Stalkers: A Dark Romance Anthology

by Ally Vance

  Z

  I’m outside Violet’s house again, watching her through the window from an obscured spot in her back garden where she won’t see me. She’s been pacing, and every so often she returns to her computer, and I smirk to myself when I realize what the source of the anxiety must be. She’s still waiting for me to answer her request.

  Heat floods my veins as the rush of power consumes me. Violet is practically begging for me to envelop her in the shadows that surround me, and I am only too happy to oblige her. I want to watch her a while longer, and it would be too risky for me to take out my phone to answer her when she’s so painfully close. She might see me, and while I’d love to feel her eyes on me, I need to be in complete control, and right here, right now, I can’t predict or control our environment.

  I wait for what feels like hours for Violet to shut down her computer and go to bed. When her small house is finally silent and shrouded by the nighttime gloom and I’m sure she’ll be asleep, I sneak inside. Wandering quietly through Violet’s house, I search for a few home comforts of hers to take with me. She’ll be glad of them when she’s imprisoned inside my home instead of trapped within her own loneliness.

  In one of the cupboards, I find a blanket that’s soft with age. I bring it to my nose to smell, and the fragrant scent of lavender and honeysuckle wafts into the air around me. I bury my face in the warm fabric, imagining how it would feel to be wrapped around Violet, like I’m sure this has been many times. She doesn’t seem to have an abundance of possessions, and this is one of the most personal items I can find which won’t be immediately missed. Instead of lingering to search for more and risking being caught, I leave her house and the prettiest of flowers behind me, content in the knowledge that she will soon be with me forever.

  The next evening, I log onto the app and finally give her my answer...the answer we both desperately want.

  ShadowZ952: I’d love to. Z.

  Kit gets to have his own macabre happily ever after whenever I visit him, but it’s about time I got mine. I can guarantee Violet won’t be happy, but I know I will.

  Are you ready for me, little flower?

  About Ally Vance

  About Ally:

  Ally is an International Bestselling Author who writes in the Dark Romance & Horror genres. Ally also co-writes with her close friend Michelle under the pen name Ally Michelle. Ally lives in Kent, in the United Kingdom with her husband, stepson, and two cats.

  https://linktr.ee/AllyVanceAuthor

  Books by Ally:

  Flower in the Dark

  Ashes in the Dark (Coming Soon!)

  Wicked Dreams (Reveries Duet #1)

  Dearly Departed

  Michelle Pace

  Dearly Departed

  "I'm sorry for your loss."

  Murray’s go-to mantra sounded hollow and trite, even to him. And he wasn't sorry, not as sorry as he should have been. When his twin sister Tallulah took the twilight call requesting a pickup for the widow’s dearly departed husband, Murray had pumped a carefree fist in the air. He and Tally had even celebrated with an early morning shot. Times were tough in the Layhe household, and this family’s “loss” helped keep the lights on.

  Regardless, Murray’s perfunctory line must have satisfied the widow because she reached up and touched his stubbled cheek with a clammy, trembling hand. “Thank you, Mr. Layhe. You’re a chip off the old block.”

  Murray gritted his perfect pearly teeth until she released him from her gnarled grip. She waddled away, snuffling into her cloth kerchief, and he waited until she was a respectable distance away before discretely slipping the hand sanitizer from his pocket. After liberally dousing his palms, Murray briefly debated smearing some directly onto the offended cheek. Decorum prevailed. Still, his face throbbed where she’d touched him, as if she’d contaminated him with her bad luck.

  He frowned at his response, which seemed over the top even to him. He hadn’t always been so neurotic. Murray Layhe had once been the life of the party, the instigator of a good time. Pandemic burnout and the ongoing echoes left in its wake seemed to have taken their toll. Little things got to him now in ways they hadn’t before. Large crowds were unbearable, and Murray avoided the “jungle public” unless he had no alternative. He found himself wandering the halls of their stately Queen Anne at all hours, checking each door and window at least four times. After his sister had caught him rigorously scrubbing his hands until his skin cracked, she suggested he see a shrink.

