At first, I tried to give them the benefit of the doubt.
I told myself, names don’t tell the full story. People are adopted. People immigrate. A person named “Rose Daniels” could very well have South Asian roots. A “Josh Miller” might have grown up in Mumbai. The world is complex, and identity is fluid. I didn’t want to assume anything.
But what became impossible to ignore was the pattern.
Every person I spoke to—every single one—had nearly the same regional accent. It was strong, distinct, and consistent. And yet, every name they gave me was quintessentially Western: Rose Daniels. Josh Miller. Kyle Reigns. Oscar Thomas. Grace Bentley. Hazel Jackson. Simon Walker. Rick Jordan. Marilyn Parker. etc, etc etc.. Names that sounded like they were pulled straight from a corporate email template or a script for a Netflix American drama(Even then the names would show a little diversity).
One person with that dynamic? Sure.
Two? Coincidence.
But five, six, seven different “team members,” all with virtually the same voice, the same accent, using distinctly “American” names, none of whom could be traced, none of whom had a verifiable digital footprint?
That’s when it stopped feeling like coincidental .
And started feeling like a performance.
Let me be absolutely clear:
This is not about mocking accents.
It’s not about someone’s background, race, or the language they speak.
It’s not about gatekeeping identity.
I come from a multicultural background myself. I know what it’s like to be judged for how you sound or where you’re from. Accents are not flaws—they are stories. A person’s voice carries where they were raised, what language surrounded their childhood, the rhythm of their environment. A white American who grows up in India might very well have an Indian accent. That’s real. That’s honest. That’s beautiful.
What I experienced with Eternal Ghostwriting wasn’t honesty.
It was fabrication.
This was a company that pretended to be U.S.-based, boasted connections to Forbes, claimed a staff of “top American publishing professionals”, and presented a front so polished it felt corporate. But behind that sleek surface was a parade of borrowed names and invisible identities, designed to build false trust.
I searched for “Rose Daniels,” “Josh Miller, Grace Bentley” and the others on LinkedIn, in publishing directories, and business databases.
Nothing.
No bios. No company listings. No credentials. Not even a headshot.
They didn’t exist.
What I had assumed were experienced, credentialed professionals were almost certainly fabricated personas—aliases adopted to appear Western, legitimate, and authoritative to unsuspecting clients like me.
I began to question if anyone I had interacted with was real. Or if the “team” was a revolving cast of voices using different names, following the same script, hiding behind a rotating set of fake titles.
I dug deeper into Eternal Ghostwriting itself.
- No transparent ownership
- No verifiable business registration
- No office listed anywhere
- A domain registered in another country
- Rerouted, virtual phone numbers
- And a long trail of complaints under different business names, all following the same pattern
The red flags were undeniable:
- Overpromising and underdelivering
- Refusing to honor refund clauses
- Ignoring client emails after payment
- Hiding behind untraceable names
- And when finally pressed—vanishing
Still, I didn’t see them—not then.
Because it’s not just love that’s blind.
Hope is too.
Hope will make you overlook cracks and call them quirks.
Hope will tell you to “wait a little longer,” “give it one more chance,” “maybe next month.”
It will dress red flags in soft light and call them potential.
And so, I waited. I hoped. I justified things I should have questioned. I believed people I should have researched.
It’s only now—now that I’ve stopped answering their emails, now that I’ve stepped away, now that I’ve said “enough”—that I finally see it all clearly.
And honestly, it feels a lot like walking away from a toxic relationship.
You know the feeling—when you dump an ex and suddenly every red flag, every manipulation, every empty promise becomes obvious?
It’s like your eyes adjust to the light the moment you leave the room.
That’s exactly how this feels.
While I was still hoping, still inside the illusion, I didn’t notice how many things didn’t add up.
But now that I’ve decided I won’t be gaslit, misled, or guilt-tripped anymore, I can’t unsee what’s been in front of me all along.
They weren’t just late. They were evasive.
They weren’t just disorganized. They were dishonest.
They didn’t just fail to deliver.
They were never planning to.
And while I may have been blind before, I’m wide awake now…
Their emails became colder, emptier. They stopped addressing my refund requests directly. Instead, they deflected with vague, generic lines:
“Have you considered relaunching the book?”
“Marketing results take time, sometimes more than expected.”
“Let’s try another campaign—we really believe in your story.”
But I wasn’t looking for another campaign.
I wasn’t looking for more broken promises.
I was looking for a refund.
And all I got were scripts.
No names.
No leadership.
No escalation.
No resolution.
Just ghostwritten lines from ghost names in a ghost company.
They expected me to forget the contract.
They expected me to be passive.
They expected me to move on in silence.
But they were wrong.
Because I kept the contract.
I kept the call logs.
I kept the emails.
And now I’m keeping my voice—to tell the truth they hoped would vanish.
This isn’t about accents.
This is about integrity.
And in this case, it was nowhere to be found.
EternalGhostwriting scam 