(Remember, this story is just a fan fiction take on Marvel's character Ghost Rider.
We don't own any rights of the character and it belongs to Marvel..)
The night was thick with an unnatural stillness, broken only
by the faint hum of cicadas and the rustling of dry leaves swept by a restless wind. In the darkness, flickering flames painted shadows on ancient stones, their cryptic markings glowing faintly under the dying light of the crescent moon. This was San Venganza—a place that whispered its secrets to no one, a graveyard of legends and horrors alike.
Once, it had been a simple town, but the ground beneath it bore more than mere soil. It carried a curse, a burden of ancient souls—thousands who had bargained their salvation for power, love, or vengeance. Their spirits lingered, trapped between the realms of the living and the dead, waiting for the day their chains would break. And above them all, a single presence loomed—a demon who had once dared to tread the path of saints.
In the heart of the darkness, a figure cloaked in fire and fury roared through the night. His skull, engulfed in hellfire, shone like a beacon of damnation, while his chain—a serpentine weapon of burning steel—cracked the air with the promise of vengeance. He was the Ghost Rider, the cursed spirit of vengeance, forged by a pact sealed in blood and sin. Yet, even he was but a pawn in a game played by beings far beyond human comprehension.
Long before the Rider ever walked the Earth, a deal had been struck—a contract bound not by ink but by a shlok etched into ancient parchment. It was said the words of this shlok, if spoken aloud, could tear open the gates of San Venganza and release the bound souls. Mephistopheles, the cunning devil himself, had used this cursed text to secure his dominion, trapping the souls of the damned to fuel his infernal power. But as with all things tied to the devil, there was always a catch—a hidden danger lurking in the depths of his schemes.
For Mephistopheles was not alone in his ambitions. There were whispers of another—a force so terrifying, even the devil spoke of it with fear. A being whose hunger for destruction made Mephisto's machinations seem like mere games. It was said that this entity, born of shadows and nightmares, would one day come to claim the souls trapped in San Venganza and set the world ablaze.
As the flames of the Rider's chains lit the barren landscape, the ground beneath him seemed to tremble, as though the very earth remembered the sins of the past. The whispers grew louder, carried on the wind, telling tales of saints and sinners, of pacts forged in despair, and of vengeance that knew no bounds.
The story begins here—in a cursed town, on cursed land, with cursed souls. A tale of vengeance, bound by fire and fury. But as the darkness deepens and the shadows grow longer, one question remains: when even the devil himself trembles, what hope does humanity have?
And so, the wheels of destiny turn, with the faint sound of a rider's roar echoing into the endless night.
"Rise of Vengeance"
Larry's Garage...
The steady hum of the garage filled the air, punctuated only by the occasional sound of tools clinking and the rhythmic thud of metal being hammered. The scent of motor oil, grease, and sweat lingered in the dusty air as Steven Henderson wiped his hands on a rag, his muscles aching from hours of work. He leaned back against the hood of a car, surveying the job he'd just finished. His messy dark hair fell in strands over his forehead, and a crooked smile tugged at his lips, the kind that suggested a joke was always brewing in his mind.
"Alright, Jim. Get that wrenched tightened, or we might have to start calling you 'The Rusty Mechanic'," Steven called out, his voice light, laced with sarcasm.
Jim Ward, his best friend since childhood, was hunched over a pile of tools, his brow furrowed in concentration. He was a big guy with a heart of gold and a laugh that could rattle windows. But when it came to fixing things, he wasn't exactly the sharpest tool in the shed.
"Yeah, well, when you're this good-looking, fixing things just becomes a hobby," Jim shot back with a wink, not looking up from his task. "Besides, this old beast ain't gonna fix itself."
Larry Ashford, Steven's maternal uncle, worked nearby, silent and focused as always. He was tall, lean, with salt-and-pepper hair and a weathered face that told stories of a thousand battles. The lines around his eyes deepened as he bent over the car's engine, tightening a bolt with the precision of someone who had spent decades mastering his craft.
"Focus, Steven," Larry's voice broke through, as steady and serious as ever. "This isn't just some toy. We've got real work here."
Steven rolled his eyes but obeyed, picking up a wrench and getting to work on the motorcycle they were fixing. His mind, however, couldn't stay focused for long. He had always been a bit of a clown, the kind of guy who'd make a joke out of anything, even the most serious moments.
"So, Uncle Larry," Steven began, tossing the wrench in the air and catching it skillfully. "What's the deal with all the serious faces today? You know, Jim's over there looking like a mechanic, and I'm just here wondering if I've got a future in comedy. What do you think? Could I make it on the stage?"
