Stalkers: A Dark Romance Anthology

by Ally Vance

  By my own belief system, both the old and the new, what I’m encountering now must be a punishment.

  Perhaps even a test, as I imagined before.

  But what in the hell did I ever do to deserve it?

  The door to my bedroom closes behind me with a loud clap. Through the small, open window, a ray of sunlight beams into the room and illuminates the spartan space. The upper part of the walls are white; dark wood, nearly black, accentuates the lower half. In the corner, where two walls meet, is my twin sized bed, the sheets perfect and orderly.

  Not just because I’m a priest. It was a habit drilled into me at boot camp, too.

  Straight ahead of me, nailed to the wall, is another crucifix in the same dark color.

  I can’t even stare at it. A sinner like me shouldn’t be allowed.

  Yes, it’s an opinion that shouldn’t apply. All of God’s children sin. We are all worthy of his forgiveness. Yet I took a sacred oath. I am entrusted with guiding lost souls back to our father’s loving light.

  And here I stand, my heartbeat between my legs, consumed by a hunger I haven’t felt in ages.

  It’s every bit of restrained lust I didn’t even know I had bottled up inside me, unleashed in a single wave. I’m shaking from it. Sweating.

  It’s powerful enough to almost make me feel sick to my stomach.

  I slide my hand through my blond hair. It’s long again, perhaps longer than it should be for my vocation, the ends brushing the bottom of my neck.

  It’s an oversight, one that would normally distract me.

  All I can think about is “Thali’s” nails sinking into my back as I punish her with my body.

  “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid,” I grumble, walking toward the bed. The last thing I need is to start using her nickname while thinking about her.

  Why did she give it to me?

  Why do I care?

  I’ve seen the woman twice, spoken to her only once, and she’s devolved me into this.

  Sitting on my bed, I grip the edges and dip my head. My breaths are too hard to contain, no matter how much I try. Seconds tick by, blood rushing in my ears. Eyes closed, I battle the aching madness.

  Command the animal back into submission.

  But closing my eyes only serves to engrain the vision of her in my head. Her dark eyes. Her red-stained lips.

  It’s been so long I don’t even remember what a woman’s lips feel like on my own.

  On my skin.

  On my . . .

  I snap my eyes open before I can go there.

  Clearly, my body is failing me. Perhaps my spirit’s begun to show signs of frailty, as well. Either way, what willpower alone can’t conquer, one must place in the hands of prayer.

  I fall to my knees, directly below the crucifix on the wall, and bow my head in subservience to the master I pledged to serve.

  Hands clutched together, I give into a sense of burgeoning despair. “Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now, and at the hour of death.”

  It’s supposed to be a prayer of devotion to the faith. And, yet, it doesn’t help me forget my predicament. The absolute insanity of this.

  I’ve barely exchanged a handful of words with her, and here she has me, begging for salvation on my knees before my God.

  My slick palms slide against each other. I pause to rub them against my thighs. Once they’re as dry as they’re going to get, I clasp them in prayer once more. “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name . . .”

  On and on it goes. For an incalculable amount of time. In the back of my mind, I’m aware that day time is starting to dim as the sun begins to set.

  Not a single thing I do makes any of this easier.

  There doesn’t seem to be a force in existence that can ease my confusion.

  Frustration.

  A wild need to rut that makes me feel like nothing more than an animal, far removed from the devout, in control man I’m supposed to be.

  “ . . . forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.” That last word leaves my mouth and I’m overcome by a harrowing vision behind my closed eyelids.

  Blood.

  So much blood.

  Rivers and rivers of it.

  It covers the walls of my church, leaking from the arches bisecting the ceiling. A grotesque, dark red sludge that trickles down in rivulets toward the black floor.

  Choking on a gasp, I reel backward, eyes wide. I land in a sitting position on the floor, head jerking from side to side.

  Looking for evidence of the blood tide.

  There’s none. Just the clean, austere lines of my bedroom.

  What in the name of the Lord . . .

  I won’t claim that I wasn’t a believer growing up. Clearly, I was, or I wouldn’t have spent so much time railing against God for what I perceived as his leniency to evildoers. Who would argue with anyone that they don’t believe is there?

  The passion and serenity came later. After I returned from the war. After I began seminary.

  After I swore to fulfil Charlie’s calling in honor of his sacrifice and death.

  I am still a believer now, with every fiber of my being, and fear hammers alongside the brutal beats of my heart.

  First she walks into my church and reawakens my desires of the flesh.

  Now . . . that awful vision.

  It’s a test. Definitely a test.

  But a test sent by whom?

  Shaking, I raise my eyes to stare up at the cross above my head.

  Even if I had retained an ounce of doubt—a doubt that infects the modern populace more and more these days—the current state of my life washes it away in a deluge of certainty and terror.

  This woman named after a daughter of Jezebel came into my church to try me.

  Perhaps to ruin me.

  A logical corner of my mind scoffs at the thought, wondering how any woman could ever have the power.

  Yet God works in mysterious ways, right?

  As a matter of fact, so does the Devil.

  To which does she belong? Which of them sent her my way?

