Parasocial Activity

Don’t get too close to your fans - a short horror story.

Photo & Text all rights reserved © Saint-Lazare, 2025.

You first met her at one of your book signatures. You think it was in Boston, at the end of September. You were distracted by the traffic on Kenmore through the window, and then you heard her whispering: “Do you spend a lot of time at the gym?”

You remember shrugging. It was a benign catchphrase, even if the voice was lusciously warm. You feigned indifference and gave her back your signed book. To Limerence.

You lingered a little bit after the signature, joking with the bookstore’s employees and your French friend who also happened to be a writer.

Limerence kept circling around you, touching books with a calculated languor.

Your friend whispered: “I know the type. We have lots of them in France. Believe me, don’t buy the ticket, don’t take the ride, you could lose more than a finger.”

You laughed loudly, maybe a little drunk with exhaustion and social interactions. And then, you completely forgot about the encounter.

A month later, you were waiting for your partner in a dinner in downtown Providence, your eyes alternating between the heavy rain outside, your depressing soup, and your watch. Suddenly, someone wet sat on the mint vinyl banquette in front of you, even though the place was empty. The nerve, you thought.

“Do you recognize me?” She purred.

She looked like a puppy with her wet hair, her drenched coat, and her awkward grin. At first, you pitied her.

“You remind me of my parents.” She stated, without waiting for your answer.

The declaration hurt your ego. She looked like, what? At worst, twenty-five. The idea of looking like a parental figure already depressed you, but she had more.

“I want to have sex with you.”

“I thought I reminded you of your parents!” You protested, bewildered.

“Precisely.” She retorted, with a cheeky look.

Oh boy. Of course, she had to read your book. Was this the kind of person who would read you? You shivered. Did she really think that her confession would turn you on? Limerence looked like a creature out of a Philip Roth’s book – and this was concerning to you. Plus, your partner could walk through the door at any moment.

While putting on your coat, you lectured her on the danger of parasocial relationships and of hyper-fixation, and you left the dinner to intercept your companion before a bothersome encounter.

Later that day, you checked her social profile and realized that she followed most of your personal contacts. You remembered your friend’s advice. In a fit of panic, you temporarily deactivated your account and avoided checking your mailbox. And yet, again, you forgot about Limerence.

Then, the letters began. The first one came through your agent.

“Meet me at the _ Hotel in _ tonight, 8PM. We will have sex.”

The second one arrived at your workplace, and your colleagues got to it first. They handed it to you with a judgmental look, which paralyzed you with shame.

“We are meant to be together. I need to fuck with you to free myself. It is written between the lines of your book: can’t you see it? I will be in front of your office at 6PM.”

At 6PM, you were at home, and spelt the Limerence beans to your other half. They were uncomfortable, but not in the same way your French friend had been.

“She’s a stalker, it can degenerate, you need to call the police and a lawyer!” They screamed.

“Wow, wow, wow!” You stopped them, slapped in the face by the reality of their words.

“Isn’t it a little too dramatic? I mean, she probably misinterpreted my reaction… I should just make it clear to her, be firm. She may need some psychological help, I know someone…”

Your partner widened their eyes.

“What are you afraid of? To be seen as uncool by your fans?”

Their reaction took you aback, and of course, when you were caught off guard, you did not control your emotions or your words. You both went to bed angry. Yet you continued to sincerely believe in your suggestion, and fell asleep satisfied that you were an altruistic person, seeking solutions for the well-being of all.

The next morning, there was a small package for you in your mailbox.

When you opened it, you let out a shriek.

It contained a freshly cut tongue.

In shock, you could not take your eyes off the inside lid, where a psychotic finger had traced words in blood. “We need to talk.”

You heard your partner's car return, and the sound of the handbrake echoed through the door. Without knowing what you were doing, you rushed to your desk and locked the macabre parcel in a drawer.

“I took us croissants!” They called from the kitchen. A traditional gesture of peace for you both. You did your best to be sensitive to it, but the tongue titillated the back of your thoughts as you chewed your pastry. A kiss, and your significant other left for work, leaving you alone in your silent home.

And then, a muffled voice hisses your name.

Your blood runs cold. It is coming from your office. Running your sweaty palm over your face, you mechanically brush the croissant crumbs from your chin.

“Why-y don’t you co-ome and ta-alk with me-e?” It insists.

You no longer seem in control of your steps. Heavily, you walk over to the desk and, with a trembling hand, open the drawer. In its open package, the tongue unrolls and twists. Shaken, you notice that it is bigger. No, not bigger, but now with its epiglottis. Something had grown back from the amputated organ.

“App-proach-ch. C-come a-and k-kiss your lo-lover.”

The squirming muscle salivates, soaking the cardboard. Your throat dries, then, almost as a result of the communicating vessel principle, fills with warm, sweet drool. Your body twists abruptly and you vomit onto the floor.

The voice rises from the drawer, more aggrieved and ringing.

“So-o, is th-this h-how you react t-to your mis-s-stress c-coming to off-ffer hers-s-self to you!”

A quick glance before you withdraw shows you that a palate is forming, with a gelatinous noise.

“This can’t be real. That’s not real.” You mutter.

“N-n-not-t r-r-real-al?” The voice screeches, its staccato increasing. “W-why d-do y-you s-s-say s-s-such hurtf-ful th-things t-to s-s-someo-one w-who love-s-s-s y-you?”

Your heart sinks. The outrage, the betrayal you hear in the voice pierce your guts. This thing seems so fragile, shaking pathetically in its own juices, you feel helpless, guilty. Horribly guilty of having done so much harm.

A sob comes from the open drawer, gentle and heartbreaking.

“J-just one touch, t-that’s all I want. I… I demand t-that you t-touch me, my lover.”

It sounds so warm now, as enveloping as it was in Boston. In a flash of memory, you see Limerence again, her demure lips, her frail body. You took pity on her in Providence. Shyly, you lean toward the package. The lips are there, their corners twitching with sorrow, but smiling nonetheless. You move a finger forward to caress them. Their flesh is muscled, but cushiony and burning. Their touch feels gentle and you pat them with kindness, as you would pat the nose of a sick animal.

Again, your altruistic pride got the better of you, and you gasp as the mouth contracts its jiggling muscles and bit you violently. You had never known such pain, and it stuns you. You raise your hand towards yourself, a geyser of blood spurting out. Where you once had five fingers, now there are only four. Stunned, you cannot take your eyes off the sudden loss, even when you hear a gelatinous solid slide alongside your desk. You feel a warm cheek against your ankle. Then the mastication begins.

Damn French, you think, why are they always so right?

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