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    Grave Yarns, a Collection of Short Stories
    Grave Yarns, a Collection of Short Stories
    Grave Yarns, a Collection of Short Stories
    Ebook133 pages2 hours

    Grave Yarns, a Collection of Short Stories

    By TM Simmons

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    About this ebook

    There's nothing better for a night-time read than a scary tale. T. M. Simmons provides some of the best available, fiction and non-fiction. The fiction stories in Grave Yarns, as the title suggests, are set in graveyards, a suitably spooky place at Halloween... or any other time, for that matter. A ghost and his motorcycle in Sweet Revenge achieve payback for murder. The butterflies in Butterfly Kisses are not something you would enjoy seeing day or night. Dark and Stormy Night is a tale about a writer who scorns his craft and learns to regret it. Permission Denied shows you what happens if you disrespect supernatural entities. The Devil's Due makes it clear you should not bargain with Satan or any of his minions. For a romp on the humerous side of the paranormal, Pitiless Pumpkin Patch Pirates closes the selection of fiction. For your reading enjoyment, Simmons has added Midnight Ferry, a true ghost story from her Ghost Hunting Diary Volume I. As always, read if you dare.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherTM Simmons
    Release dateOct 9, 2011
    ISBN9781465748737
    Grave Yarns, a Collection of Short Stories
    Author

    TM Simmons

    For over twenty years, I have been chasing, and finding, ghosts and other paranormal entities. For even longer, I have been publishing fiction and non-fiction. I delight in scaring myself silly, as well as anyone else I can corner with my verbal or written tales.

    Read more from Tm Simmons

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      Book preview

      Grave Yarns, a Collection of Short Stories - TM Simmons

      Grave Yarns

      T. M. Simmons

      ***

      Copyright 2011 by T. M. Simmons,

      Smashwords Edition

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, or by any means existing now or in the future, in whole or in part, without the express written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

      Ghost Hunting Diary Volume I excerpt at end, Copyright 2011 by T. M. Simmons.

      ***

      Discover Other Electronic Books by T. M. Simmons

      Ghost Hunting Diary Volume I (nonfiction)

      Ghost Hunting Diary, Volume II (nonfiction)

      Ghost Hunting Diary Volume III (coming soon)

      Dead Man Talking

      Dead Man Haunt

      Dead Man Hand (Coming Soon)

      ***

      Dedication

      To all my readers who love spooky tales as much as I do!

      Acknowledgements

      Chris Hershberger, for a fantastic title and cover help; Carl Smothers for the Dear Reader Letter suggestions; the other members of the Terrell Writers League for their critiquing help and for enjoying my stories.

      As always, to Aunt Belle, who started me on the paranormal trail so many years go.

      ***

      Chapter 1: Dear Reader

      Dear Reader:

      Halloween! What a fun time of year. Ghosts, goblins, ghouls, witches, pumpkins, cooler weather. What's especially superb is that The Veil continues to thin all during the month of October, so it's a great time to ghost hunt in new places or old familiar haunts. By All Hallows Eve, the ghosts and spirits are close enough for experienced paranormal investigators to communicate with effortlessly, more so than any other time of year. They stand in line to chat, eager on their end to take a break from their lonesome lives … uh … non-lives?

      It's also a fantastic time to read a spooky tale… or two. My favorite ghost hunting spot is a graveyard. There's nothing like the peace and serenity of an area spotted with small and large chunks of granite or marble. Better yet, visit during a bright full moon. Go one step further: prowl a cemetery when the night is cloudy or when ground fog slithers around those tombstones like feathery snakes. What fun!

      Given my preference for entertainment — something even my own grandson calls Memaw's creepy fun — it naturally followed that my short tales would take place in cemeteries. When I asked some friends to suggest titles for my collection, one came up with Grave Yarns. How suitable!

      Another friend suggested I warn folks what can happen if they read my hair-raising and spine tingling stories. Should the stress be too much for your faint heart, don't worry. I've already reserved a special place for you … in my graveyard. Who knows? If your death is gory enough, you might be the star of my next grave yarn!

      ***

      Chapter 2: Sweet Revenge

      T. M. Simmons

      vrrmmm.

      What's that? Beans jerked his flashlight up from the narrow lane that led to the cemetery gate. The powerful beam hit Dingo in his eyes, illuminating spidered red veins from their three-day love-fest with booze and drugs.

      Dingo splayed a hand across his straggly-bearded face. Get that damn light out of my eyes! he snarled.

      Beans didn't bother to apologize. He shone the beam through the iron pipe gate, where it reflected on tombstones, as well as iron crosses that marked unidentified graves.

      What's wrong with you? Dingo growled. I ain't heard nothin' 'cept some crickets and a hoot owl. You scared, Beans? You bring another pair of panties with you? Wouldn't want you to go home smellin' bad 'cause you pissed yourself.

      Even though his lanky body towered over Dingo's beer-gutted one by a good foot, the other biker's fetid breath nauseated him. Beans stepped back.

