At one point, I tried to go the “Serious” route.
I threatened legal action.
After multiple back and forth, I made it clear to Eternal Ghostwriting: I am no longer interested in your services. I want my money back. Period.
They ignored it.
Again and again.
Instead, they kept sending vague, automated emails saying,
“We’re escalating your marketing campaign so you can get your ROI.”
But I never asked for that.
I didn’t want another social media post. I didn’t want more fake ads. I didn’t want any “effort” toward results they clearly couldn’t deliver.
“I don’t want ROI,” I told them.
“I want my refund. That’s it.”
They replied, dry and dismissive:
“A refund is not in discussion.”
They even claimed that they had continued marketing efforts well past the 12-month mark, as if that somehow proved their dedication.
But I never asked them to keep working.
In fact, I told them to stop.
I reminded them: the contract was for 12 months, not 18. They had no legal right to continue using my intellectual property—my book, my brand, my name—after that period ended. They never asked for an extension. I never gave authorization.
What they were doing now wasn’t customer service.
It was unauthorized use of my content.
It was malpractice and breach of contract.
A legitimate company would never do this.
A legitimate company would have respected the agreement—both its start and its end.
Instead, they ignored my request.
They ignored my words.
They ignored me.
By phone and by email, I told them clearly:
“I do not give Eternal Ghostwriting permission to promote, distribute, or work on my book in any way moving forward. Cease all activity immediately.”
And yet, just days later, I received another cheerful email:
“We’re actively working on promoting your book this week.”
As if I hadn’t said a word.
So I told them I had contacted a lawyer.
Their response?
Nothing.
They didn’t acknowledge it. They didn’t flinch. They didn’t care.
Because they know what they are: a ghost company.
A digital mirage with no name, no face, and no legal trace.
How do you sue someone you can’t find?
Where do you file when there’s no verifiable address?
What lawyer do you hire when the company is everywhere and nowhere—floating behind domain names and rerouted numbers?
To make matters worse, I live in Canada.
They claim to operate from the U.S., but all signs point to something even more distant—offshore, disconnected, and entirely unaccountable.
No headquarters. No legal registration. No consumer protection.
Just a shell.
I was stuck. And I was drowning.
I’m a full-time student.
I borrowed that $4,000. I had to pay it back.
And there I was, lying in bed night after night, crying silently into my pillow, wondering how I was going to pay my tuition.
Wondering how I was going to survive Easter break when I could barely afford my textbooks.
Telling myself I was stupid.
Telling myself this was my fault.
That I was naïve.
That maybe I wasn’t even a good writer, since my book had barely sold.
I spiraled into shame.
Into guilt.
Into the dark, familiar feeling of being taken advantage of—and being powerless to change it.
But then, anger took over.
And something inside me shifted.
I realized:
No law is going to help me.
Not here.
Not with this kind of company.
So I’ll make them regret this another way.
Maybe you think it’s foolish to get this worked up over $4,000.
But to me, $4,000 isn’t just money.
It’s months of groceries. It’s tuition. It’s security.
It’s everything when you don’t have anything.
And if they thought I’d just cry and move on, they picked the wrong girl.
If they thought I’d vanish like all the others they’ve silenced, they were wrong.
I will not be just another victim in their inbox.
I will not be another name on their scam list.
I will not vanish.
I will write.
I will post.
I will expose.
And if all this blog does is make one person stop before signing that contract—if it saves one more dreamer from being exploited—then that’s already more justice than I ever got from them.
I’ve decided:
If no one can protect me, I will protect myself.
If no court can shut them down, then I will make sure their reputation does.
They ruined me.
And now I will tear down the digital house of mirrors they built to ruin others.
They may rebrand. They may change names. They may build a new website.
But all of that costs money. Time. Reputation.
And it will cost them far more than $4,000.
That’s not revenge.
That’s justice.
For me.
For the others.
And for the next person who might otherwise fall for their lies.
EternalGhostwriting scam 