A moment later, someone unlocked the door and pulled the security chain back. My good old buddy surfer boy glared back at me through the crack.
“Dude, what do I have to get through to you? We don’t want to talk to you.”
“I get it. I’m a stranger. But I’m trying to help. You’re in over your heads, and I think you know it.”
I tried to keep my voice measured and free of any emotion. Being confrontational with this guy would only backfire. I had to win him over. Or perhaps Vesper could.
I nodded at her, and she eased closer to the door.
“Who the hell is that?” he demanded.
“Hi, I’m Vesper, Mr. Kane’s assistant. I know you’re just trying to protect your girl, but she needs help. We’re friends, I promise.”
For a beat, surfer boy’s expression softened. His eyes grew uncertain, and a trace of fear crept into them. The kid had no idea what was happening, but he was smart enough to know it was bad.
Suddenly, another voice piped up in the apartment. “Zack, let them in.”
The young man hesitated for a beat before he unlatched the chain and opened the door. We faced each other, still not much love lost between us.
Then Cleo appeared behind Zack. Dark circles ringed her bloodshot eyes, her bones sharply outlined beneath ashen skin. Last time I’d seen her, she was wearing her coffee shop apron. Now she was decked out in sweats and a baggy, ragged T-shirt. She had the air of a woman at her wit's end.
I fought back a wave of anger at the sight. The poor girl looked like she’d aged another ten years since we last met. Whatever was happening here, it was doing a real number on her. Why did the innocent always have to pay the highest price in this conflict between light and dark?
“You think you can figure out what’s happening with me?”
“I’ll do everything within my power, Cleo.”
She held my gaze for a moment, then nodded at me.
“Okay. Come in.”
With these words, Cleo turned around and ventured farther into the apartment. I followed her inside, Zack’s suspicious glare fixed on me. Vesper stepped in front of the Cleo’s beau, gushing about the stunningly bad painting of a surfer which hung in the kitchen. Surprise, surprise, Zack turned out to be the artist.
As Vesper bombarded Zack with more questions about his work, I followed Cleo into the living room, where we would have a little privacy to talk. The decor of the modest one-bedroom was starving artist chic. This young woman had good taste even if she expressed it on a shoestring budget—Ikea furniture, funky art courtesy of creative friends or yard sales. Everywhere I looked, I found evidence of the young woman’s strong faith, too. A well-worn King James Bible, a framed picture of Jesus, a small statue of Mother Mary and a crucifix next to a bookshelf filled with spiritual literature.
The signs of Cleo’s religiosity didn’t surprise me in the least. As expected, she fit the profile of most stigmatics.
“How are you?” I asked.
“How do you think? The world may think I’m Mother Teresa, but I feel like I’m losing my mind.” She paused in front of the Jesus picture, and tears welled up in her eyes. “All my life, I read about Jesus and the healing power of his miracles. Never could I have imagined that one day…”
She broke off, stifling the sob building in her throat. She fished a pack of cigarettes from her pocket and lit up. I’m not a fan of second-hand smoke, but I wasn’t going to begrudge this young woman some momentary relief from the rollercoaster her life had become.
She took a deep drag, and her face visibly relaxed.
“I’ve been reading up on you, Mr. Kane. So what are you exactly? When the press isn’t calling you the Son of the Devil, they seem to think you’re some sort of exorcist or ghostbuster.”
“There is some truth to the stories, but the media likes to exaggerate. My father was a cult leader and not a very nice guy. I’ve spent my life trying to make up for his crimes.”
“By chasing after demons and ghosts?”
“By being a different man,” I said in a heavy voice, unwilling to go into the more fantastical aspects of my calling. Hearing stories about my past cases wouldn’t put Cleo at ease. “Over the years, I’ve helped the police with cases that defy the normal rules of science and logic.”
“Like a DJ performing Jesus miracles.”
“That’s a new one even for me.”
