Occult Assassin: The Complete Series (Books 1-6)

by William Massa

  Until now.

  He dimly recalled two lovely girls chatting him up at the bar. He had bought them drinks, the place had started spinning… And that’s when the memories stopped. He must’ve passed out, but why? He considered himself a seasoned drinker; a few Negronis wouldn’t knock him off his feet.

  There was only one explanation: Someone must’ve spiked his drink.

  It was absurd. Why would anyone kidnap him? Granted, Americans weren’t the most popular people around with many of the locals, but still… As some of the local girls had explained after a passionate night of lovemaking, people from the US were spoiled, arrogant, and loud—but also a lot of fun and good in the sack. Young people might be drawn to them, but the older population considered them a cultural blight. Travis had received confirmation of this a few nights earlier when he had stumbled drunkenly through the city’s streets, one of his buddies singing at the top of his lungs. A window above them opened, and a disgruntled Florentian dumped a bucket of ice-cold water on top of them. They’d laughed their asses off at the time, but what if some local felt water wasn’t enough to teach the foreigners a lesson?

  Clenching his teeth, he kicked and slammed the wooden ceiling of the box with all his might. This time, the lid popped open. Harsh light flooded in. Travis blinked, shielding his eyes, and recognized with horror that he’d been trapped in a coffin all this time.

  He scrambled out of the casket as fast as possible, shaking all over. What the fuck? Was this some sick joke? For a second, he expected his guffawing buddies to pop out from behind the coffin and provide him with a legitimate reason to punch their lights out. But no human laughter joined in with his anxiety-ridden gasps.

  As his breathing normalized, he began to inspect his environment more carefully. He was inside an immense high-ceilinged warehouse. Murky light shafted into the cavernous space through a series of skylights, revealing a sight that made his blood run cold. Everywhere he turned, rows upon rows of coffins stretched out before him, an eerie maze of death. They came in all shapes, sizes and materials: wood, metal, and even fiberglass. Some were elaborately adorned while others appeared simple and basic.

  This place was a museum dedicated to the art of coffin making.

  Inhaling deeply to stave off his fear, Travis stumbled through the grotesque labyrinth, shaken by the morbid, surreal setting. He needed to find a way out.

  His searching gaze paused on an exotic glass sarcophagus. The outline of a man was barely discernible inside the coffin.

  Fighting back his terror, he approached the glass sarcophagus and caught a better look at the figure resting inside. Sunken, waxy features indifferently regarded the world, the skin covered by a thin veneer of paint, which gave the body a doll-like quality. But this was no doll; this man had once been alive. Another horrible idea occurred to him. What if this corpse wasn’t the only one? What if every one of these coffins contained a preserved body?

  A voice in his head told him to keep moving, but instead he closed in on the nearest casket, its faux-gold handles gleaming in the milky light filtering into the warehouse. Giving himself an internal push, Travis opened the lid and froze. The mummified remains of a woman stared back at him. Her empty eye sockets bored into Travis as if she blamed him for her horrific state.

  That did it. He’d seen enough…

  Travis whirled and ran. There had to be an exit somewhere.

  Behind him, he heard a noise. He slowed, his panicked gaze combing the warehouse.

  Was that movement behind a row of caskets?

  More footsteps echoed in the warehouse. They seemed to come from different sides of the labyrinth. That meant more than one person was stalking him. What sick game were these freaks playing?

  No time to dwell on it. Travis kept moving, trying to be as noiseless as possible as he navigated the maze. His mind grew blank as he arrived at the center of the warehouse, where another surreal sight awaited. A rectangular stretch of soil dominated the space, the cement floor giving way to a large patch of earth, about twenty feet long and ten feet wide. An ancient looking wooden casket rested in the middle of the plot, right next to an open grave.

  Something almost indefinable set this coffin apart from the others, a timeless, primal quality, almost as if it originated from another world. Strange symbols and sigils lined the coffin’s rough-hewn, organic-looking surface. The casket seemed imbued with unnatural life, almost as if it had been constructed from flesh and bone instead of wood. Travis’ skin grew clammy and bile rose in his throat, the coffin’s malevolent energy triggering a physical response. Acid churned in his gut.