  Murray missed Black Wednesdays, the standing poker night with his local funeral director pals, but he’d forced himself to stay away. Tallulah had left a brochure by the espresso machine two weeks back, which explained that no longer enjoying the things you used to was a sign of depression. Murray didn’t feel blue, though. He was keyed up…on high alert. A charge rippled through him, as if all his instincts were telling him to watch his six, but for what, he wasn’t quite sure.

  His best friend, Reverend Townes, still managed to get him out every other weekend for a beer or two. Gone were the days when they used to close down the bar, followed by breakfast at Molly’s Diner. Otherwise, Tallulah was his only social outlet, and funerals had become a peephole to the outside world.

  Murray surveyed the dated front parlor, scanning the small assembly of mourners within. Counting heads, he was pleased to discover he’d printed just enough programs for the motley crew who’d braved the rainy weather to see the old coot off. Tallulah would be pleased that he hadn’t fallen short of the required amount of swag for the job. Murray’s thriftiness had kept them afloat when so many others had extinguished their “open” signs, but appearing chintzy simply wouldn’t do. Layhe and Sons was their legacy, and the twins knew they had a reputation to protect.

  Stepping into the viewing parlor, Murray’s dark eyes swept the room, taking in the overblown sprays of hothouse lilies and the top-of-the-line oak casket. He also didn’t miss the deceased’s youngest son running a careless thumb up and down his sister-in-law’s lower back. Clearly the guy believed in keeping it in the family, and Murray filed that sordid detail away.

  Reading a grieving family’s pain points was an artform that Murray Layhe held mastery over. His ancestors had been death dealers since the old world, and years of mentoring under his father’s militant tutelage had honed Murray’s natural talent. Sensing just when and how far he could nudge someone was his greatest gift. As Funeral Director of Layhe and Sons, Murray’s primary role was coaxing copious upgrades out of mourners until their wallets wailed nearly as loud as they did.

  Movement in his periphery caught his attention. Murray turned his gaze toward the tapestry which concealed the “back of the house,” Tallulah’s macabre nickname for the aftercare area. The morgue and embalming room were all tucked away behind that discrete entrance. Regular folk liked to pretend those parts of the funeral home didn’t exist.

  The back of the house, which Tally often shortened to just “the back,” was her homage to her dishwashing days at the local supper club, La Boheme. Tallulah had worked the back of the house at the pretentious restaurant after school, saving for her tuition at Fayetteville. Meanwhile, Murray had skated through a paid-in-full business degree at Duke, compliments of dear old Dad. After all, the funeral home—which had been established in the 1897--wasn’t called Layhe and Daughters.

  Murray sometimes felt guilty recalling his leisurely years at Duke. Paying fraternity brothers to write his papers while he’d hazed sad little wannabes who stupidly looked up to him. He’d completed his degree in the same manner he’d accomplished everything else—with a sprinkle of charm, a dash of luck, and skillful manipulation of others to get them to do all the heavy lifting. Murray had breezed through semester after semester, coming home only when summoned. His parents would roll out the red carpet, but Tally had rarely been present when the prodigal son made an appearance. She’d been far too busy scrubbing pans to pay her way through mortuary school.

  Tallulah had never complained, at lea
st not to Murray. She’d endured this imbalance of justice since she’d been old enough to talk. When little Murray had gotten to tag along to their father’s business lunches, her crying and pouting had gotten her nothing but a resounding slap.

  “Men run the world, Tallulah.” Mother had always managed to dole out advice and all other domestic obligations without a hair falling out of place. Though always funeral-ready in dark clothes, Mother Layhe had seemed impervious to mess, though she’d baked and polished morning and night. “A woman’s job is to decorate and accommodate.”

  Tallulah appeared from behind the tapestry, and like clockwork, all men present turned her way. Murray watched his sister’s spine straighten, the only visible indication that she bristled at their attention. Her demure nod to one gentleman’s hello gave little hint of her true feelings. Murray knew Tallulah was far more at home with the dead than the living. Impressive genes and puberty had earned her flocks of admirers. She’d once abused this power she wielded over men, but those days, like Murray’s nights on the town, seemed a distant memory.