Cleo’s eye shone with despair as she gingerly caressed the golden crucifix around her neck. “Why me? Why was I chosen?”
Going by Cleo’s questions, she appeared to be unaware of the dark side effects of her miracles, which was probably a good thing. I didn’t want to tell her about the dead man, or the pedophile, or the hundreds of homeless people who had gotten sick.
“Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve prayed to God and sought to honor the creator. I should be overjoyed by what is happening here, but I’m not. I’m more scared than I ever been in my life.”
Her voice trailed off for a beat, and she took another drag from her cigarette.
“These so-called miracles, they bring me no joy, no satisfaction. Instead of strengthening my faith, they’re weakening it. All day long, I hear voices whispering into my ears, voices that are no my own.” She bit her lips. “I guess the Lord works in mysterious ways, huh?”
There was that phrase again, the one that people loved to throw around in the face of things they couldn’t explain. I guessed the Lord had very little to do with what was happening here. But arguing theology with Cleo wouldn’t help anyone right now. I needed answers that only she could provide.
“These voices you’re hearing, what do they say?”
I held her gaze, prepared for the dark force within her to assert itself at any moment. I vividly recalled how Cleo’s voice had changed in the park. It had known things Cleo could not and recognized me by name.
Unlike your father, you lack the proper faith, Kane.
Cleo’s next words came haltingly, but at least she was still speaking with her own voice. “At first, the voice tried to guide me, empower me. Back in the club, it told me to step away from my mixing board and help that man sprawled out on the dance floor. The voice told me to touch him, told me I was the only one with the power to save his life.”
“According to the bartender, the young man was already dead when you laid hands on him. Is that true?”
Cleo shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t take his pulse, but he sure looked like he was gone.”
“Yet you felt you could save him.”
“Not really. But I trusted the voice. Correction, I obeyed the voice.”
I nodded encouragingly. “And did the voice ever identify itself to you?”
“No. At first, I thought it might be God or one of His messengers.”
“You don’t believe that any longer.”
Cleo shook her head again. Her fingers fidgeted with the end of the cigarette, knocking ash into a ceramic tray.
“Who do you think is talking to you?”
Cleo turned her head and averted her gaze. Her whole body was shaking now. I saw this development as progress. We were finally getting somewhere.
“Who is communicating with you?” I pressed.
Her gaze turned fiery. “I have no fucking idea, okay? All I know is that it doesn’t have my best interests at heart. I think…”
She took another deep puff from her cigarette.
“I think whoever is working these miracles through me, if you can even call them that, has an agenda. This thing inside me doesn’t care about me. It’s just using me to carry out its will.”
She was more right than she knew. And this chat was veering into dangerous territory. I could see Cleo’s breathing grow more erratic as she leaned against the couch to maintain her balance. I decided it best to change tactics and steer our conversation into a different direction.
“When did it first start?” I asked.
“The first miracle was in the soup kitchen. But th
e voice first spoke to me at Club Link. Even though I was surrounded by giant speakers blasting music, I could hear it as clearly as I hear you now. And that’s where I first saw…”
Her voice trailed off again.
“Who did you see in the club?”
Cleo looked down at her feet.
“Cleo, please, talk to me.”
“I saw the priest.
For a moment, I thought I’d heard wrong. Priests rarely frequented trendy night clubs. And what would a man of the cloth have to do with these dark miracles?
“I don’t think he is even real,” Cleo said, so softly that I could barely hear her. “He can’t be.”
“Why do you say that?”
She hesitated a beat, clearly not wanting to describe the vision she’d seen. “He has no eyes, just dark holes covered in blood. And he’s got an inverted cross carved in his forehead. And his skin is the color of white paint.”
