Kinda dead. Straight-up psycho. Totally obsessed with her.

I did a bad, bad thing.

Thanks to a blank in my memory, I’m not sure what that thing was, but it was horrible enough to get me locked up in the mental ward for seven years. Horrible enough that my little sister won’t even speak to me.

But when I’m released back into a town determined to rub my unknown sins in my face, the past isn’t the only thing that’s haunting me. The four “imaginary” friends who made my childhood bearable barge into my life in a very real way.

They’re crude, criminally inclined, and more than a little unstable after ages trapped in afterlife limbo. All they want is to protect me. Worship me. Avenge me.

So they’ll bludgeon, maim, eviscerate—tear a strip of havoc right through this sleepy town.

Even rise from the dead.

Maybe I’m still not all that sane either, because part of me finds them strangely appealing. In ways very different from how I felt as a kid. And that’s not the only strangeness stirring inside me…

I promised myself I’d stick to the straight and narrow from here on. But what if the only way to set things right is to get a little ghoulish?

*The Stalking Dead is the first in a darkly humorous new paranormal romance series by bestselling author Eva Chase. If you love sarcastic heroines with unexpected powers, obsessive supernatural men who’ll do anything to defend their woman, and plenty of mystery and mayhem, dive right in!*


“Eight years in a mental hospital, and they still didn’t manage to teach you to keep your hands to yourself, you crazy cunt?” the jerk snapped, patting himself down as if checking to see if I’d somehow picked his pockets with my elbow. Which would have made me some kind of genius thief more than a psychopath, but whatever, not worth mentioning.

I also restrained myself from correcting him that it was seven years, opening my mouth to instead repeat my hollow apology, but I didn’t get the chance to do even that.

“What the fuck did you call her?” Ansel snarled, switching from exuberant puppy to rabid pitbull in an instant. He slammed his hand into the guy’s throat and somehow lifted him right off his feet so the guy’s trainers dangled inches off the ground.

The guy gurgled and flailed, unable to answer the question, not that I expected he wanted to admit to what he’d said right now. People in the crowd near us turned to see what the commotion was, with a chorus of gasps and squeals of horror—and, let’s be real, maybe a little excitement. I’d lost my breath and my voice entirely, my jaw hanging open so far you could have stuffed a bowling ball in there.

“That’s what I thought,” Ansel said, still in that feral tone, and tossed the guy aside like he was an inflatable dummy rather than an actual human being. The crowd parted, none of them wanting to face a collision, and he thumped to the ground in their midst, right on his sorry ass. And oh boy, did he look sorry.

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