Annie Reed has been called a master short story writer. She's a multiple Derringer nominee, received a Silver Honorable Mention from Writers of the Future, and has appeared in back to back issues of The Mysterious Bookshop Presents The Best Mystery Stories of the Year (for 2022 and 2023) as well as Best American Mystery and Suspense 2023. Her stories are featured regularly in Pulphouse Fiction Magazine and Mystery, Crime and Mayhem. Her short fiction has also been selected for inclusion in English language study materials for Japanese college entrance exams.

A prolific, versatile, and award-winning writer, her longer works include the crime novels Road of No Return, A Death in Cumberland, and Paper Bullets, and her space opera series Gray Lady Rising and Gray Lady's Revenge, co-authored with mega-bestselling writer Robert Jeschonek. She also writes under the pen names Kris Sparks and Liz McKnight.

She lives in northern Nevada and can be found on the web at anniereed.wordpress.com, on Facebook as annie.reed.142.

Unexpected Monsters by Annie Reed

Vampires and werewolves and zombies, oh my!

But not how you'd usually expect them.

How about a retelling of The Three Little Pigs where the wolves aren't exactly what they seem? Or a warrior who's getting a little long in the tooth facing an unbeatable elder foe? Or a blood-sucking fiend who'd like to tell you her origin story—if you can believe a word of what she says.

Award-winning writer Annie Reed puts her unique twist on these six stories of classic monsters. But be sure to leave your lights on and your doors tightly locked, and if you have a few braids of garlic handy, it probably wouldn't hurt to hang them in your windows. Just in case. Because you never know what's lurking outside in the dark, fangs dripping, claws glinting in the light of a full moon, ready to take a nice, juicy bite.

CURATOR'S NOTE

Annie Reed is an inventive writer with a lot of heart. So when she tells you, via her title, that there are unexpected monsters in this book, believe her. There's a reason her fiction keeps getting picked for best-of-the-year volumes. You'll see once you start reading. – Kristine Kathryn Rusch

 

REVIEWS

  • "Annie is a master short fiction writer."

    – Kristine Kathryn Rusch, award-winning editor and writer of The Retrieval Artist series

  • "Professional writer Annie Reed writes stories that span genres and are always powerful. In fact, with Annie, you just never know the type of story you might be reading, but you will always know it will grab you and be a compelling read."

    – Dean Wesley Smith, editor, Pulphouse Fiction Magazine

  • "Annie's writing is magic, seriously."

    – Robert J. McCarter, author of A Ghost’s Memoir series
 

BOOK PREVIEW

Excerpt

Excerpt from "They Lie"

They lie.

The writers of books like Twilight, of television shows like Buffy and Angel and Forever Knight.

There's no romance. No love. No quests for redemption or pining for companionship or longing to become human again, and no damn sparkling in the sun. There's only darkness and fear and an all-consuming hunger that obliterates whatever's left of your poor, screaming soul.

If you let it.

My maker pulled me out the open window of my car when I stopped for a light on a lonely country road late one night. I'd spent most of that night watching chick flicks with my best friend, Chelsea. I haven't seen her since. It's a struggle. I don't need to be invited in, and I know the way back to her house. Even if I didn't, I could still find her. I know her scent.

I'm not sure why I stopped at that light. Chelsea lives out in the sticks. Nothing but flat farmland for miles. I could see enough of the road to know that no cars were coming in the other direction. No cars at all, but I've always been a good girl. A rule follower. So I stopped and checked for headlights. Unbuckled my seatbelt for a moment to straighten out a twist while I listened to some inane pop song on my radio.

Then I died.

It wasn't a quick death. Imagine being ripped apart by a wild animal, but staying awake for the whole thing. My maker was ancient and rotted, and he smelled like an open sewer pit. He chewed at my neck and my arms, and when I tried to run away, he pounced on my back and bit into my spine.

No one came to save me when I shrieked. No one at all.

I should have stayed dead. I don't know why I didn't. Maybe because when that filthy, ancient thing put his bony hand over my mouth to shut me up, I bit him. I don't remember tasting any blood except my own, but maybe that part of the legend is wrong, too. All I tasted was dirt and grit and things I don't want to remember, and it was enough to condemn me.

I felt my soul try to leave. The books, the television shows, the movies—they don't get that right, either. Sure, the characters on Buffy tell you that vampires don't have a soul. Back when I watched all those shows with Chelsea, when we were both in high school and so in love with Angel—well, she was; I was always a Spike girl—we bought into the whole evil vampires don't have a soul, good ones do thing, but we never thought about what that must feel like. To be thrown away like a piece of trash, like a piece of hamburger my maker was too full to finish, and feel your soul try to escape.

That was the worst part. Even worse than being eaten alive. I was sprawled out on the side of that country road, what was left of my blood seeping into the dry dirt, and felt a sudden wrench throughout my whole body, like someone had ripped something inside me in two. The deeper that rip got, the more lost I felt. The more color leeched out of everything. I could still hear the radio through my open car window, but the music was becoming just noise that hurt my ears instead of a melody that made me want to sing along or a tune that brought back a memory I'd almost forgotten.

I was becoming empty ash. A shell. Nothing more than a feral animal that the hunger, already growing in my ravaged belly, would own.

I clawed at my soul. I imagined I could see it floating above me, tethered to me by the thinnest thread. I reached for it even though I couldn't move, not yet. I cried and strained and refused to let it go. Wasn't I supposed to be the one up there, looking down at my body? I couldn't let my soul go, couldn't be left alone like this. I was a good girl. It wasn't right.

I think my soul hates me.