Even though he made less than hospital pathologists and spent long hours on the road, shuttling between different coastal towns while juggling court dates, he felt all the toil and trouble was well worth it.
David believed he made a difference, so when the call came in that there had been another murder in North Bay Harbor, he was ready to hit the road despite the late hour. Fortunately, he lived in Cranberry Cove, only about an hour away.
At this late hour, traffic was light. He occupied his mind with an audiobook while his car hurtled through the night. Audiobooks and podcasts were lifesavers in his profession; he must have put at least 25,000 miles on his car in the last year alone.
Tonight, to his surprise, he struggled to follow the narrator’s voice. His mind kept turning to what might wait for him in North Bay Harbor. The last body he’d performed an autopsy on had made a lasting impression. For one, there were those tattoos, horrible images that the killer had painted onto this victim’s skin for some unfathomable reason. Even more disturbing were the countless fractures. Going by the damage to the dead man’s skeleton—a reality TV star of someone renown, or so they had told him—someone had worked over the man’s body with a sledge hammer. Weirdly enough, the skin showed little damage except for those damn tattoos and the two freaky burn marks in the shape of human hands.
David was rational to a fault, a man of logic not prone to wild flights of fantasy, but the state of the dead man’s body was a mystery he could not solve. He wondered what this second body would be like. All he knew at this point was that victim number two was John Haskell’s TV co-host, and that her dead body sported a similar pattern of strange henna tattoos.
He’d also heard unsubstantiated rumors that Detective Winters was receiving help from famed (or was it infamous?) occult investigator Simon Kane. It almost made sense that the murder of a reality star would require the help of an investigator with an equally lurid history.
The game is afoot , David thought, echoing his favorite literary detective.
An hour later, he parked his Subaru in front of the New Harbor police precinct. He exchanged a few hellos with the officers on duty as he made his way to the basement level. He would have to hurry if he wanted to be ready when the new body arrived.
David skipped the temptation to grab a stale cup of joe from the break room and headed straight for the morgue. His footsteps reverberated spookily as he made his way through the deserted hallway and into the underground room.
Most people feared the morgue, but to him it was just another day at the office. Three stainless steel autopsy tables dominated the antiseptic space. Next to one of the operating tables, the shiny steel tools needed for a medical examination sparkled in the light.
David stepped up to the sink and scrubbed his hands. His worn reflection stared back at him in the sink mirror. He looked older than his 40 years, the heavy bags under his eyes a sharp reminder he needed to get more sleep. Easier said than done. The parade of bodies never stopped. There was a real shortage of pathologists in the area, and he was working around the clock. This was good for his bank account, but not so great when it came to having a private life. He couldn't even remember the last time he’s asked someone out on a date .
David toweled off his hands and donned his lab coat and gloves.
While he prepared his tools, his eyes traveled to the cold locker wall where the cadavers were stored. One of those freezers held the body of John Haskell, and the thought unnerved him. He couldn’t pinpoint why being alone down here with that particular corpse filled him with gnawing anxiety.
He’d never feared the dead before. His friends would shake their heads and tease him about his morbid profession, wondering aloud how he could stand to handle dead bodies. How can you work surrounded by dead people? He would shrug and wink at them. David Peters wasn’t worried about the dead—they were harmless. It was the living that concerned him. He saw their handiwork every day—stabbings, shootings, strangulations.
No, the dead didn’t scare him. At least not until he’d set foot into the morgue tonight.
What was wrong with him?
He checked his watch. It would be at least another ten minutes before the body arrived. He regretted not grabbing a coffee from the break room. Oh well, he was consuming way too much caffeine anyway, and his doctor said—
A loud banging sound pulled him out of his thoughts. He whirled toward the wall of cold lockers and… froze. One of the doors was open, the body storage tray thrusting away from the wall like an accusing finger .
Drawing closer, David realized the body was missing from the storage tray.
He felt his pulse quickening. Was this someone’s idea of a sick joke? Was one of the cops upstairs pranking him? But who would do such a thing?
Every instinct told him to get out. To run while he had the chance.
David turned back to the exit. Only thirty feet separated him from the double doors, but the distance felt a lot greater.
A loud crashing noise behind him made him jump. David pivoted toward the sound.
His eyes combed the dark corners of the morgue, and he realized the tray with his medical examiner’s tool had been knocked over.
He would need to sterilize the tools again.
That’s the least of your problems now , his inner voice pointed out.
He walked toward the mess on the floor, his entire body on edge. Was someone else in the morgue?
He dismissed the idea. He would have heard them enter. The double doors leading into the morgue needed oiling and were on the noisy side. One glance at them showed them to be closed.
So what was going on here? Almost as if to answer his question, a wet, slimy sound broke the stillness.
Despite his mounting terror, David turned to see what was happening. Previously crouched on the ground behind the second autopsy table, a human silhouette now rose before him. The muscular man was naked, his features bathed in shadow.
Even before the figure took a lurching step toward him, David knew who it was.
