Stalkers: A Dark Romance Anthology

by Ally Vance

  What the fuck is she talking about?

  No. Don’t care. Forget this shit. Forget all of it. I’m getting away from her if it’s the last thing I do. “Just go. Don’t ever come back in here while I’m holding service. Actually, at all.” I shove the curtain on my side open, all but stumbling out, and rush out of the nave as if the Devil’s on my heels.

  She doesn’t follow me, but it damn well feels as if that’s the case.

  What’s worse? That she does as I ask. She doesn’t come back.

  And that’s when the test devolves into a true tragedy, beginning with horrors one can only imagine.

  Chapter Four

  The farmer’s market is blessedly empty today. It’s usually packed this time on a Saturday. The sun just began to set and I decided to head out late.

  An entire day off wasted on bullshit.

  Stop talking like that.

  I mean, thinking like that.

  Fuck!

  Shame continues to grow. Alongside it, a mysterious physical affliction.

  Or maybe it’s just a bug I caught, but since I’m losing my mind, I keep assuming everything relates to this.

  To her.

  To this trial that I haven’t managed to escape, even with her absence.

  It’s been three days since I demanded it.

  I have to admit: a part of me didn’t think she’d oblige me.

  Every inch of me hates that she did.

  And I mean that on a physical level. I’m either getting sick, as I said, or something else is happening.

  Perhaps it’s supernatural. As spiritual and otherworldly as the many afflictions mentioned in the Bible.

  Afflictions brought about by hellish creatures.

  Now you’re just being ridiculous again.

  Or am I? Really, just how literal is my faith? If I take everything I was taught to heart, then anything is possible.

  My phone pings with a news notification. I spare a quick glance at the headline.

  Number of mysteriously dead men found near the Upper East Side rises to thirty-five. Authorities remain confused as to cause. Foreign diseases ruled out.

  Slipping it back into my pocket, I send up a prayer for whatever soul lost their lives now. As a rule, I usually don’t involve myself in the world’s affairs outside of running my church.

  It’s not that I’m not allowed, just makes for a simpler life.

  Or so I thought prior to Athaliah.

  Even so, the case is starting to get more and more attention and more people are tuning in.

  Men are being found dead throughout parts of Manhattan and the Bronx. Their cause of death is unexplainable, but their bodies are mared and partly exsanguinated.

  It’s New York, though. As odd as the circumstances are, it’s also par for the course.

  Hopefully the Lord helps the nightmare end soon.

  I avoid a crowd of young women waiting in front of the homemade beauty products stall. I’m not oblivious to how one-by-one they turn to follow me with their gazes.

  A few whispered comments are made, followed by the expected giggle.

  I’m never unaware of the attention I get. Especially on my days off, when I wear regular street clothes—in this case, it’s a pair of jeans with a sensible beige button-down. My hair is held back in a half-bun, which is more proof of how unkempt I am lately.

  Haven’t shaved in weeks, either. My beard is getting way too thick.

  What I consider unkempt, however, might be considered fashionable in today’s world, and I’ve never had an issue attracting female attention.

  An issue in and of itself considering I’m a priest and I’m supposed to shun it.

  A bigger problem when suddenly I’m dying for the attention of one female who might just be the bomb sent to annihilate my spiritual vocation.

  Stop thinking about her. As if I could.

  I approach Mr. Amos vegetable stall. Most of the food cooked by the nuns is delivered, yet my weekly trips here are routine. I bring back fresh produce for their meals and help out my mother’s old friend while at it.

  Mr. Amos is currently busy charging another customer, his back toward me. I smile at the sight of his slightly hunched over form, looking forward to—

  Blonde at the corner of my eye.

  I stop in my tracks, heart racing.

  Oh, God. I’m hallucinating her presence now. Imagining—no, hoping that every blonde woman I see turns out to be her.

  Furious with my weakness, I turn to prove to myself that it’s just some random woman with the same hair color . . . but it’s not.

  It’s truly her.

  Walking across the street, leaving a trail of mesmerized men in her wake.

  I’m flabbergasted.

  At the same time, I’m relieved.

  Those men are spinning to stare at her with foolish longing, their expressions stunned.

  Lost.

  It’s not just me who’s weak in her presence.

  I watch her heading toward the corner, her light beige overcoat flaring against the back of her bare legs.

  For the life of me, I don’t know what in the name of God comes over me, but suddenly I’m rushing across the street in her wake.

  Past the stupefied idiots that are practically drooling after her.

  One of them beats me to it, a young, brash fool in a baseball cap. She cuts him a glance. I can’t see her face, but whatever it is stops him cold and leaves him mute.

  Then, Athaliah turns the corner, and whatever evil impulse has me following her kicks into overdrive.

  I hurry along, but maintain enough of a distance so as to not be seen by her. At least not yet. It’s both longing and an insidious curiosity that carries me along. I never saw her around this neighborhood until she walked into the church.

  Did she just move here?

  Does she live close by?

  Just who is this creature that’s turning my life upside down like this?

