Up In Smoke: Five Supernatural Stories

UP IN SMOKE: FIVE STORIES OF SUPERNATURAL SUSPENSE

Five short stories of supernatural suspense and survival

by

S. E. Lee

INCLUDING OUTRUNNING ZOMBIES PART 1!

Up in Smoke: Five Supernatural Short Stories Copyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee

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The Ghost Girl Copyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee

One Last LookCopyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee

Spider-Cursed Copyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee

Black Magic Money Copyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee

Outrunning Zombies Copyright © 2011 by S. E. Lee

Published by Crescere Publishing on Smashwords

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Table of Contents/Links:

The Ghost Girl

One Last Look

Spider-Cursed

Black Magic Money

Outrunning Zombies

Dear Reader,

The five short stories in this collection were previously published separately, and some were available in another collection, Horror & Horizons.

I thought I was done with writing about the supernatural for a while, but my mind had other plans. That's what you get when you have a mind that asks what if and a perfectly innocent story that started out straight veers off, more often than not, into brushes with the strange, the scary, and the supernatural.

I'm not convinced that's a bad thing.

Since you're reading this, you probably feel the same.

Enjoy.

S. E. Lee

The Ghost Girl

by

S. E. Lee

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When a ghost haunts the mountain getaway of a doctor recovering from a gunshot wound, he thinks he's going crazy until he starts to dig deeper and finds the truth. Will he be able to find her body and the killer and bring the murderer to justice, or will the killer succeed in making the doctor the next victim?

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HELP ME, someone had painted on the wall facing the door. The letters were in blood-red paint, and two blood-red handprints started with a clear crisp imprint and then streaked to the floor.

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Dan Collins knew that the rental agent had been a flaming incompetent, and as he white-knuckled the steering wheel on the rain-drenched road, he grimly hoped that today was not the day that his soft heart was going to get him killed.

The agent had needed a commission on a rental. He'd needed a place to recuperate from a gunshot wound and burnout from years of work and the same grinding routine, a place to just let go, and perhaps, give up the career and vocation that had defined and shaped him from childhood on. Somewhere away from guns, cities, and the stress of his daily routine. Somewhere other than his claustrophobic little social circle.

It had made sense at the time.

Now he'd be lucky if he made it to the shack in one piece, but there was no way--and literally, no bloody space--to turn around on this narrow mountain pass, clinging as it did to the sheer drops of the mountainside.

If he made it up in one piece, he promised himself he'd charter a helicopter to take him back down. If he survived that, well, he was going to stick to beach vacations from now until forever, amen. He made a sign of the cross and kissed his hand; old habits died hard.

He peered through the windshield and pressed the gas pedal gingerly, inching forward. First, he needed to get to the cabin. His GPS unit was useless in the downpour, and if he hadn't printed out extra-large turn-by-turn directions he could read at arm's length, he'd be screwed. Then again, in his profession, it paid to be meticulous and prepared and redundantly prepared. Otherwise all he'd have were vague directions from the rental agent that the cabin was the first right on the mountain road, can't miss it.

Once he got to the cabin, which would be dry, warm, and most importantly, not moving, he could stop worrying about driving off the mountain and not being found for fifteen years.

To his relief, his turn by turn directions led him to the right address and a white gravel drive that, if possible, even steeper than the rest of the mountain road. He clenched his teeth and gripped the wheel tighter, and tried not to get sick as the four-wheeled-drive sloshed down the curved incline to the rain and fog-fuzzy building at the end of the drive. With the rate the water was pouring out of the skies, no umbrella was going to save him from a soaking, so he parked as close as he could get to the cabin.

He grabbed his overnight bag and cooler, fished out the right key, turned up the collar on his Burberry, and dashed to the door.

He wished it had a bigger porch as he fumbled with the lock as rain flooded his head and neck and any exposed skin, and then finally he was inside.

At first he was just glad to be indoors and out of the rain, shaking off the water as best as he could. He wrinkled his nose at the musty smell, mentally cursing the agent, who had promised a fresh, clean cabin.

Then he looked up and froze.

HELP ME! someone had painted, high on the wall facing the door. The letters were in blood-red paint, and two blood-red handprints started with a clear crisp imprint and then streaked to the floor.

His skin broke out in goosebumps and his heart hammered in his chest. Was this some prank? Graffiti? His gaze shot left and right, but the dust on the floor and every surface was at least an inch thick, and the air inside stale and musty. Even the walls were fuzzy with dust.

Except where the paint was.

If it even was paint.

He took another step back and his hand landed on the doorknob. He had never run so fast in his life as in the short sprint to the SUV.

His hand shook as he took the key and jammed it into the ignition, cursing under his breath like a chant.

Red letters across his windshield said, PLEASE HELP.

Every single hair on his body went straight, and he shivered, suddenly bone-cold. What the fuck is going on? he shouted.

It echoed in the hushed silence, and he suddenly felt stupid.

Dan smoothed a shaking hand through his hair. I need to get out of here, he muttered to himself. Get some sleep. I must be so tired I'm seeing things that aren't there.

The letters disappeared, and rearranged to form, NO...HARM.

He laughed, a little too fast and high-pitched, before he caught himself. He was having a conversation with himself and his hallucinations now? He was either going crazy or he was dreaming. Something. There had to be a logical explanation for this.

His hand reached inside his pockets for the cigarettes he'd forgotten he'd quit last year and touched the metal pill case instead.

His shoulders relaxed. He'd forgotten he was on the painkillers. The drug interactions and exhaustion would explain his hallucination. He pulled it out now, and stared at the wall. It's the drugs, he said to himself, as calmly as he could. That would explain the hallucinations.

NO...

He opened the pill box and downed the three super-strong pills he was supposed to take, his hand shaking as he put them to his mouth. He was soaking wet but he didn't know if the water was on, and he didn't dare waste time trying to find water. He obviously needed the pills right away.

TIME... He glared at the windshield and the house beyond it.