  Tally sidled up to her brother, leaning her long frame in close enough that he could smell her Burberry perfume and the Bailey’s on her breath. It was that time of year again, and with the falling leaves came the anniversary of terrible times. Bare trees and fewer hours of sunlight had always put Tally on edge. These days she coped with the onslaught of autumn with a steady stream of alcohol from dawn to dusk.

  “Diamond cufflinks,” she murmured, her gray eyes lively and bright. “A gold tie holder—24 carat I think, and a size 12 platinum wedding band.”

  Though buzzing from her liquid breakfast, Murray’s sister was still a hundred times sharper than most people at the top of their game. This verbal catalogue was their routine. Tally took inventory, then relayed the treasures she found preparing the corpse. Murray made sure said treasures ended up in the center console of the hearse before the first handful of dirt hit the casket lid.

  You know what they say. You can’t take it with you.

  “Duly noted.” Murray lips moved no more than those of a ventriloquist. Not that anyone paid them much mind. Today’s cast of characters was in full keening mode, or as close to that as suburban southerners dare to come. The widow’s discordant caterwauling and repeated nose-blowing set Murray’s teeth on edge.

  As if she’d heard his thoughts aloud, Tally pressed on, her raspy voice alight with a rare flash of genuine enthusiasm. “And there were fillings. Seven. All gold.”

  She wriggled her brows, and an unexpected surge of revulsion shot through Murray. They’d stooped quite a few times since their parents had died, low enough to limbo. But when the Covid-tide had come rolling in, Murray had thought this petty bullshit was behind them. The waves of plague profits hadn’t lasted nearly as long as they should have, and that was entirely on Murray.

  “Classy.” Murray’s dig seemed to have missed its mark since his sister’s smile never faltered. Tallulah didn’t know how badly they needed the money. Tally grave-robbed just for sport. She considered it a victimless crime, and Murray tried to ignore the charge she got out of it. He assumed this, like the other “new normals,” would eventually pass.

  “Maintenance isn’t cheap,” Tally murmured, and Murray couldn’t argue.

  “Agreed.” Upkeep on a historic home while running a business out of the back took a hefty chunk of change. Throw in the philanthropic endeavors their mother had spearheaded (and Asheville expected them to perpetuate) and it was enough to make one pray for a local catastrophe with multiple casualties.

  As Tally rattled off a couple more things she’d pilfered from the late Mr. Garrett’s wallet, Murray ran a hand over his face. He’d had a low-grade headache when he’d gone to bed the night before, and it was still lurking like an enamored wallflower on the fringes of his consciousness. He thought about asking Tallulah for some Advil, but it was almost time to begin.

  Thunder clapped outside, and the power flickered. Murray cursed himself for going to the tracks all those times instead of buying a backup generator. Then the lights surged full again, and he breathed a collective sigh of relief. Seconds later, the skies opened, and torrential rainfall hammered against the roof.

  “Interment’s going to be a muddy nightmare. Have fun with that,” Tally quipped, smug that her portion of the dirty work was finished.

  Murray groaned, but thankfully his displeasure was muffled by Mother Nature’s brutal assault. He watched Tallulah scan the crowd and imagined her counting the sea of black suits much like he had just minutes before. Tallulah was buckets of shrewd stuffed into a pencil skirt and sensible flats. If he’d screwed up any detail, she’d find it.

  Apparently he hadn’t, because Tally gently rocked her shoulder into his. “’Suppose we’d better get on with it. No sense in wasting electricity on this sorry bunch of rubes.”

  Murray suppressed an eyeroll at his sister’s tastelessness. When Tally’s snobbery shone through it was always in the tackiest of shades. With a curt nod, Murray turned away, wishing nothing more than to put distance between himself and his snarky sister. That was when the door banged opened, and Lucy burst in, stumbling directly into Murray’s chest.

  Pale and gasping for air, the new arrival had evidently sprinted to the entrance to avoid the deluge.

  “I’m so sorry.” Lucy chuckled breathlessly, tossing back her hood. Fiery locks spilled around the collar of her brilliant yellow coat. She looked up into Murray’s eyes, her bow-shaped lips quirking toward the ceiling. Murray’s throat went dry, and he could barely breathe. Lucy’s arrival was akin to an open window on the first warm day after a long and arduous winter.