Jim chuckled, giving Steven a thumbs up without looking away from his work. "I think you'd be better off fixing bikes than cracking jokes. But hey, maybe you can do both. Like a stand-up mechanic."
Larry's eyes never left the engine as he tightened a screw. "Stop wasting time, Steven. This job won't do itself."
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Steven muttered, then turned to Jim with a grin. "Honestly, though, if I get this thing running, you think the customers will pay in cash, or should I ask them to pay with laughs?"
Jim laughed, slapping Steven on the back. "I'll take a laugh and a tip, any day."
The garage was a haven for the three men—a place where the outside world's chaos couldn't reach them. It was filled with the smell of gasoline, grease, and the hum of engines, a sanctuary from the problems of the world. The walls were lined with parts, tools, and posters of vintage bikes and cars. Each item in the room had a story, a memory attached to it, from the car parts Steven's father used to work on to the countless repairs Larry had made over the years.
But as Steven turned to grab another tool, something caught his eye. The clink of a bell on the garage door echoed through the room, signaling the arrival of a customer. Steven's eyebrow arched as the door creaked open slowly, and an old man stepped inside, his presence commanding attention even before he spoke.
The man was dressed in a long, weathered coat, a wide-brimmed hat casting a shadow over his face. He was hunched slightly, his hands wrinkled and gnarled with age, but his eyes gleamed with an unnatural sharpness. His shoes scuffed the floor as he approached the counter where the bikes were kept, and for a moment, no one spoke.
Larry looked up first, his gaze sharp, his stance tense. He had seen a lot in his time, but something about this man... it didn't sit right with him.
"Can I help you, sir?" Larry's voice was low, guarded.
The old man smiled, a slow, unsettling grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "I need a favor," he rasped, his voice carrying a weight, as though he had traveled a long distance to speak those words. "I have an old bike that needs fixing."
He pulled a dusty tarp off the back of a truck he had driven up to the garage, revealing a rusty, old Harley Davidson chopper. The motorcycle looked like it had been forgotten in time—its metal frame was battered, its wheels rusted, and the once-glossy paint had long since peeled away. It looked more like a relic than a functioning bike, but there was something hauntingly familiar about it, as though it held a story of its own, a story that had been buried for years.
Jim's eyes widened, and even Steven couldn't help but step forward, his usual humor subdued for a moment. "That thing looks like it's been around since the dinosaurs," Steven said, the edge of amusement in his tone. "You sure this thing's not a relic from the last century?"
The old man didn't laugh, didn't even acknowledge the joke. Instead, his eyes fixed on Steven, the gleam in them turning darker, colder. "I don't care what it looks like," the man said, his voice growing more urgent. "I just need it running again. Can you do it?"
Larry studied the bike carefully, his brow furrowing. "It'll take some time, but we'll get it done. No promises, though. This thing's been through a lot."
The old man nodded, then pulled out a faded envelope from his coat pocket. "Here's the payment," he said, handing it over. The envelope was thick, heavy, as though it contained something more than just money.
Steven took the envelope, his fingers brushing the edge of it. There was an odd chill in the air, as though the envelope itself carried a strange energy. His smile returned, though it felt a little forced. "Well, we'll fix your antique for you, mister. But, uh, you're gonna have to tell us what kind of bike this is. Never seen one quite like it."
The old man's smile deepened, and for the first time, his voice took on an eerie tone. "You'll know soon enough. Just make sure it runs. Make sure it's ready for what's to come."
With that, he turned and walked out of the garage, leaving the three men standing in stunned silence. The bell above the door chimed again as he disappeared into the night.
Steven watched him leave, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up. "That was weird, huh?" he muttered to Jim, trying to shake off the uncomfortable feeling the old man had left behind.
"Yeah," Jim agreed, glancing at the motorcycle. "Weird doesn't even begin to cover it. But hey, it's our job to fix stuff, right?"
Larry, however, didn't share their lightheartedness. His eyes remained fixed on the bike, a deep sense of unease settling over him. "Don't underestimate this, Steven," he said quietly. "Something about this bike... and that man... it's not right. Keep your guard up."
But Steven, ever the optimist, just shrugged. "Come on, Uncle Larry. If it starts leaking hellfire, then maybe we'll worry. Until then, it's just another project." He turned to Jim, flashing a grin. "Besides, I'm pretty sure I can make this old girl purr like a kitten. Just need a little magic... and a lot of elbow grease."
As the three men gathered around the bike, the garage seemed quieter than before. The flickering overhead lights buzzed, and the sound of distant thunder rumbled in the background, as if the world itself was holding its breath. Something had shifted, and though they didn't know it yet, they were about to become part of something much larger, something dark and unforgiving.