      I heard something, Beans insisted. He held the flashlight higher, so it lit up a sandy path between a row of intermingled towering and low-to-the-ground granite stones. And I'm not scared. But it was your idea to come out here, not mine. And I didn't hear you saying you'd come by your lonesome.

      What would've been the point? Dingo insisted. Can't have no party with just one. We owe Johnnie Lee a send-off, seein' as how we was too late for his buryin'.

      There's nothing in a graveyard that can hurt us, Beans reminded himself. Everyone here's already dead meat.

      Too late 'cause you were so hungover you couldn't ride, he told Dingo in a distracted voice.

      Hey! Dingo grabbed Beans' arm and Beans stopped himself barely an inch short of cold-cocking his buddy with the heavy flashlight. Dingo instinctively ducked anyway, and said, I was just gonna ask you what you done with the beer. You're supposed to be carryin' it.

      Like hell. You're the one who broke the handle on the cooler. I told you to get the beer while I was locking up the truck.

      Like someone's gonna steal your stereo way out here in the boondocks. Dingo snorted. We ain't seen a house for two miles.

      No beer, no party. Get your ass back there and grab it from the pickup bed. Unless you need me to hold your hand and come with you, 'cause you're too scared to walk back there in the dark.

      Dingo hesitated and stared up the narrow lane. Towering cedar trees lined one side, pin oak and pecan trees the other. At the end of October, the pin oaks and pecans were already nearly leafless, bare, craggy limbs etching against the cloudless black night sky. Here and there dead leaves drooped in knots or singles, lying motionless in the cold.

      It's only a hundred yards to the truck, Dingo told Beans. Why'd I be scared? You ain't scared to stay here by yourself, are you?

      Beans gulped at the reminder, but stood stoically at the gate when Dingo stomped off.

      Vrrmmm.

      Beans swung around. He'd damn sure heard it that time. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought it was a bike engine. Sounded like a well-tuned Harley, like the one Johnnie Lee had ridden. But that bike would never run again. It was twisted and broken into as many pieces as Johnnie Lee's bones.

      Dingo returned in half the time it had taken the two of them to get this far in the first place, his booted feet slapping the hard-packed dirt to where Beans waited. On his shoulder, the beer and ice inside the cooler sloshed loudly.

      Dingo lowered his flashlight, then swept it behind him. You hear anything while I was gone?

      Nope, Beans lied. Did you?

      Naw, Dingo denied. You know, we should've rode our bikes.

      You said your head was splitting too bad, Beans said. When you gonna get them mufflers fixed?

      Dingo shrugged. Takes money. He set the cooler on the ground and took out two cans of beer. He tossed one to Beans and finished his in three gurgles. Then he dropped the empty can back in the cooler, grabbed another beer and leaned on the gate.

      Why'd Johnnie Lee wanna be buried way out here? he asked.

      I heard Jim say that he got his family to give permission. Beans finished his beer and decided to follow Dingo's lead. New beer in hand, he continued, Johnnie Lee always said he wanted to be buried with his bike. Not many places you can get a grave big enough for a man and his ride. Besides, not many would let you do that. Jim's family, they go way back. This land used to belong to them, and most of the folks in here are relatives of his. What?

      Dingo stared at Beans with a weird frown on his face. Jim? Him and Johnnie Lee…well, I heard stuff about 'em.

      No way! They're straight, both of them.

      Not that, Dingo denied. Jim, he's black, y'know.

      Since we been riding with Jim for going on ten years, I'd have to say I'd noticed that, Beans said in a sarcastic drawl.

      Jim ain't no American black. I heard his family's from Jamaica. Came here to the States a hundred years or so back. 'Member that reunion of Jim's kinfolks we went to down in N'awlins that time? Even though they been over here a long time, most of 'ems still got that funny accent.

      We gonna party or stand here jawing all night?

      Dingo finished his beer, slid through the gate and pulled the cooler after him. Instead of waiting for Beans, he threw the cooler on his shoulder again and strode off. But not before he shoved his flashlight in his belt and grabbed another beer.

      As Beans navigated the gate, he noticed Dingo was already staggering. No surprise. He'd downed a few beers already, on the hour-long drive out to this isolated cemetery. The other biker stumbled over a white iron cross near his feet and, muttering his annoyance, righted himself. Without a backward glance to see if Beans noticed, he headed through the gravestones and crosses, toward the rear of the graveyard. His boots kicked up dust from the sandy soil, and inside the gate now, Beans paused.

      Looks like he's got ghosts around his legs. He glanced overhead. Looked like a ghost moon up there, too. Millions of bright stars sprinkled the cloudless sky. However, a large, circular haze surrounded the full moon, with a tail of mist leading off to the northwest, similar to a magnifying glass around the dim orb. And… Beans studied the ground. He really didn't need his flashlight. Despite the milky haze across the moon, the light from above reflected on the whitish soil over the entire five acres.

      You comin'? Dingo yelled. He'd stopped near a copse of tall cedar trees

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