He’d recognized the tattoos which covered every part of the man’s athletic physique. Recognized the Y-incision which he’d cut into the man’s chest when he opened John Haskell up to examine his internal organs.
Before David could let out a scream, the tattooed corpse that once was John Haskell leaped at him.
Chapter Fifteen
Winters and I were back inside the morgue of the New Harbor Police Precinct. I stared at the remains of the forensic pathologist who, I was told, had examined Haskell two days earlier. Someone had bashed the medical examiner's head to a bloody pulp against the same stainless steel operating table on which he performed his autopsies.
Haskell's body was missing, which wasn't surprising to me at this point. But he wasn’t the one responsible for the bloodbath. His spirit was gone and could not return—which meant that someone else was piloting his corpse. And I had a pretty good idea who it was.
Haskell' resurrection had spun our investigation into a new direction and raised the stakes considerably. Not only had the spell weaponized and energized the ghosts trapped at the Krippner house and Croftmore theater, but it had also allowed those spirits to possess the dead bodies of their victims somehow.
This suspicion received further confirmation when news came in that there had been a violent incident while transporting Maitland’s corpse to the morgue. The authorities had found the wreck of the overturned ambulance. There were no survivors. All the EMTs were dead, and Maitland’s body was missing.
If contending with ghosts hadn’t been enough, now we were dealing with two rampaging corpses. Zombies possessed by the spirits of the dead. It would be a long night.
“What the actual fuck?” Winters said. “Kane, what’s happening in my town?”
“Whoever is behind all this has brought Krippner back to life, or at least some semblance of it. He’s using Haskell’s body."
Winters stared at me with incredulous eyes. In the last few hours, she had
to opened herself up to the idea that ghosts were real, and now I was asking her to accept zombies. I could tell she was reaching her breaking point.
Out of respect for the detective’s sanity, I kept the questions which were going through my mind to myself. But I wondered why Krippner had killed Haskell if he planned to possess him. I’d heard ghosts taking command over mediums—although Haskell had been no medium. Still, it would have been easier to use a living host for whatever mischief Krippner planned .
These events had to be driven by the spell on the dead reality host’s body. A spell that had energized and weaponized Krippner’s spirit before drawing it back to his victim’s corpse. But to what purpose? And why now? Why had it taken Haskell over two days to come back from the dead when Maitland’s resurrection happened within hours of her death?
Something big was going on here, something far more serious than the simple murders of two reality TV stars. I hated to put pressure on Vesper, but I needed answers about those tattoos or the devil mask. And I needed them now. I was convinced that the spell and the mask were linked in some essential way. If we’d been able to crack that mystery just a little sooner, then this poor bastard on the floor before me might still be alive.
I turned to Winters and addressed her in my most reassuring voice. “I know how crazy it all must seem, but there is a logic to this horror. A purpose. Someone is pulling the strings for a reason.”
Winters nodded blankly. I doubted my words were making anything better at this point. “David isn’t going to come back, is he?” she asked, gesturing at the fresh body on the floor.
“It’s not likely,” I said. “Let me check in with my assistant and see if she’s had any luck finding out anything else.”
It took only two rings for Vesper to pick up on her end .
“Vesper Dakota’s House of Knowledge, how may I direct your call?”
I was unexpectedly grateful to hear my assistant’s peppy voice after spending the last ten minutes studying the pathologist’s brutalized body, not to mention being surrounded by death and darkness ever since arriving in North Bay Harbor.
“We have a bit of a situation out here, Vesper,” I said. “Things are getting stranger by the minute. If you have anything for me, this would be the time to share it.”
“Your timing couldn’t be better, boss. I have a match for the mask. Are you familiar with a cult known as the Servants of the Endless Night?”
Endless Night. Nocte Infinitum.
My fingers whitened around the cell phone. The pieces were coming together.
“Go on. Tell me more about this cult.”
“Formed during the Renaissance, they worshipped a demonic entity known as Nazamroth and were better known…”
“As the Followers of the Dark Savior,” I finished. “Damn it.”
"You got it. The mask you sent me—nice artwork by the way—belonged to the cult's leader, Macabros.”
Of course , I thought, the Mask of Macabros .
I was familiar with this relic but appreciated Vesper going over them again. She had a way of adding her own little dramatic flourishes to even the driest info dump .
“According to the historical records on the case, the Spanish Inquisition burned Macabros at stake for heresy. Get this! His executioners made him wear the mask during his execution, similar to the way the Romans had forced Jesus to wear a crown of thorns during his crucifixion.”
I considered this. They Inquisitors wanted the graven image of Macabros’ dark master to burn with him. They were trying to make a point. But as I learned a moment later, it had backfired.
“Picture the scene now. As the flames consume the cult leader’s body, his executioners’ mocking laughter rings out. Where is your dark master now? they scream. But their taunts die on their lips once the flames subside. Why do you ask? Here’s the kicker. The fire had reduced the man’s mortal shell to ash, but the flames hadn’t touched the mask of the demon he worshipped.”
It was a good story. No wonder the story had become a local legend.