  Or is she just a regular, Earthly woman that stumbled onto my path and showed me that I’m still a regular, Earthly man with the base desires of one?

  A knock on my bedroom door interrupts my feverish thoughts. “Father Logan, are you in there? I-I’m sorry to intrude. We’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

  Sister Evelyn.

  I wipe the sweat off my forehead with my sleeve and hurry to stand. “Yes, Sister. I’ll be just a moment. Is everything alright?” It’s a surprise how steady my voice sounds considering my eyes continue to dart about, seeking signs of blood on the walls.

  “Father Raul sent me to get you. There seems to have been an incident during mass tonight. We need you right away.”

  Two days later

  The incident turned out to be Mr. Harris, an eighty-four-year-old devotee to our church. He stood up at the end of mass, made it out of the pews into the nave, and collapsed.

  Ms. Garza said she heard him slurring during the last lines of his prayer. Most people engage in silent prayer, yet Mr. Harris usually mumbled it to himself.

  What she claims left us worried it might be a stroke. His health has been on a serious decline the last six months.

  No news, yet. We haven’t heard anything since the ambulance took him from here two nights ago.

  I send up another prayer on his and his family’s behalf. In the end, however, it’ll be up to our Lord. Especially with Mr. Harris’ advanced age. Something tells me only divine will can save him now.

  Opening the side door that leads to the space between the apse and the altar, I step out into the open, eyes moving over the mostly empty interior of that—

  Lord save me.

  She’s back.

  Tha
li is a lonely figure at the far back of the church, which seems to be usual for her, and my entire world shakes at the sight of her.

  Or perhaps it’s the church that rocks on its foundations, the massive columns swaying before my eyes.

  More madness.

  Is that what’s happening to me? Am I going insane?

  History and the Bible speak of such enchantments. Of women capable of bringing a man down to such depths.

  Doesn’t matter. The point is that she’s here. She’s eyeing me. She’s focused on me.

  And I’m due inside the confessional in minutes.

  When, to be honest, I’m the one who should be giving the confession, not the one taking them.

  Chapter Three

  I ignore her. Doing so turns out to be a test in and of itself, but I succeed.

  At least in actuality. I’m currently sitting within the dim confines of the confessional, waiting for the first penitent of the night, and I swear my skin itches with the urge to go to her.

  Athaliah.

  Thali.

  Both versions entice me. I’ve only rolled them around in my head, haven’t had a chance to taste her name on my tongue, yet I find myself loving her name the more I think about it.

  My legs bounce with pent up energy. My entire body is buzzing with it. In mere days, I’ve shamed my calling in ways that are unimaginable, and I haven’t even committed the ultimate sin, yet.

  Yet.

  As if it’s a far gone conclusion.

  Have I given up already?

  No. I haven’t. That’s a certainty. Although my experience with women didn’t extend far, there’s one thing I do remember about the old me: when he wanted someone, he went after that woman. No holds barred.

  I wouldn’t be shaking like a fool in this confessional if I had given up.

  I’d be walking toward her. Sitting in that pew. Leaning into her and running my nose along her ear, inhaling that delicious scent and following the same path with my li—

  It’s happening again. I’m having those thoughts inside my church. No. Worse. I’m sinning inside the confessional as I await a repentant parishioner who is supposed to unload their own sins to me.

  I shift on the seat, stifling a curse as I swell in my pants. Within moments, they’re too tight, the material pulling taut along my length.

  It’s been so long. So, so long. I had forgotten how powerful the urge can be. How the mind goes blank and focuses on only one thing—the need to come.

  I wipe my brow with my sleeve. Grind my teeth. Squeeze my eyes shut and count to ten.

  When I open them, I’m frozen with terror anew.

  There’s blood in the confessional.

  Blood leaking from the ceiling down the walls.

  Blood . . . on me.

  I raise my shaking hands and see the red drops sliding down toward my wrists—

  The curtain on the other side of the confessional opens.

  I blink, startled, and the blood is gone once again.

  It’s a disorienting turn of events, followed by another sucker punch to the senses. My nostrils flare with that scent that I’ve already come to associate with her.

  I stare straight ahead, but out of the corner of my eye I see her blonde hair as she settles into the seat.

  Not her. Not her. Not her, is the only thing going through my mind, and although it hasn’t happened since I took my first confession, I entertain the idea of running out of the booth.

  “I’ve never quite done this before,” she murmurs. “I’m supposed to kneel here, yes?”

  No! I want to shout. Go away. Leave. Never come back. Let me return to my safe, ordered life. My blessed calling.

  The words are stuck in my throat, trapped there by either my stupor or my growing terror.

  “I think I remember how this begins from what I’ve seen on TV,” Athaliah says in that same low voice, speaking more to herself than to me.

  It’s an adorable tone, like a child self-instructing their way through a task.

  I shouldn’t even be able to notice something like that in my current state of mind.

  Out of my peripheral, I see her kneeling in front of the screen divider, her hands clasped before her. “Forgive me, Father, for I have—”

  “Don’t do that. Stop.” It’s a barked command, one I hope isn’t loud enough to be heard throughout the nave.

