The Paranormalist- Servants of the Endless Night

by William Massa

  The man—I assumed it was a man, given the figure’s height—behind the mask had abducted the reality TV star. I figured he was also responsible for turning Haskell’s body into a living occult canvas. He’d worn this horned mask for a reason. I’d become convinced that it was as much a key to this mystery as the bizarre markings we’d found on Haskell’s corpse. If I could identify the damned thing, it might shed some light on Haskell’s murderer. Figure out what the bastard was after, and we might have a reasonable shot at stopping him before anyone else got hurt.

  Winters returned to the table with a second round. High time to pace myself. I'd need all my wits to crack this case.

  Winters glanced at my little masterpiece and was clearly ready to make a joke at the expense of my creative talents. But the horned demon face made the wisecrack die on her lips. Even as a rough doodle, the drawing was disturbing. I couldn’t quite point my finger at what it was. Maybe it was the shape of the mask’s nose or the pointed ears below the intimidating ram horns.

  “So the guy who kidnapped Haskell wore that thing? ”

  I nodded while I added the finishing touch to the drawing.

  “Isn’t it a little too early for Halloween?”

  I saw right through Winters weak attempt at humor. The mask was affecting us both on a primal level, tapping into our collective ancestral memory. There’s a reason so many cultures fear the same monsters.

  I whipped out my phone, snapped a picture of my illustration, and sent the photo to Vesper. My assistant would upload my creation into our occult database, which would compare my drawing to thousands of known supernatural relics and occult objects. It was proprietary software a Silicon Valley start-up had built for me. I did my darnedest to put my father’s blood money to good use.

  “With any luck my assistant will a find a match before the night is over,” I said, trading my pen for a fresh beer.

  Identifying the mask should prove easier than cracking the spell on Haskell’s body, or so I hoped. I knew Vesper wouldn’t disappoint me. Once she put her mind to solving a problem, my assistant didn’t slow down until she found an answer she was satisfied with. She was a regular bloodhound when the situation called for it. My own little goth Nancy Drew.

  My attention shifted back to my beer. And to Winters. She’d let her hair down, but her face remained tense and drawn. She wasn’t able to relax.

  That made two of us .

  She eyed me for a beat. I could tell she was debating whether to unburden her mind or focus on her drink.

  “If Krippner’s ghost isn’t in the house any longer, then where is he?” she said at last. “If he’s not here, does it mean his spirit is out in the world?”

  Good question. Fortunately, I had a few theories.

  “Krippner, like many spirits, was trapped in the place he died. It was the center of his undead existence.”

  “Until Haskell showed up,” Winters said.

  I nodded. “Not only did the ritualistic tattoos on Haskell’s body allow Krippner’s spirit to generate sufficient energy to manifest and attack with lethal intensity—”

  “It also made him strong enough to escape the house.”

  I nodded. We were on the same page here. It was a nice change from my usual working relationship with local law enforcement.

  Winters shook her head. “This day just keeps getting crazier.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, not sure what I was actually apologizing for.

  Winters' gaze lingered on the foggy condensation creeping toward the restaurant’s windows. The mist gathered into a skein and coalesced into the shimmering shape of a man. Or at least that's what it looked like to my imagination. I had to get a hold of myself.

  “If Krippner’s spirit is free to roam, he could theoretically go anywhere, right?” the detective asked. “The bastard will kill again, and this time no bullet can stop him. ”

  My gaze locked with hers, and I lowered the pitch of my voice, doing my best to make it sound calming and soothing.

  “Even free, it takes a considerable amount of energy for a ghost to materialize and influence the physical world. Krippner will be an entity adrift.”

  “Is it possible Krippner just moved on to the next world? What if the freak in the mask just wanted to set him free?”

  “I doubt it.” I pointed at my doodle. “Whoever this guy in the demon mask is, he went through a lot of trouble kidnapping Haskell, tattooing his body, and sacrificing him to Krippner. He didn’t go through all that only to send the spirit off to greener pastures. This guy wants something from Krippner.”