  “Could you?” She held out a sleeve, looking over her shoulder at him, pink lips curled up at one side. Those lips always made him rock hard and ready for action. Murray helped her out of her raincoat with the anticipation of a kid on Christmas morning.

  “I’m sorry, I seem to be late.”

  Lucy Fagan didn’t look sorry. Far from it. She looked intentional, from her shocking red mane to her shiny fuck-me pumps. She’d chosen to make an entrance. Murray could feel all the eyes boring into his back. Lucy looked past him and waved at the other mourners.

  “No apologies necessary.” Murray felt his cheeks growing painfully hot. “We were just getting started.”

  “Don’t let me interrupt,” she cooed in a drawl that was pure Blue Ridge Mountains and moonshine. Murray handed Lucy her coat, and as she went for the hall tree, Murray watched her hips sway like a metronome. She was like fresh air and sunshine wrapped in a short black dress that was more see-through than she probably realized.

  Or maybe not.

  Lucy had been around before, having dropped in on his past couple of funerals. He’d seen her many times before that, along the trails of Riverside Cemetery. He’d spotted her once, sitting on a blanket by Thomas Wolfe’s grave, pen in one hand, notebook in the other. Many people visited Riverside, but even amongst the throngs of tourists she’d always stood out.

  Up close, Lucy was mouthwatering. Murray’s gaze swept her ripe, ivory flesh, noticing a smattering of freckles that proved she was human and not carved from marble. He wasn’t easily impressed by women, but Lucy was absolutely arresting, and likely about ten years too young for him.

  Murray had a flash of taking her, right then and there in the foyer, slamming that beautiful ass against the fading walls of what had once been his father’s empire. Instead, he nodded toward two back rows of empty seats, assuming she’d plant herself there like she had on the past two occasions. Lucy brushed past him, parading herself all the way to the front row. As if she held him by a leash, Murray trailed her down the aisle, struggling to keep his eyes focused on the large wooden cross on the wall and not the swing of her hips.

  Reverend Townes Hildebrandt, who’d been waiting patiently in his wooden throne behind the pulpit, looked up from his bible. The Rev didn’t even seem to notice Lucy, but he took Murray’s appearance as a silent cue. H
e stood and approached the podium.

  Layhes and Hildebrandts had been burying Ashevillians together for generations, and if Murray had embalming fluid in his veins, Townes’s contained equal parts Jameson and Holy Water. Tallulah insisted that Townes’s thoughtful and tactful eulogies made Layhe and Son’s a cut above the rest, and that they kept the founding families and old money in town coming to their funeral home over all the newbies.

  Townes flashed the crowd a self-deprecating smile and the dull hum of the crowd instantly ceased. Murray wasn’t surprised. He was an amazing orator, able to engage even the toughest crowd without breaking a sweat. Conversely, he pushed the boundaries on acceptable behavior from man of the cloth, making no apologies about being a normal red-blooded man. Reverend Townes was no stranger to dating apps nor a bottle of single-malt scotch. Bearded and charismatic, the Rev had become a regular fixture at all the local breweries when he was “off the clock.” Ashville’s Episcopalians couldn’t agree whether Townes should be excommunicated or revered, but they all monitored his antics like reporters for TMZ.

  “Friends…” Townes began, and Murray tuned him out. His feverish gaze wandered to Lucy, pleased at the voyeuristic opportunity his position allowed him. Based on the way the entire Garrett family was eyeing her, they hadn’t expected her. Murray figured it was because they didn’t know who the hell she was. Lucy smiled and waved at them like Miss America from the back of a convertible on the 4th of July.

  Reverend Townes was hard to compete with though, and he’d soon captured their undivided attention, working the crowd like a Vegas magician. Having seen everything in Townes’s bag of tricks, Murray’s attention remained with the redhead sitting cross-legged in the front row. Her bedroom eyes studied the open casket with fascination, only glancing away from it when one of the Rev’s more profound statements landed hard with the emotional crowd. When anyone would break down, Lucy’s head would whip in their direction. Her studious expression had more layers than baklava, and Murray needed to know what was going on behind her sharp blue gaze.