  Another sound made Travis spin around.

  This time he caught a glimpse of one of his stalkers. A massive individual, built like a professional wrestler. The man was bald, his square head the size of a bowling ball with rough-hewn, almost malformed features. He looked like he belonged to a different species of human, a missing step in the evolutionary ladder perhaps. Travis’ heart thrashed against his ribcage as he spotted the pistol in the man’s grubby paw.

  More sounds rang out behind him, and two other figures peeled from the shadows of the coffins. One was tall and rail-thin, his hollow eyes regarding Travis with no emotion. The man next to him was normal-sized, but his pockmarked face held the same empty, soulless expression. The two men were dressed in expensive black suits, their polished exterior heightening instead of lessening their inherent savageness. Travis sensed these men hurt people for a living and weren’t fazed by much in this world. They carried their brutality like a badge of honor.

  Another pair of footsteps cut through the warehouse. He turned and saw an old, wizened creature approaching. The ringleader behind the freak show. Immaculately dressed, projecting wealth and refinement, the man had to be at least in his eighties or nineties. Long silver strands of hair clung to his liver-spotted skull, and gnarled fingers clawed a cane. A blinding white suit, black loafers, and red shirt oozed Italian style and sophistication. The tanned, wrinkled skin clashed with the fabric’s crisp sheen. Exotic rings adorned his bony fingers, and his gold watch glittered in the warehouse’s pale light.

  “Who are you? What do you want from me?” Travis’ voice sounded timid and terrified, and he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.

  Why provide these freaks with further satisfaction?

  Two of the men zeroed in on him. He flinched as they approached and backed away into the patch of soil. Powerful hands grabbed his arms and brusquely dragged him toward the waiting casket.

  “What the hell is this shit? Please, you can’t do this. Help! Someone—!”

  The words died on his lips as a fist snapped his head back. He spat blood.

  The third man removed the lid of the eerie coffin. Fear flickered over the goon’s features. The kidnapper visibly shared Travis’ atavistic revulsion for the coffin, and somehow that was the most terrifying thing yet.

  The lid landed in the dirt, the insides of the moldy coffin now revealed. Travis’ heart skipped a beat. The wooden box waiting for him wasn’t empty. Skeletal remains gleamed inside the casket, all flesh stripped clean from the yellowed bone. Travis couldn’t fathom the dark motives driving these men, but their intent was clear: they planned to put him in the strange coffin with the skeleton and bury him inside this fucked-up warehouse of horrors.

  As soon as the horrible certainty sliced through his mind, one of the goons brought the handle of his pistol down on Travis’s head. He slumped forward, hitting the ground face-first, his blood mixing with the earth. The white pants and expensive loafers of the old man came into view. The figure paused at the edge of the soil bed, seemingly eager for a front row seat but unwilling to get any dirt on those polished shoes.

  “Bury him,” the old man said in Italian.

  From his peripheral vision, Travis saw one of the men snatch a shovel. The other two goons dragged Travis to his feet. He protested and pulled away, so they pistol-whipped him again for good measure. The world swam in and out of focus as
it had the night before at the bar. That moment seemed so far away now, part of another reality. For a split second, he entertained the hope that it might all just be some nightmare. A warehouse full of coffins, the prospect of being buried alive, mummified corpses—this shit was text-book Freudian. But the sensation of his body being roughly lifted and dropped into the casket, the cracking of bones as his weight landed on the skeleton, the foul stench of the remains next to him... The tangible patina of reality felt too raw, too vivid to be a construct of his subconscious even if helped along by some potent Italian liqueur the night before. Not even a full bottle of absinthe could conjure such a fucked-up mindtrip.

  This shit was happening for real. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. He wanted to scream, but his lips didn’t work. The casket’s lid slammed shut, drenching him in renewed darkness.