  Winters nodded grimly. “I guess I was grasping at straws. I don’t really understand how any of this works.”

  “But you do know how the criminal mind operates. It’s still all about means, motive, and opportunity.”

  “What could this bastard be after? What could he want from a ghost?”

  Winters’ eyes flicked back and forth, desperate to make sense of all this craziness.

  “My guess is that the guy in the demon mask has bound Krippner’s spirit to himself.”

  “Like he is trying to control the ghost somehow?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you saying this perp turned Krippner’s ghost into a weapon he can wield at will? Is he going to sic him on his enemies like his personal attack dog?”

  I shrugged. “It’s a possibility. The key is to identify the man behind the mask. We find him, and we find the ghost of your father’s killer.”

  Winters took a deep pull from her beer, clearly hoping it would calm her frayed nerves. I could have told her that it wouldn’t do any good.

  “This stuff is so…so….” She gestured wildly with her beer. “So awful.”

  “Welcome to my world.”

  “How do you get any sleep at night?”

  “I sleep during the day when the ghosts and ghouls aren’t active.” Lame joke, but I was trying to be reassuring. It sure beat the truth, which was that I got very little sleep at all unless I medicated myself into a state of oblivion.

  My feeble attempt at humor seemed to work as Winters’ lips curled up in a smile.

  “Maybe I should try that sometime.”

  Winters nibbled on a shrimp, and I took a big bite out of my lobster roll. The lightly dressed, creamy meat on the buttered roll was to die for. I took a quick photo of the roll before I devoured the rest and sent it to Vesper followed by a note that read: “In a league of their own.”

  “Is your assistant going to research lobster rolls too?”

  “She’s a bit of a foodie.”

  Winters held my gaze for a beat. “How does an occult expert find an assistant, anyway? What do you look for in a resume? Are typing speed and phone manners more important than the ability to perform exorcisms?”

  “Very funny. I’d start with an open mind. And dismiss anyone who’s a wiseass.”

  “Being a wiseass is what’s keeping me sane right now.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  We both smiled. I raised my beer in a salute, and I could have sworn that there was a spark of something between us. Good food, strong beer, and pleasant company—there are worse ways to drive off the darkness.

  Then Winters’ cell phone buzzed and shattered the moment.

  I sensed her trepidation. She needed a break, yet her sense of duty was stronger than her hesitation. She scanned the incoming number and accepted the call, which told me it had to be work-related. Her face grew serious, and I feared the worst.

  Something bad had happened.

  Winters exchanged a few brief words with the caller and hung up.

  “They found Sara Maitland’s car abandoned on Cove Drive. There is no sign of her, and she isn’t answering her phone.”

  I lowered my pint. The case was escalating. From the sound of it, we had a potential second victim.

  “Do you think the guy in the demon mask struck again?” the detective asked, clearly thinking along the same lines .

 
; “That would be my guess.”

  “You think he will do what he did to Haskell and take her to the Krippner house?”

  I considered the possibility and dismissed it.

  “No, not there,” I remembered what Fisher had said about Maitland’s recent obsession with the haunted Croftmore theater. “Where’s that theater Fisher was telling us about?”

  “Oh, God. You think the masked killer will sacrifice Maitland to the ghost of Susan Hax?”

  I nodded. That was exactly what I thought.

  Chapter Thirteen

  A corpse was waiting for us.

  Looking for Maitland at the Croftmore theater turned out to be the right move. Unfortunately, we were too late to save her. The devil-masked killer had struck again.

  I watched as a forensics team combed the dusty stage of the theater, intent on collecting evidence. I knew they wouldn’t find any. Ghosts don’t leave fibers or fingerprints behind. Maitland’s dead body lay sprawled across the stage, a bloody gash in her belly, her empty, terrified eyes staring into space.

  Like Haskell, occult symbols covered her body.