Fantastic. Going solely by the disturbing description, the priest appeared to be an evil spirit of some kind. I’d assumed we were dealing with a demon, but devils didn’t materialize as men of the cloth. At least not in my experience. I still couldn’t entirely rule the demon angle (perhaps the monster was attempting to appeal to Cleo’s faith), but there was another possibility. What if we were actually up against an evil spirit? Could the ghost of a dead priest be tormenting Cleo and conjuring these twisted miracles into existence?
I took another long look at Cleo’s apartment. This young woman wasn’t a psychic per se, but she was a sensitive soul, in touch with her creative, spiritual side. Cleo’s religiosity would make it easy for such an entity to sink its claws into her soul and gain control.
I still didn’t know what I was up against here, but I felt like the answers might finally be within reach. I would have to run this new information by Vesper and see what she thought. And we would need to take a closer look at Club Link.
These thoughts were all swirling through my mind when I felt Cleo’s boyfriend eyeing us from the kitchen. Vesper had distracted him for a little bit, but he hadn’t forgotten about us. Judging by the not-so-friendly expression on his face, he wasn’t happy to see his girlfriend fighting back tears.
Surfer boy was about to stride into the living room when Cleo make eye contact with him and shook her head. Zack backed off, vanishing back in the kitchen. I could just make out Vesper’s non-stop chatter but had no idea what she was talking about. Unlike me, Vesper had the gift of gab, which was coming in handy at the moment.
I turned my attention back to Cleo. “Would you mind if I run a little test?”
“What sort of test?”
“I have a knife that is sensitive to paranormal energy. I want you to lightly touch the blade and tell me if you feel anything.”
Cleo stared at me with saucer eyes but nodded her agreement.
Quick safety tip for all wanna-be monster hunters out there—never leave your house unarmed. You never know who or what you might run into as you make your way through this crazy world of ours. Every time I’ve broken this rule in the past, it has cost me. Even though I didn’t expect to encounter any monsters in Cleo’s apartment, I’d come prepared.
The leather two-shoulder holster system, which I wear under my suit jacket, allows me to go outside armed while not drawing any undue attention. One holster held my Glock, which was loaded with rune-engraved silver bullets that could put most creatures of darkness into a world of hurt. At the moment, I was more interested in the second weapon strapped securely in a vertical leather sheath on the other side of my body. I reached for the curved wooden handle and withdrew the athame from its holster.
“This is my main weapon against the forces of darkness,” I explained in my calmest voice as I held the knife in the most non-threatening manner possible. “The athame is no ordinary blade. It holds special properties.”
Cleo looked at me, her face a mask of confusion.
“The knife can detect paranormal energy, “ I said quickly, worried Cleo’s beau might look in our direction and freak out the moment he spotted the five-inch, double-sided blade in my hand.
“What do you want me to do?”
“I believe this priest whose voice you keep hearing is a spirit of some kind. The same way ghosts can haunt houses and dolls in the movies, they can also find refuge inside people.”
“You’re talking about possession, aren’t you?”
A note of panic crept into her voice, and she took a step back as the full implication of my words sank in.
I nodded. “I want you to touch the blade. Just put a fingertip on it, okay?”
“What will happen?”
“If some dark spirit or force has taken root inside of you, it will have to reveal its presence.”
Cleo face drained of all color. “This will hurt, won’t it?”
“No, it won’t,” I lied. Cleo might experience a jolt before the spirit manifested. If some dark force was metastasizing inside her, the power of the athame would force it to surface. The entity wouldn’t be able to let go of the knife without my permission, nor would it be able to attack me. The only thing this magic required was Cleo’s full cooperation. She’d have to establish physical contact with the blade of her own volition.
“I hate to ask you to do this, Cleo, but this is our best option for putting an end to this nightmare.”
“I must be crazy, but I trust you, Mr. Kane.” She flashed me a weak smile, and before she could change her mind, she reached for the athame, her fingers gently pressing against the pentagram-engraved blade.
Our eyes locked.
Would the spirit of this priest materialize? I expected the male voice I first heard in the park to lash out at me with expletives. No such thing happened.
