Annie Reed has been called "one of the best writers of her generation" and for good reason. She writes in multiple genres, including mystery and suspense, science fiction, thrillers, romance, and urban and contemporary fantasy, along with the occasional story that doesn't fall into any one specific category.

She's a founding member and frequent contributor to the innovative UNCOLLECTED ANTHOLOGY, now in its eleventh year of publishing themed urban and contemporary anthologies three times a year. Her short fiction appears regularly in PULPHOUSE FICTION MAGAZINE; MYSTERY, CRIME & MAYHEM; and THRILL RIDE MAGAZINE. She's even written official STAR TREK fiction and admits that she's an unabashed MCU fangirl. She currently writes and edits fulltime.

Unexpected Hauntings - Special Expanded Edition by Annie Reed

Ghosts and apparitions and things that go bump in the night!

The stories in this collection take traditional ghost stories and turn them on their ear as only award-winning writer Annie Reed can do.

From a hobo who's haunted by a ghostly apparition to a teenage entrepreneur who unwittingly opens her home to all manner of otherworldly pets to a cowboy whose curse is more blessing than eternal punishment, these unique and unexpected tales that will touch your heart—as well as send shivers up your spine!

Stories include:
"The Four Thirty-Five"
"Last Night at the Crowley"
"Blame It On the Ghosts"
"Night Dancer"
"The Outlaw of Ghost City"
"Dancing Across the Canyon"
PLUS this Special Expanded Edition, a Storybundle exclusive, includes four additional stories!
"The Code"
"Night of the Cruisers"
"Carols Sung by Those Who Went Before"
"Day of the Living"

CURATOR'S NOTE

Annie Reed's volume of ghost stories is a StoryBundle exclusive. Annie has become known as one of the best short story writers of her generation, winning awards and showing up in best-of-the-year collections. This little exclusive will show you why. – Kristine Kathryn Rusch

 

REVIEWS

  • "Annie Reed is considered by many to be one of the best new writers appearing in fiction."

    – Dean Wesley Smith, Editor, PULPHOUSE FICTION MAGAZINE

  • "One of the best writers I've come across in years. Annie excels at whatever genre of fiction she chooses to write."

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

  • "The appearance of a new Annie Reed story is a treat. Try one and you'll be hooked."

    – David H. Hendrickson, award-winning author of 'Death in the Serengeti'

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

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

BOOK PREVIEW

Excerpt

Excerpt from "The Four Thirty-Five"

The lake was less than a half mile from the stone bridge away as the crow flies, Chet reckoned, but he never went down the steep hill to the lake shore. He didn't even go down to the water's edge late at night after the tourists took their cars and motorcycles and went home.

He could have gone if he wanted to, he told himself. Gone right on down to the shallows where the tourists let their kids swim and plunged his hand in deep just to feel the bone-cold chill of the water, but the idea of doing that just didn't feel right. His place up by the tracks—now, that was home, and he liked it just fine. He could watch the Four Thirty-Five go by and make up stories about where the train had been and where it were going, and imagine catching a ride in one of the empty boxcars like the ones he'd traveled the country in before he'd settled down.

Every once in a while one of the tourist kids would take to wandering and head up the narrow trail that ran by his place.

Chet always stayed in the deep shadows whenever the kids came around, keeping quiet behind the undergrowth or beneath the bridge. He watched them—he always watched them, couldn't help himself—but they never knew he was there.

He thought sometimes how nice it would be if he could swap stories with some of the older ones. The tourist kids who'd been places, like he'd been places when he used to ride the rails, but even the older kids wouldn't want to talk to someone like him. The few times he'd gathered up his nerve—it had been a long time since he'd had a conversation with anybody—the kids had gotten bored and wandered away before Chet could take a single step out in the open.

This kid, now he was different.

Chet couldn't peg his age—six or seven, or maybe a small-boned eight. Tow-headed, far too thin for his shirt and jeans, his shoes scuffed and dusty, the kid stood at the far end of the trail at the spot where the narrow footpath branched off from the access road to the lake.

The kid stood there, arms hanging straight at his sides, not fidgeting, just staring straight up the trail like he could see Chet even though Chet knew that was damn near impossible.

He faded farther back into the shadows, but still the kid kept staring at him.

Time passed, and the kid didn't wander away. Cars drove by slowly behind him, but the kid stuck to his spot. No one came to get him. No one seemed to miss him.

This was damn peculiar.

Chet rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth and tried to think what he should do. He'd heard stories when he'd been riding the rails about how city folk treated people like him when they got scared, and people always got scared when they thought someone might hurt their kids.

He didn't want to be rousted from his place. He didn't know where he'd end up if he left.

Overhead, the rails began to sing their sweet song.

The Four Thirty-Five, right on time.

At the base of the trail, the kid finally looked away from Chet. He raised one thin arm and pointed at the on-coming train.

He opened his mouth and screamed.

The kid's scream was sharp and piercing and seemed to explode inside Chet's head. He clapped his hands over his ears, but the sound didn't stop.

A tourist family—a sunburned mom and dad and their three sunburned teenagers—walked down the center of the access road, trekking out coolers and folding chairs and beach towels to wherever they'd parked their car. They passed behind the screaming boy without taking a single look at him or even breaking stride.

The Four Thirty-Five reached the old stone bridge and passed overhead, and even with the boy screaming in his head, Chet turned to watch the train just like he always did.

The ground trembled beneath Chet's feet and dirt sifted down through the cracks between the stones in the bridge. A desperate yearning pulled at him—Come with me, come with me, come with me sung in time to the rhythm of the wheels on the rails—but Chet stood his ground.

Only after the caboose had passed over the old stone bridge did the boy stop screaming.

When Chet turned back toward the access road, the boy was gone.