After the calls, the emails, and the friendly assurances, came the moment of commitment. I was sent a contract—a formal agreement wrapped in the language of professionalism and promises. It felt like the next logical step, the final piece in a process that had, until then, seemed surprisingly seamless. It was official: I was entering into a partnership with Eternal Ghostwriting, entrusting them with my words, my vision, and $4,000 of my hard-earned money.
The contract was confident. Clean. It listed a suite of services that made it sound like I’d just hired a full-scale publishing and marketing powerhouse. It promised not just guidance—but action. Execution. They wouldn’t simply point me in the right direction; they would walk the path for me, step by step.
They told me they would publish my book on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Walmart Books, and multiple other platforms, handling all the technicalities and distribution logistics. They promised to create and manage professional author profiles on social media—Facebook, Instagram, Twitter—all aligned with my book’s brand. I was told they would post regularly, using targeted, curated content to build my audience and presence. They spoke of strategy, of engagement, of growth.
They promised to craft a book trailer—animated or live action—to bring my story to life in a visual format. They would launch press releases, tap into their industry network, and make my book visible to readers, reviewers, and influencers alike. SEO would be handled—both on Amazon and on the personal author website they promised to build, complete with my own domain and hosting. They described a team of experts who would surround me: marketing managers, SEO specialists, graphic designers, publicists.
They painted a picture not just of support, but of transformation. They made me believe I was about to step into the world as a published author with a full marketing machine behind me. That I would have what every author dreams of—visibility, legitimacy, and reach.
But what sealed it wasn’t just the services. It was the guarantees. Written into the contract, in plain words:
ROI within 6 months. Bestseller status on Amazon within 12.
And if not, a refund. Full. Simple. Final.
To a hopeful writer, this was gold. They didn’t just offer help—they offered certainty. And I believed them. I believed I had found not just a service provider, but a committed partner who would take care of everything—the publishing, the platform-building, the growth, the dream.
And maybe that’s what hurts the most. Not the money. Not even the betrayal.
It’s the fact that they made me believe I was finally being seen—not as a client, but as a creator worth investing in.
They knew exactly what to promise.
And I—believing in my story—signed my name at the bottom of the page.
EternalGhostwriting scam 