Tis the Season for Stalker Stalked

 

Lee Matthew Goldberg's Stalker Stalked released this September. 

Go and grab yourself a copy here.

Lee recommends mixing up a drink when cracking open this reality thriller. Check out the deets on the cocktail below: 

Blood and Sand Cocktail

 

·        3/4 ounce scotch

·        3/4 ounce sweet vermouth

·        3/4 ounce Heering cherry liqueur

·        3/4 ounce orange juice, freshly squeezed

·        Garnish: orange peel

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Check out Chapter one: 

I am being watched.

 This is not the first time. My stalker is smart, just like I would be. He or she finds the shadows. Shows up when I’m wasted or popped too many little blue pills. So I’ll be far enough away from reality to believe they are real. When I’m sleeping, they’re at the foot of my bed, exhaling in the dark. When I turn on the light, they scatter like a cockroach. I pick up the phone and hear their crackle on the other end. Both of us playing chicken, refusing to hang up while we breathe in each other’s pain. They left a DIE BITCH message on my door, written in blood, or at least syrup that looks like blood. They will ramp up their pursuit and attack when I least expect. I know this because that is what I would do.

 As I get to my door, I check to the left and the right to locate my watcher. Sometimes when I don’t feel their presence, it makes me sad. Like I’ve done something wrong, become unworthy of their watching. Years of little blue pills make me muddy and the few vodka crans I drank toss me from side to side like I’m on a boat. I jam my key into the door and turn the lock.

 My cat Sammi greets me with her marshmallow fur and drawn-out meows. Her admonishing ways. Maybe I hadn’t refilled her food bowl or scooped out the shit from her litter box. I’m sorry, Sammi, I’ve been busy trying not to die. She curls around my leg and gives an electric shock. My one true friend starting to turn because of my negligence. As I flick on the light, my eyes shut in case my watcher has gotten inside. But when I open them, only my sad apartment stares back. A bed in the corner with messed sheets. A couch facing the TV where I spend most of my time. Cheese-It crumbs and Oreo smears. Cat hair and balled-up Kleenex. I grab a pint of peanut butter swirl, take off my high heels, and flop down, fixing my skirt.

 I put my tired dogs on the coffee table between the TV and the couch that holds a bowl with loose change, keys, a sooty pipe, and an old bag of cool ranch. I dig a spoon into the ice cream and observe my toes that look like Vienna sausages. I’d painted them lavender but it was a while ago and the polish started to chip like a little girl’s toenails. I turn on the TV to the latest episode of Socialites, where Magnolia Artois is hosting a charity event for furless dogs. Her friend Taylor RSVP’d that she’s coming, but hasn’t showed. The drama! It turns out that Nikki says Taylor is going to Bella’s dog event that night, who’s Magnolia’s rival from last season and had been kicked off of the show because of the abortion she lied about. (The baby never even existed.) As the opening credits roll, I hear a streaking sound from behind like someone’s cleaning my window. I’d left it open a crack, and I peer outside to see the leaves of the tree swaying in a light breeze.

 I go to shut the window when a crash booms from my kitchen. A glass knocked over, shattering on the floor.

 “Sammi,” I yell, but the cat is right beside me, her tail batting against the cushion, warning me.

My throat closes up. I wrench the spoon from the melting Ben & Jerry’s and thrust it at my pursuer. I’ll scoop their eyes out if need be. A car drives by casting its headlights over the TV where Magnolia and her frenemies are entering into a war of choosing sides between Bella and her. Sammi doesn’t bother protecting me and darts off into a corner.

 Another glass shatters.

 The kitchen bathed in darkness, but a shadow takes shape. Tall and imposing, although that could be my little blue pills making me see things.

Get it together. Get it together.

 “Lexi, Lexi,” the shadow coos. A long finger beckons me toward the kitchen. In the other hand, a gleaming knife. My hair stands on end as I dash for the front door, my bare feet picking up glass shards and creating a bloody streak toward my escape.

 I fling open the door but the watcher bangs it closed. Collects my tears as I collapse in its arms, the knife at my neck ready to end me for good.

 My stalker with all the power.

 Even I would’ve never gone this far.