  However, her bones appeared to be intact. The deep wound in her abdomen suggested Maitland had been stabbed to death instead. The blood caking her stomach was as red as the hair on her head, both forming a sharp contrast against her alabaster skin, even paler in death than it had been in life.

  For one disorientating moment, I felt like I wasn’t looking a Maitland but the woman my father had been about to sacrifice on his altar. Her pale skin had shimmered in the dark cave the way Maitland’s did now. Thankfully the illusion lasted only for a few seconds as Winters' voice pulled me back to reality.

  “Are you okay, Kane?”

  I nodded. The dead woman splayed out before me was Maitland again. Poor Sara. She deserved better than this.

  I gritted my teeth and focused on the problem at hand. From the looks of the tattoos on Maitland’s body, the masked killer had used the same ritualistic magic to weaponize the ghost of Susan Hax.

  The residents of New Harbor had reported sightings of the dead actress for nearly a century, but not once during all that time had Susan Hax turned her rage against the living. Hax had hurt no one while alive; her anger had been directed at herself, a pattern that had carried over in death. Somehow, the ritualistic tattoos on Maitland’s body had changed the game, providing the ghost with the power to unleash her fury against the living.

  She’d become a spirit made savage with the help of occult ritual.

  Winters and I traded dark glances as the forensic team went about their pointless endeavor. My gaze kept turning to the dead reality TV star. I tried to remember what Maitland had been like while alive, but all I could see were those scared eyes and lifeless features twisted in a rictus of a scream.

  I balled my hands into angry fists, barely able to contain my frustration.

  Stay focused , I told myself. You have a job to do here.

  I turned my attention to the stab wound, as unpleasant as that was. As far as I could tell, the ghost of Susan Hax had reenacted her suicide on Maitland. Did that mean she had traded places with her victim in the same way Krippner had switched places with Haskell? Was Maitland trapped inside the crumbling theater while the disturbed spirit of Susan Hax roamed the outside world, a second undead servant of the masked killer?

  My gaze kept returning to the dark rows of empty seats facing us. Was Maitland lurking in those impenetrable pools of shadow, watching our desperate effort to solve her murder? My serpent tattoo was on fire, a clear indicator that an invisible presence was watching us.

  “She’s here, isn’t she?” Winters said.

  I nodded, my gaze roving the theater. Was that a shadow—or something more?

  “Why doesn’t Maitland show herself?”

  “Her corpse is still warm. With all likelihood, she's confused, unaware that she is even dead.”

  Winters’ eyes flickered with existential horror.

  “Once your team removes the body, it might dawn on Maitland that something is wrong. That’s when we’ll start looking for her.”

  “Why do you think this guy is targeting the hosts of Haunt Chasers ? Why not go after the folks who’ve lived their whole lives in this town?”

  I’d been asking myself the same question. Haskell’s murder on its own hadn’t been enough to establish a pattern. His death could have been a simple crime of opportunity, a case of finding himself in the wrong place at the wrong time when his rental car broke down. With Maitland as the second victim, it became clear that the masked killer was targeting the cast of the reality show.

  Winters seemed to work through the facts to reach the same conclusion. “You think he will go after Fisher next.”

  “I’d say it’s a good bet.”

  If he hadn’t done so already , I thought.

  Winters’ expression lit up with newfound resolve. Ghosts were beyond her purview, but she felt confident dealing with human killers. “I’ll send some men to the farmhouse so they can monitor Fisher. We won’t let anything happen to him.”

  While she stepped away to make the call, I watched in numb silence as the forensic guys completed the grim process of cataloging the scene. Expressionlessly, they placed Maitland’s body in a body bag and zipped it up, hiding those haunting features from my view. Moments later, they wheeled the corpse out on a stretcher. A pool of red remained behind on the stage--the only sign that a woman had lost her life here. All too soon, the biohazard clean-up crew would arrive and sanitize the crime scene.

  Until they arrived, the theater was ours to explore. We had limited time to establish contact with Maitland’s ghost.