  The next sensation was of one of movement as the goons heaved the casket toward the waiting hole. Moments later, Travis’ whole body shook as the coffin landed at the bottom of the freshly dug grave. The corpse’s bones poked into him, and his head bounced against the sealed lid. He weakly pounded the walls of the coffin, blood bubbling down his lips.

  The oppressive darkness sapped his will to live, to fight.

  A slight vibration of something hitting the casket. Dirt, Travis realized.

  They were beginning to fill up the grave. Bury him alive. A last vestige of survival instinct surged through his body. He pressed against the lid with all his strength, but it wouldn’t budge despite his efforts. Tears stung his eyes. His pitiful sobs filled the yawning darkness. More dirt kept landing on the coffin, but the sounds quickly became muffled.

  Distant.

  A strange feeling of peace and tranquility replaced his terror. Finally, the noise died down completely, the goons having completed their task. The stuffy air made him wonder how much oxygen was left in the casket. How long would he have? An hour? Thirty minutes?

  He remembered stories of people being buried alive, horrific tales of bodies being exhumed, revealing broken, bloodied nails—even bitten-off fingers or swallowed tongues. Travis didn’t want to go that way. Would he just pass out, or would each breath begin to slowly strangle him as the precious oxygen turned into poisonous carbon dioxide? He thought of his mother back in Florida, of his younger sister about to start college in the fall at NYU. He thought of the last girl he’d slept with, the beautiful and spirited Maria. He’d hoped to run into her again at the bar where they first met. God dammit, he was leaving so much behind.

  No, this couldn’t be happening, he wanted to live…

  Another sensation broke into his thoughts. Something stirred in the coffin. His hairs stood up as an icy hand closed around his throat. Maddened shrieks shattered the peaceful silence, and Travis realized he was hearing his own screams of terror.

  The hand tightened, crushed his throat, and strangled his desperate cries.

  Chapter 2

  NINETY-ONE YEAR old Marco Giallo observed in silence as his men dragged the American toward the waiting coffin. The art student was young and strong, a perfect specimen and well-suited for the ritual. For the coffin he would soon be buried in was no ordinary coffin. This was the casket of the famed German stage magician Bruno Zamora.

  Anticipation built inside of Giallo as the coffin descended into the grave. The boy would have at most an hour’s worth of oxygen. They would dig him up long before he would run out of air, though. Unlike Giallo’s previous victims, who now wiled eternity away in his collection, the plan wasn’t to kill the American. Ten minutes below ground should be enough to determine if all the stories about Zamora’s legendary coffin held any truth.

  As far back as Marco Giallo could remember, coffins had been part of his life. Giallo Cofani was one of the largest coffin manufacturers in Europe. His family had controlled the death industry for four generations and was still going strong. The colorful details of the business might change with time, but the grim bottom line remained the same: bodies needed to be put in the ground. Generally this required a coffin or a casket. The company’s motto was to produce beautiful coffins that you would love to die in.

  While the world succumbed to mediocrity, Giallo prized beauty. Unfortunately, the latest trend was to build less expensive models while expanding cremation offerings. Eco-friendly biodegradable bamboo caskets were one of the newest fads that threatened the artistic integrity and craftsmanship that went into the creation of real coffins. Considering how poorly some people lived their lives, it shouldn’t surprise him they’d be willing to rot in a wicker box. It saddened him, but Giallo Cofani had learned to adapt.

  And even if his company was forced to churn out cheap boxes, undeserving of being called coffins, he would always have his precious collection. The warehouse, which was located in the wooded and secluded outskirts of Florence, housed a collection of the most unique coffins in the world. Only Giallo and a few of his closest, most trustworthy associates knew of the existence and location of his little museum. Some pieces were originals produced by Giallo Cofani, and others heralded from all across the globe. His collection included deluxe stainless steel caskets, marvelous bronze and copper creations, carved mahogany coffins decorated with crystals and hand-painted accents, and even a 24k gold-plated casket.