  Athaliah pauses, an utter stillness coming over her. “You will not take my confession although your faith—and your calling—decrees it?”

  Her speech is proper. Perfect. Almost old-fashioned, even. Definitely out of place for this location and time.

  She’s beautiful on an otherworldly level. It shouldn’t surprise me that she’s refined, as well.

  “Your faith.”

  It shouldn’t surprise me that she isn’t Catholic, either. I knew she wasn’t the first night she came in here. She stared up at the Christ on the Cross with a quiet, desperate longing I’ve seen many times—in the eyes of those that don’t believe, yet ache to connect to our Lord’s higher glory.

  It called me to her as much as her gorgeous looks.

  The internal struggle that ensues due to her comment is as much about my faith as it is about self-control.

  I cannot turn her down. She’s right. Even if it kills me, I have to sit through this confession. It’s the right thing to do.

  It’s what I was called to do, isn’t it?

  Of course. I swore to help lost souls upon my brother’s death. To accomplish in this world what he didn’t get a chance to do.

  But what are her motivations? Is she doing this to try and connect with God? Or is this because she knows I want her here, as she previously claimed?

  “Shall I continue?” she asks politely after another few moments.

  I stiffen in my seat, aching at her nearness, and swallow in an effort to loosen my throat.

  Taking my silence as permission, she shifts on the step and readjusts her clasped hands. “Now, where were we? . . . Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned . . .”

  My guidance. That’s what she’s waiting for. Instruction on how to continue. “It’s—been . . . you’re supposed to tell me how long it’s been since your last confession.”

  “I’ve never confessed.”

  Somehow, that doesn’t seem like a newsflash to me. “Then you follow it with ‘These are all my sins’ and you list them out.”

  “What if they’re too many to unload in a single session? What then, Logan?”

  “Father,” I snap, frustration mounting as I try to get my bearings straight. I still haven’t looked straight at her face.

  Her stare is magnetic.

  Hot.

  It calls to me at the same time that I feel it on my profile.

  Learning me.

  Invading me.

  Goading me.

  “What happens when the sins span too far in time to be listed in a single setting, Father. According to your religion, what happens to the sinner then? Are they beyond redemption?”

  “No one is beyond redemption,” I say automatically.

  By rote, if I’m honest.

  Do I really believe that? Sitting here, mind-spinning and confused, body aching to do crazy, possibly disturbing things to her, do I really?

  “Then what is one supposed to do to earn your God’s forgiveness?”

  That answer is easy. It’s the answer we always give and the only one that matters. I turn my head to finally stare at her, the word leaving me on an exhale. “Repen—” I don’t get to finish the word.

  On the other side of the small window with its criss-cross mesh, her eyes are glowing bright hazel.

  Air fails me and I can’t make a sound. I throw myself back against the wall of the confessional. Blink.

  Her eyes are . . . normal.

  Dark brown.

  What the fuck is wrong with me?

  Again, wholly inappropriate, yet the question must be asked.

  Among others.

&
nbsp; “What are you doing here? For real.” It’s scary how fast my dialect is slipping back into its old form.

  “I told you.” Her demeanor changes from serenity to that quiet, sad longing I witnessed the first night she appeared here. “You want me here.”

  “I didn’t even know you existed until you came,” I growl, furious with her.

  “True. That night . . . that night I was curious as to all this.” Athaliah motions to the world beyond the confessional; the cathedral I’ve come to love with every bit of my soul. “Why is it that your kind has become so enamored with these ideas.”

  Your kind. What exactly does she mean by that? “They aren’t ideas.”

  “Forgive me. Religion.” Her eyes twinkle with a teasing light, although she purses her lips to maintain a serious expression.

  “Yes, religion. But also facts.”

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Of course I am! I wouldn’t be what I am if I wasn’t.”

  That God is real. That his teachings matter. That we must all abide by them to save our eternal souls.

  “Are. You. Sure. About. That?” She repeats slowly, one soft spoken word at a time.

  It’s like an anvil aimed straight at the core of my psyche. Of everything I consist of. Every ounce of my beliefs.

  Because, I am a believer of God. Of the teachings.

  There’s . . . just some parts that don’t make sense. Bits that I’ve chalked up to human error. The gospels were written by man and we are flawed in our interpretation of things at times.

  But how could she know this?

  I analyze this beautiful, dangerous creature, feeling violated.

  Haunted.

  Stalked.

  There’s no way she could. Not unless she’s some sort of mind reader, which of course would be ridiculous.

  Unless she’s exactly what I imagined her to be. A being sent by either heaven or hell to wreak havoc on my life.

  In a moment of blind, self-protective impulse, I throw all duty out the window and opt for self-preservation. “I want you to leave. Go. Get out of my church. Don’t ever come back.”

  Athaliah blinks as if I’ve slapped her. Her confusion is real, raw, and the concern that follows leaves me addled once more. “But . . . but you won’t survive it. Not at this point. It’s”—she places her hand against the grate, brow furrowed—“too late for you at this point.”