledged receiving the contract—but the story had shifted again.

She responded with the same well-worn line I had heard before:

“We understand that you’ve signed a contract, but marketing takes time. It’s a long, ongoing process. Let me escalate the campaign so you can start seeing your ROI.”

But that wasn’t the point.I told her, calmly but clearly, that I understood how marketing works. I’m not naive. I know that visibility, brand-building, and book sales don’t always happen overnight. I’ve never expected instant success or miracles. But that’s not what they promised me.What drew me in—what convinced me to sign the deal—wasn’t just the marketing package. It was the contractual guarantee that said “ROI within 6 months or a full refund.”That clause was what gave me confidence. That’s what tipped the scale.I explained to her that, in fact, I had hesitated to sign at first. I was cautious, hesitant—just like any independent author investing thousands of dollars would be. But that specific clause, that guarantee, was what reassured me. Because to promise a refund meant they were confident in their process. It meant they believed their system worked. It meant they were willing to be held accountable.I said to her:

“You don’t offer that kind of promise unless you know what you’re doing. So I trusted that. I trusted you. I signed. Eternal Ghostwriting signed. And now I’m simply asking the company to stand by what we both agreed to—nothing more.”

But she didn’t address that part. She kept circling back to delays, setbacks, marketing timelines. As if the contract no longer mattered. As if the responsibility could just dissolve into vague excuses about “strategy” and “long-term results.”But I hadn’t invested in vague hope.I had invested in a promise—a signed, dated, legally binding promise.And now, they were pretending it never meant anything.

And then came the final blow—softly delivered, but sharp in meaning.

After everything—after acknowledging the contract, after admitting the clause was there, after pretending they didn’t have it, after claiming the wrong version was sent, after blaming a former employee, after claiming it’s a long time process—she told me:

“You are not eligible for a refund because it’s not in our company policy.”

Just like that.

I remember going silent for a moment.
Not out of shock—but out of clarity.

This wasn’t about delays anymore. This wasn’t about the complexity of marketing or the difficulty of selling books. This was about refusing to honour a legal agreement. This was about gaslighting the client. Pretending that what was written and signed somehow didn’t apply anymore.

“You’re not eligible.”
How could I not be eligible for a refund that was explicitly outlined in the agreement?
How could I not qualify for a guarantee that was marketed to me as the safety net of the entire package?

At that moment, it became clear that this was never about delivering results. It was about luring people in with comforting language and false assurances, only to leave them stranded once the money changed hands. It was about moving the goalposts again and again, until the client either gave up—or was convinced that it was their own misunderstanding all along.

But I didn’t misunderstand.
I have the contract.
I have the receipts.
And I have the truth.

And I know exactly what was promised.
And WE know exactly what wasn’t delivered.

In that moment, the illusion fell apart completely
The promises. The warmth. The branding. The professionalism.
It was all a performance.

And so, I began to investigate…