  The world gets darker the closer to 9pm it gets. It’s New York, though, the Bronx to be exact, and the streets remain crowded regardless of the time of day.

  Which means I play witness to scores of other men who are struck stupid at the sight of her.

  It’s unrealistic. Some would even say unreal. Many of them even tilt back their heads, and it seems like they’re trying to catch another whiff of her scent as she goes by.

  The same scent that I swear hit me like a freight train and has been torturing me since.

  Is it a specific perfume? Doesn’t smell like any I’ve ever encountered. And I thought that I was just sensitive to it; it never occurred to me that every man in her vicinity would be, as well.

  Athaliah avoids another man’s attempt to get her attention, and promptly has to dodge another as he tries to reach out to her.

  I’ve never seen anything like this . . .

  Worse, an ugly, violent feeling is bubbling in my gut. One I don’t think I’ve ever felt before.

  I am one of God’s flawed children, as much of a sinner as any, but this particular sin is new to me.

  Jealousy.

  Raw. Unmitigated. Irrational and perhaps psychotic.

  On its heels comes a second, more familiar instinct.

  The one to do harm.

  I fought in a war. Got thrown into the pit of human impulses. Learned hatred on a visceral level, experienced the cold, bone-deep need for survival that comes from facing off against an enemy.

  I killed. More than many. More than I want to ever admit. I killed and killed and killed, any time I was asked.

  Every chance I got.

  Told myself at the time that I didn’t have a choice. I was following orders. My country needed me to succeed.

  I’ll carry the stain of that in my soul until my death, and if my Lord decides not to forgive me, it wouldn’t surprise me.

  The fact that I feel like grabbing these men lusting after Athaliah and slamming their faces into the buildings until there’s nothing left is even mor
e monstrous.

  I’d rather see them dead than touching her.

  I’m possessive of her.

  A woman who doesn’t belong to me.

  Why? Because I want her to.

  It should be enough to stop this mad quest. To send me back in the direction I came from and straight into church.

  To beg Father Raul to take my confession, where I’ll have to bare this awful shame.

  Instead, I continue following her.

  What am I going to do once she arrives at whatever her destination is? Considering I spent last night dreaming about my face between her legs, I don’t think I can answer that.

  Maybe eight to ten blocks from the farmer’s market, we arrive at a row of townhouses, in the same style as those in the city. They seem to be fairly new constructions, another achievement in the borough’s quest for gentrification.

  I’m not surprised when I see her begin to ascend the steps of the home in the middle of the block.

  Everything about her screamed money. Refinement. Even her camel-colored coat is elegant in its simplicity.

  There’s another man awaiting her in front of that door, and that sure as hell sucker punches me in the gut.

  “Took you long enough,” he says, practically fidgeting, every inch of him strained. “We agreed to meet at a certain time for a reason.”

  “Relax.” Athaliah takes her keys out of her bag. “I’m only five minutes late.”

  “I don’t know what you’ve done to me, whore, but leaving me waiting like this is unacceptable.” He wraps an arm around her and slams her against his body. “You’re lucky I’m itching to be your repeat customer.”

  She’s taken, is my first sickening thought.

  Then, two words sink in.

  Whore.

  Customer.

  Am I watching some twisted role-playing between her and her boyfriend, husband, whatever the hell he is?

  “I don’t do repeat customers, so after tonight you better get that through your head. I’m only allowing this second session as a favor to your boss. Remember that.” She tries pushing him back to put her key in the door—

  He yanks it out of her hand, at the same time tugging on her hair with his free hand, and rushes to open it for her. “I’ve been fucking sick since that first time. Got tested and everything. I’m clean and that means so are you. So whatever is going on with me, it better end tonight.” He all but manhandles her inside, slamming the door shut.

  Leaving me rooted to the spot.

  What did I just witness? Was it real? An act?

  Is Athaliah . . . a prostitute?

  In the name of God, just what exactly is going on here?

  Chapter Five

  She’s a prostitute.

  Rain bashes the windows of my room. The world outside is frighteningly dark for the hour—1:22pm according to the clock on my wall—and it’s a perfect match for my reality.

  My mood.

  My psyche.

  I’m trapped on my bed, fighting off a bad flu as far as the parish is concerned.

  I didn’t allow the doctor they called to do the nasal swab to prove it. Let them maintain their belief. It’s better than the alternative.

  This isn’t the flu.

  Maybe it’s a new strain, but last time I checked, the flu doesn’t cause massive hallucinations.

  Unending erections.

  An unexplainable phenomenon that began this morning and I can’t even bare to think about.

  Blood sweat.

  Shivering, I sit up against my plain headboard. The lights are off, only the flashes of lightning providing brief illumination.

  Revealing the horrors upon my skin.

  My sheets.

  My wall.

  Maybe the blood on the wall is imagined—I pray with every fiber of my being that the drops of red I see on my arms are, too—but I’m this close to calling an ambulance for myself.

  Maybe that’s what I need. A seventy-two hour hold. A psychological evaluation that’ll prove this is nothing more than madness.

  As far as I know, no one in my immediate family has suffered from mental illness, but perhaps I’m the first.