I waited in tense silence.
And waited.
“Whoever you are,” I said, “reveal your presence!”
More seconds ticked away.
And still nothing.
The scared eyes staring back at me still belonged to Cleo. There was no sign of an alien presence.
I shook my head, not happy to admit defeat.
“I’m sorry, I thought the magic of the knife would force this entity to reveal—”
I broke off, having registered the terror in Cleo’s wide-open gaze.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“The priest… he’s here.”
Dread tightened my insides into a knot. That’s not how this was supposed to go. If Cleo was possessed, the spirit should have manifested through her flesh.
“He’s standing right behind you!”
Reacting on pure instinct, I whirled, athame up, and came face to face with the nightmare priest.
He lurked about six feet away, a creature carved from pure darkness. His smock woven from shadows, the white priest collar a swirl of smoke. And dominating this mad interplay of light and dark was the priest’s emaciated face. Alabaster skin, blood-rimmed lips turned up into a sardonic smile. Peering into the twin ocular cavities, which once had held the priest’s eyes, was like staring into two bottomless well shafts.
My gaze fixed on the inverted red cross, which burned bright on the priest’s forehead. This Satanic cross made a mockery of the white collar, much as Cleo’s miracles had made a farce of the real miracles.
The priest of darkness eyed me from across the room, an unnerving presence that made my blood run cold. Knife up in a defensive posture, I went for my Glock. A direct hit from one of my rune bullets couldn’t destroy a ghost, but it would weaken an evil spirit.
Unfortunately, the moment my fingers closed around the butt of my pistol, I felt an invisible force slam into me and brutally lift me off my feet.
The impact knocked me against the nearest wall, and I crumpled to the hardwood floor with a loud thump and a sharp exhalation of air. Miraculously (yes, I appreciate the irony) I somehow held on to my knife.
I clenched my jaw and tried to get up when a long shadow fell across me. The nightmare priest lo
omed above me, a bloodcurdling presence. His inverted cross bled red, the scarlet light refracted in his hollow eye sockets. Lightning fast, the shadows of his smock condensed and elongated, forming a tentacle spun from pure blackness.
The air rippled as the appendage of darkness shot out at me and knocked my athame out of my upturned hand. I heard the blade clatter across the floor.
Adrenaline surging, I brought up my Glock and fired. A bullet struck the apparition, which let out a bestial roar of pain and fury.
Instantly, the presence evaporated into thin air. Seconds later, Vesper and Zack burst into the living room.
One thing became immediately apparent. Unlike Cleo, neither my assistant nor Zack had any idea what had just transpired. All they saw was me on the ground, a smoking gun in hand, and the large chip in the wall ten inches away from Cleo’s head. Fantastic.
As for DJ Trinity, her lips had curled into a diabolical smile. The nightmare priest was back inside the driver’s seat—another little detail that only I seemed to register.
Before I could explain myself, I felt a powerful force grip me for the second time within the last few seconds. This time, my attacker was made from flesh and blood and muscle, the emphasis being on the muscle part. Zack dragged me up from the floor and pinned me against the wall, knocking over a painting.
If Cleo wasn’t possessed, she might have intervened and tried to break up the fight. Unfortunately, the dark entity that now controlled her was having way too much fun seeing me get my ass handed to me. Before Zack could drive his fist into my face, I brought up my knee right into his groin.
Sorry, bud, but you’re leaving me no choice.
Zack eyes went wide, unbridled rage, giving way to agony. With a loud grunt, he let go of me and collapsed to his knees.
As he tumbled into a shivering ball, I scooped up my knife and spun toward Cleo… only to find her gone. She'd darted out of the apartment as soon as she realized the tide of battle was turning against Zack.
I had to go after her. Now.
I traded a glance with Vesper, who’d followed the confrontation in shocked silence.
“Come on. We can’t let her get away.”
The Paranormalist 3: Curse of the Abyss Page 6