  As much as Giallo appreciated creativity, he frowned upon novelty coffins like the ones popular in Ghana, where people opted to be laid to rest in wooden lobsters or coffins designed to resemble boats or cars. His collection had no place for such vulgar displays of bad taste. Who in their right mind would want to be buried in a giant Coke bottle or next to a Karaoke machine? He considered himself a staunch traditionalist, and no KISS coffin would ever grace his treasured warehouse.

  Considering how much Giallo loved coffins, it was ironic that he’d once feared them as a boy. His dad would bring him to his factories in Brescia, north of Florence, where carpenters and craftsmen built the caskets that would soon welcome the recently deceased. His father was a cold, austere man with a sadistic streak. If he felt his son had disrespected him—and almost any behavior could trigger this perception; one day he might be too loud, another too quiet—the punishment was swift and horrific. He’d seal Giallo in a coffin and threaten to bury him alive.

  The first few times, Giallo had been overcome with terror. Gradually, in the darkness—each successive breath becoming thinner, not knowing if this would be the last time he’d disappoint the old man—he changed. He began to look forward to his confinement, finding an inner tranquility in the dark that he couldn’t duplicate in the bright world outside the coffin. Locked inside the box, he imagined being below the ground, the responsibilities and challenges of the living giving way to the peace of the dead. Punishment had become reward, a secret he never shared with his father lest his disciplinary tactics might change. As he grew to adulthood, his initial fascination with his family business turned into a bona fide obsession. It wasn’t enough to make and sell coffins; he started collecting them, too. He’d track down the most unique caskets and coffins from around the world so he could lay in them, thereby recreating the feeling of peace he’d come to appreciate in his youth.

  Eventually, lying inside of them failed to achieve a sense of blissful transcendence. A more powerful outlet was needed, and that’s when he turned to murder. The act came easy to Giallo—not surprising, considering that death had been part of his life since the beginning. His victims were selected at random and buried alive. Experiencing their fear allowed him to relive his own delicious terror of being locked inside a coffin. As his collection expanded, so did the number of his victims. Their haunting faces remained burned in his memory: some terrified and pleading, others furious and defiant, but all of them full of life. By the time he dug them up, their expressions would be quite different. Even though their features might be distorted and grotesque, their eyes wide and the skin discolored, there would also be a sense of peace in their lifeless stares.

  Giallo had lost count of how many li
ves he’d taken in this manner over the years. He’d allowed himself to indulge his darker impulses when he told his men to place the American in one of his coffins. He had derived a sick rush from seeing his men hunt the boy through the mazelike collection, his terror providing Giallo with a visceral physical thrill better than any drug. But the time for fun and games was over. A different fate awaited the American. He wasn’t just another victim to be added to the collection; he represented the key to Giallo’s own future, a stepping-stone to his impending transformation.

  He checked the time on his gold watch. Only five minutes had gone by since the burial of the American student, and he was already giddy with anticipation…

  A sharp whistling sound distracted Giallo. Ten feet away, his bodyguard DeLuca’s head snapped back in a spray of red, and the giant man crumpled next to the burial site.

  Instinctively, Giallo lurched behind a steel casket as more bullets chopped his coffins. Who would have the insolence to desecrate his collection in such a manner? His remaining men returned fire, and he saw two wooden caskets shatter.

  “Stop shooting, you idiots!” Didn’t they realize the irreparable damage their careless action was causing his treasures?

  More shots stitched the wall behind him. Giallo couldn’t wrap his mind around what was happening. No one knew about the warehouse and his collection. It made no sense.

  The gunfire ceased. Silence descended.

  Giallo cursed inwardly. How could he be experiencing such a setback when all the answers were within his grasp? They had to stop this shooter, whoever he might be.

  Chapter 3

  A FURIOUS BARRAGE of bullets ripped the mahogany coffin apart that Talon was using as cover. When the onslaught eased for a second, he popped up and returned fire, the bullets of his Glock lashing Giallo’s unholy coffin collection. The stench of cordite hung in the air as more bullets erupted next to him. Giallo’s men were trained professionals and clearly didn’t plan to make this easy on him.