  It’s her. She’s the cause.

  Athaliah, the woman who sells herself to whoever is willing to pay.

  How do I know this?

  I continued to follow her. Not just one night. I found excuses to leave the church four more times in the last week.

  The priest has become a stalker.

  Like a psychopath in the night, I trailed her back to her apartment and watched as she welcomed different men inside.

  Caught enough of their conversations to pick up on the transactional nature of their business together.

  Saw them practically forming at the mouth, their hands all over her as they went inside.

  Her clientele.

  Fools, just like me

  I’m worse. I’m a man of God, sworn to a life of purity and service, and I haven’t touched her as they have.

  I wish that didn’t burn me as much as it does.

  Another shiver racks me and drops of sweat leak down the sides of my face. Distracted, I forget what they are and I swipe at my face.

  My hand comes away streaked by red. A wretched sound gets stuck in my throat, only the fear of being overheard and found like this keeping it at bay.

  I grew up in a modern world, believed myself more logical than superstitious. Of course, then I became devout to my calling, to the teachings of our Lord.

  There’s an internal struggle within me, and it isn’t only because of my desire to have Athaliah’s hands all over me, easing this destructive ache.

  The old-me refuses to believe that what’s happening to me is real.

  The priest in me can only admit that what’s happening is unholy.

  She is unholy.

  Something about this entire experience just isn’t right. I’m not just a mortal man being shoved up against the blade of lust and desire. What’s happening to my body goes beyond that.

  My Lord has condemned me.

  Only one affliction that’s been studied by Catholic scholars and the Vatican alike comes close to this, and that happens to be Stigmata.

  I’m not bleeding from the sites of Christ’s wounds, though. It’s my entire skin sweating blood. Is the information I have on Stigmata incorrect?

  Lightning flashes, brightening the room, and suddenly I don’t care. I’m brutally exhausted. All I want to do is sleep.

  Yet sleeping leaves me vulnerable to the dreams. The ones where creatures from the pits of hell come to me and start whispering about how wrong my life is.

  Last night, it was a woman on a throne surrounded by death. She kept insisting it was time to leave this path. Time to serve her. Time to admit that this sacrifice was born out of grief, not conviction.

  Then, there were the visions of Athaliah in some ancient time, fighting among an army of men.

  She repeated the same message, yet she’d seemed actually heartbroken about it.

  Two different women.

  A specter of death and a living representation of lust.

  Both claim to own a part of me.

  Both want to see me fail.

  “Christ, I really am going mad.” I press my hands against my face, praying for the millionth time.

  Praying. Praying. That’s all I do nowadays.

  And fucking ache.

  My cock is constantly hard, the kind of erection that boggles the mind. I’m aware that it’s been years since I stopped seeking physical pleasure. Years since I came.

  Perhaps this is what happens when a body awakens after years of deprivation.

  It throbs, desperate. The only thing I can claim to my credit is that I haven’t given in.

  Not to her.

  Not to the urge to pleasure myself.

  But I want to.

  God, I do.

  A fleeting thought goes through my mind. Maybe if I do, I can purge this from my body.

&nb
sp; Idiot. It’s a slippery slope. Once I start down that path, it’ll be impossible to get back off.

  I know that now. I’ve missed sex too much. Didn’t think about it before, yet it’s brutally obvious now.

  The need to come is savage.

  Soon, I won’t have a choice in the matter.

  Every inch of my skin is hypersensitive. Just feeling the covers gliding over my slick flesh leaves me dangling on the edge.

  It’s wrong. I won’t give in. Not here. Not in this sacred place. Not with the cross above my head.

  “Whatever I did to deserve this, forgive me,” I mumble to God, throwing the covers off. My plan is to wash off the blood. Pray for however many hours is necessary. Mental fortitude and humility of soul are going to have to be enough to get this under control.

  My feet touch the cool, wooden floor. One heavy step at a time, I drag myself toward my small, private bathroom.

  I should’ve stayed in bed.

  I still don’t know where she’s coming from, but every night, like clockwork, she walks past the farmer’s market and toward her place.

  Like every night for a fucking week, I’m trailing after her.

  I snuck out of the rectory instead of heading to mass.

  If anyone checks my room to see how I’m doing, they’ll find me gone.

  One step closer to ruining my life.

  All for a woman I haven’t even tasted.

  My dick throbs within my black dress pants as the thought threatens to consume me with every step I take.

  Today, I’m more cautious than I’ve ever been. I found an old hoodie of mine deep in my dresser. I only kept it because it was a gift from my mom.

  Pulling on the draw strings, I tighten the hood over my head. It’s as much an attempt at hiding as a necessity at this point.

  An hour in freezing water tamed some of the sweating, but not all.

  Drops of blood kept appearing in said sweat.

  And, yet, instead of being in the hospital, like any sane person would, I’m trailing after Athaliah.

  Watching men once again lose their minds for her.

  Knowing that she’ll once again be meeting another “customer” at her front door.

  My mind flashes to the first one I saw. He’d been sick. He’d blamed her for it.