  I felt sick to my stomach as Maitland’s body vanished behind the backstage curtain. She'd made her final exit. How many times had I seen this same drama play out over the years? Too many times to keep count. I couldn’t save everyone. Sometimes, it felt like I couldn’t save anyone.

  As a chill raced down my spine, I knew with growing certainty that Maitland’s spirit was drawing near and attempting to materialize. The theater had grown colder since the forensic team had departed. The victims of the darkness rarely have a voice, but perhaps this time she did.

  I turned away from Winters and stepped into the vast auditorium. I was looking for a presence normal senses couldn’t detect.

  “Maitland, it’s Kane. I’m here to help.” My words echoed forlornly. “Tell me what happened. Let me help you.”

  The theater stayed silent. Maybe it was still too soon to establish contact. But time was ticking down. Whatever the killer was trying to accomplish, he was getting closer to his goal. The dread in the pit of my stomach intensified with each passing second. I needed to get this ghost talking—now.

  Struck by sudden inspiration, I pulled out the napkin with my makeshift drawing of the horned mask. I held it up at the empty auditorium, hoping that Maitland might be near.

  “I know who did this to you. I’ve seen the man in the devil mask.”

  I held my drawing up high and waved it back and forth like a flag. And this time, the air stirred. I felt an invisible force reaching out for me and snatch the drawing right out of my fingers.

  For a moment, the napkin floated in midair, buffeted by a phantom current.

  I watched the napkin ascend toward the ceiling… higher and higher… and then stopped, suspended in midair.

  A piercing shriek of unbridled anguish shattered the silence of the old theater.

  Winters flinched and drew her firearm, much good it would do against a specter. My hand went for my athame. Would Maitland try to harm us?

  Suddenly, the invisible force tore the napkin into little pieces, almost as if it was passing through an invisible paper shredder.

  As pieces of paper snowed down on us, the shrill screaming ceased.

  Man, everybody’s an art critic.

  Maitland’s reaction suggested that we were on the right track. The same man who’d abducted Haskell had also gone af
ter her next. But we needed more from her.

  “Please, Maitland. Sara. What can you tell me about the killer? ”

  I took a step back when a disembodied voice suddenly responded to my question.

  “Soon, there will be no more light, no more joy…”

  The voice was little more than whispery rasp.

  I froze. Where had the voice emanated from? And what did the words mean? My eyes peered into the pools of shadows, searching for the ghost.

  “I don’t understand, Sara. What do you mean?”

  “Nocte Infinitum approaches, ” Maitland hissed.

  I whirled, athame ready but there was no sign of the reality star’s spectral form. Maitland was too weak to manifest, but she was here. Watching us. Waiting.

  I took a deep breath, ready to ask another question.

  “Beware of the dark prince who will be born from dead flesh and dead souls.”

  A shiver raced down my spine, and goosebumps prickled my skin. This last message seemed to echo inside my head, almost as if Maitland’s ghost was telepathically tapping into my mind. I really didn’t like it when ghosts messed with my head.

  The chirp of Winters' phone thrust me out of whatever spectral connection I’d made with the dead woman.

  As Winters answered the call, my mind kept replaying Maitland’s eerie message from beyond the grave. What did it mean? What was the meaning of ‘Nocte Infinitum’ ? Endless Night when translated from Latin.

  Even without knowing the exact meaning, I couldn’t shake the pervasive feeling of dread. Nothing good could possibly happen in an endless night.

  Feeling eyes on me, my attention shifted to the back of the auditorium. Maitland was hovering in the last row like a nightmare, covered in blood, her ruby-red hair writhing like snakes. Her haunted gaze chilled me to the bone as it bored into mine.

  And then she was gone. The cold air in the theater grew warmer. But I couldn't stop shivering. Whatever darkness was brewing in New Harbor, I sensed it would soon come to a head.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Dr. David Peters took great pride and satisfaction from his chosen profession. He saw himself as a doctor-detective who helped the living learn from the dead.