“Soon after that, the mask disappeared. Some sources claim it ended up in a vault at the Vatican, where it remains under lock and key, protected by armed Swiss guards and powerful holy relics. Other sources suggest one inquisitor became a believer when he saw that the flames hadn’t touched the mask and made off with it. There is even a story that says one of the inquisitors gathered up Macabros’ ashes and placed them inside the hollowed-out horns of the demon mask, turning it into a makeshift urn for the fallen cult leader.”
“How did you figure all this out? I thought there was no visual record of the mask.”
“There wasn’t. At least not until a few months ago when Haunt Chasers did an episode on the mask.”
“You have to be fucking kidding me,” I groaned. This was the connection I’d been looking for, the missing piece of the puzzle.
“How did they pull that off?” I wondered out loud. “And why haven’t I heard about this episode?”
“You haven’t heard about it because it hasn’t aired yet. It’s part of the upcoming Halloween special. The trailer has been getting a lot of play since Haskell’s death. It was the first thing I checked after I learned about his murder. The promo showcases the mask in a few clips. When I saw the drawing, I immediately recognized it. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” my assistant chirped.
I shook my head at the irony of the situation. I’d been so busy in the field that I’d taken no time to delve deeper into Haunt Chasers itself. But that’s why I pay Vesper a generous salary.
“How did Haskell track down the mask for his upcoming show?”
“That was my question, too. So I made some phone calls. And guess what I discovered? Haskell discovered the mask while shooting an episode at a villa in Puglia, Italy which was rumored to be haunted. The owner of the villa had murdered his family before putting a bullet in himself. While investigating the house where the murders happened, they stumbled upon the mask.”
I considered all this. Something about the artifact must’ve convinced Haskell he'd found the legendary Mask of Macobros. It was like the Unholy Grail, a relic whose dark powers were hinted at in some of the more unsavory occult texts in my library. And now that same cursed mask was in North Bay Harbor.
There was no doubt in my mind now that somebody connected to the show was responsible for these crimes. Fisher was the most likely suspect. Over the course of one conversation, he’d gone from potential next victim to potential killer. I didn’t understand why he might turn against his co-hosts. My guess was the dark magic of the mask had seduced him.
“What about the spell? Any luck finding out more about the tattoos on Haskell’s body?”
“Still working on cracking the exact code, boss. But get this! The Vatican has a few pages of Macobros’ diary in their archives. Looking at some of Macobros’ mad scribblings, I found a match for some of the symbols.”
This news hit like a bombshell. It was all making sense now. I’d heard of similar artifact-driven possessions, though never anything on this scale.
First, the mask—call it the spirit of Macobros, if you like—must’ve seduced Fisher. Maybe he was jealous of Haskell and Maitland’s affair. Maybe he wanted more screen time. Love and money—the usual suspects when it came to murder.
Whatever his issues, Macabros had twisted his mind toward murder. But the killings quickly became more than simple revenge. When Fisher put on that mask and went after Haskell, he hadn’t been in full control anymore. Something ancient and evil was guiding him, using his rage to recreate a medieval evil.
Maitland’s ominous message slashed through my mind.
“Soon, there will be no more light, no more joy. Beware of the dark prince who will be born from dead flesh and dead souls. Nocte Infinitum approaches.”
Dammit! She’d tried to warn me. I hadn’t understood her words then, but I did now.
I exhaled through gritted teeth as dread welled up in me. A medieval ritual interrupted by
the Spanish Inquisition was about to be carried out again, hundreds of years later. If I did not stop Fisher, tonight would see the birth of a demon.
And with the monster’s arrival in our world, the endless night, nocte infinitum, would descend upon humanity.
Chapter Sixteen
Rob Fisher was tired of waiting. He lounged in the living room of the converted barn where the Haunt Chasers crew had been staying. A wooden table that could seat ten people dominated the communal living area. Wooden beams crisscrossed the high ceilings, and large skylights allowed moonlight to shaft into the rustic yet modern space.
It wasn’t a bad place to hide out, but he was anxious for the show to begin. Fisher would wait here for his two undead followers to appear. He just hoped they would hurry up.
Dead of flesh, dead of spirit. Their union would pave the way for his master’s return to this plane.
Fisher refused to sit down or nurse a beer. Now wasn’t the time to indulge in idle comfort or pollute his body with impure substances. Tonight was a holy night, a night of rebirth and power.
Fisher wore the mask of his new master, the same mask that had whispered to him two months earlier when they first came across the relic in the attic of an Italian villa. At first, it had been hard to separate his thoughts from the mask’s. He’d even fought the ideas the mask was stirring up deep within him. Feelings of jealousy, of being cheated out of his fair share of the show’s profits.
The mask opened up his eyes. It snapped him out of the deep depression that had clouded his mind since discovering that Maitland had chosen Haskell over him. For the first time in months, clarity returned. Fisher knew exactly what he needed to do.
Ironically enough, those petty emotions of jealousy and envy seemed like feelings from a far distant past now, emotions that had belonged to a different man. A lost man without direction. A man who served no god but himself.
The Paranormalist- Servants of the Endless Night Page 10