Okay, this is my first "Fall Of" story, so go easy on me! This is going to be separated into several "books". It will be epic.

GHOST RIDER: FALL OF THE RIDER

BOOK ONE: THIS PRESENT DARKNESS

Johnny Blaze was a major daredevil all his life. Especially in his teenage years. He lived for the rush and adrenalin that his death-defying stunts brought him. He loved the feel of the wind on his cheeks, the feeling of soaring through the air, the roar of the crowd as he made the jump. It all ended with the accident. He was put in the hospital for three months. He was taken to the ICU ward for extensive burns and major injuries. Johnny Blaze was never going to ride again, was what they said. The thought crushed his soul. His motorcycle was left in the garage. It gradually collected dust. This the story of the fall of the Rider.

September 22, three months before

Johnny Blaze walked into his garage, where his chopper was waiting. He was a major grease monkey. Working on his motorcycle made him very happy. His motorbike had needed to be fixed since the last contest. A bad engine had cost him the trophy, and over six hundred thousand dollars. Luckily, he was not injured. He had picked himself up, dusted off his uniform, and shook hands with the MC. His fans had sent up a roar. Johnny grabbed his toolbox and got to work.

He grabbed a wrench and started to tighten a Knut on the inlet valve. Six turns to the right, and it was good and tight. He made sure it wasn't loose by trying to take it off. It didn't budge. Satisfied, Johnny turned his attention to the transmission. He checked it, and groaned. The 2nd and 5th gears would need to be replaced. He took a socket wrench and attached it to the gear selector shaft. The bearing bolt was soon in his hand, which placed it on the cement floor of the garage. Some improvising and wriggling soon found the 2nd gear clanging to the floor, followed by the 5th gear.

Johnny got up and went to his pegboard, which was covered with parts and tools. He scanned the board passively, and found the parts he required. He dragged a stepstool to the board and mounted it. He grabbed the gears and stepped down. He pushed the gear onto the shaft and followed with the smaller gear. He then screwed the bolt back on and replaced the transmission shaft. He examined his work with scrutiny. Satisfied, he moved on. He sought out the distributor cap. He found it.

"There you are, you little demon," he muttered. The cap had become loose, and was hanging off the distributor. He reached for it, his right arm resting on the seat. He popped the cap back on, patting it down hard. Once it was good and tight, he pulled his arm back out. It was coated in grease and oil. Johnny picked up a rag and wiped his hand off. Time to test it out. He swiped up his keys and stuck it in the ignition, turning it. The engine sputtered. He turned the key again. The engine sputtered. He turned it again, and the engine roared to life. Johnny whooped in joy, listening to the bike roar like a loin, before quieting a purr. Well, not quite a purr. It was still loud, full of strength. Johnny patted the seat.

"Let's go for a ride, baby," he said. He swung a leg over the chopper and backed out carefully. He switched gears and kicked the pedal into 1st. He revved the engine, and shot down the street like a bullet. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of speeding through the wind again. His hair ruffled in the wind, his leather jacket flapping behind him. He opened his eyes and saw a person. They locked eyes, and Johnny felt a strange feeling come over him.

Time seemed to slow down. All sound was drowned out. Then the man's face seemed to change. It was just a flash, barely a nanosecond, but Johnny could have sworn he saw the stranger's face become a skull. Then time sped up again. The bike swerved. Johnny fought it. It smashed into the sidewalk, tipped, flew, crashed into the fence, and spun around in the dirt, riding up the steps and into the door. Glass shards flew into the air as Johnny soared. He touched down onto the asphalt with a bone shattering impact, and blacked out.

There was fog all around him. It was thick. Impenetrable. Dense. Black. He could not see in front or to the sides for more than five feet. And it was silent. Deathly silence that seemed to penetrate his very core. It made him uneasy. Like a graveyard does at the Witching Hour. A sound. It sounded like crying.

"Hello?" Johnny called. No response; just more crying. Johnny stepped forward. His footfall echoed all around. He looked at the ground. Asphalt. That was when he noticed his feet. Black boots. Black boots with sharp spikes. Wait! He had been wearing tennis shoes! Panicking, he brought his hand up. Bones! On fire! He examined himself, checking all over in panic. He breathed heavily, panic rising. His jacket had changed, too. A chain was wrapped around one shoulder. Spike stood out on both. He wore a black belt with a skull on the front, and it was studded. As were the cuffs of the jacket. He saw a building. It was faint in the heavy fog. He went to it.

A window. It was dirty, but it would do. He hurried to it. He saw his reflection, and recoiled. No! It wasn't possible! He had beaten them! He couldn't be Ghost Rider anymore!