The Paranormalist 3: Curse of the Abyss

by William Massa

  “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

  “I met our miracle worker. And he isn’t who you think he is.”

  And with these cryptic words, I ran out of Cleo’s apartment, Vesper right behind me.

  Chapter Ten

  The darkness lifted, reality snapping back into focus in a neon-streaked smear.

  A stunned Cleo stared down at her own feet as they ripped over the pavement. She was tearing down the sidewalk, weaving around shocked pedestrians. Her heart pummeled against her chest and the way her lungs struggled for air. How long had she been running?

  A glance allowed her to regain her bearings and orient herself. Up ahead was her favorite Korean barbecue, which meant she’d put three city blocks between herself and her apartment—almost half a mile.

  And she had no memory of having left her home.

  Zero. Nada.

  Her mind turned back to the last thing she did remember.

  Intense gray eyes stared back at her from a handsome, bearded face.

  Simon Kane. The monster hunter.

  Then the spirit of the eyeless priest was attacking him. In a terrifying flash, the creature of her nightmares had invaded the reality of her apartment.

  Paralyzing terror had gripped her heart, numbed every muscle in her body. She’d barely croaked out a warning before the entity struck.

  And then the world had turned black. Darkness had erased all conscious thought.

  Until now. Three blocks and who knows how many minutes later.

  Cleo felt like she might throw up. The undead priest had been in charge of her body for all that time. It could have made her do anything. Attack her boyfriend. Throw herself off a bridge.

  But why had the spirit relinquished control?

  He’s not powerful enough to completely take over. Not yet, at least.

  But all too soon, he’d return. That much Cleo could be sure of. And who knew how long he’d remain in the control the next time.

  The horror of the thought made Cleo break into a run again. On some subconscious level, she still believed she could outrun this monster. If she could put only enough distance between herself and her old life, perhaps the entity would leave her alone.

  The logical part of her brain knew it was useless. No matter how fast or far you ran, you could never escape from yourself. It would be like trying to run away from cancer.

  This monster was inside of her. And his power was growing.

  Cleo still did not understand who this priest might be, where he’d come from, or why he’d targeted her. All she knew was that she couldn’t get away. But despite this knowledge, she kept running. And running. Drawing a strange comfort from putting her body through its paces.

  The pain was good. It was her pain. It meant she was still here, still in control of her body.

  As the city surged past her in a crazy blur, another thought occurred to her—why would the nightmare priest flee the apartment building? After momentary deliberation, only one explanation came to mind: Simon Kane had fought back.

  Fought back hard enough that the priest had been forced to cut a hasty retreat.

  Cleo sensed that the creature inside her feared the man. The nightmare priest had underestimated the paranormal investigator. Instead of succumbing to the entity’s surprise attack, Simon had struck back at the monster. Cleo still didn’t understand who this ghost was or why he was perverting Jesus’s miracles, but she knew the devil could be hurt, and this filled her with a little bit of hope.

  Simon Kane would stop this monster.

  “Spare some change!” a guttural voice hissed from a rundown storefront to her right. Cleo’s gaze turned in the direction of the speaker, and her blood went cold.

  A homeless man had risen from a pool of shadows encroaching a gated storefront of an electronics store. The sore-infested face poking from the dirt-caked hoodie barely looked human. The beggar’s nose was missing, and so were two index fingers of the outstretched hand. White patches covered much of the man’s skin.

  Cleo instinctively recoiled from the terrifying figure, even as part of her felt sorry for the disfigurement. The poor man must be in terrible pain.

  “You can save him, Cleo. Heal him.”

  She inhaled sharply as the homeless man trundled toward her. It was a miracle that all the rotten flesh could still move, much less form coherent words.

  “Help me,” the beggar pleaded, the desperation in the man’s voice gutting her to the core.

  Cleo vaguely recalled reading an article that leprosy had re-emerged in Los Angeles in the wake of the recent homeless crisis. This man was proof that the grim statistics sported a human face—a face that was rotting away in front of her very eyes.

  “Only you can save him, Cleo. You know what you have to do.”

  “Please, help me.” The urgency in the homeless man’s voice was getting to Cleo.

  She remembered all the Bible stories of Jesus curing lepers, and this brought a passage from Mark to mind:

  A man with leprosy came to him and begged him on his knees, “If you are willing, you can make me clean.” Jesus was indignant. He reached out His hand and touched the man. “I am willing,” he said. “Be clean!” Immediately leprosy left him, and he was cleansed.

  “If you’re willing, you can make him clean,” the voice of the dark priest whispered in her head.

  As both voices continued to implore her, she felt her resistance crumbling. Then the urging inside of her turned into an authoritative command.

  Be willing.

  Be clean.

  To her horror, Cleo reached out for the leper. Lay her hands on the man’s rotting flesh.

  And performed her latest miracle.

  As the sores closed on the leper’s disbelieving face, Cleo's heart sank. The embers of hope that had flared inside her following Kane’s minor victory grew cold. She had done it again. Despite swearing to herself that she’d never use this power again, Cleo had given in with little more than token resistance.

  The homeless man straightened, his face and hands restored, eyes alive with a dark fire. Cleo shuddered as he bowed before her, lowering his head in deference.

  Then his strong hands reached out for her in abject gratitude. And as his fingers brushed up against her skin, the world drowned in a flash of light.

  A series of rapid-fire images assaulted her mind. She was looking at the same man when his hair was shorter, beard neatly trimmed, his clothes new and stylish. Cleo instinctively knew that she was seeing the man during better times, long before his long stint on the streets and his infection with the terrible, disfiguring disease.

  Cleo watched in silent horror as the man beat up the Korean owner of a deli, the butt of his gun stained red. He cleared out the register before turning the same pistol on the whimpering store owner and pulling the trigger.

  Cleo shuddered as the next image erupted into existence in her mind. Same street punk, now shooting up with heroin—a junkie feeding his habit Had he robbed the store and spent the blood money on drugs? A woman was passed out beside him, a needle in her arm. The man didn’t seem to care when she started to convulse.

  The vision came apart, replaced by present-day reality.

  Cleo gasped.

  The homeless guy—murderer, thief, and drug addict—was now kneeling before her as if she’d become his goddess.

  “Thank you, thank you so much…”

  “Does your gratitude run deeper than words?”

  Cleo had posed the question. Correction, her voice had formed the words, but someone else was speaking through her, manipulating her vocal cords. She was nothing but a ventriloquist’s dummy. An alien presence had hacked her nervous system.

  The Nightmare Priest was back.

  The murderous spirit had seized control of her again. This time he was allowing her to remain aware while he made her do his bidding. And there was absolutely nothing she could do to put a stop to it.

  Desperation surged through her chest as
her lips mouthed more words that weren’t her own.

  “There’s something I would like you to do for me,” the dark presence inside Cleo said.

  “Anything,” the homeless man said. “Anything you want. I owe you my life.”

  “Good,” the Nightmare Priest said through Cleo. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Vesper and I emerged from Cleo’s Ktown apartment building, determined to catch up with the woman before the dark spirit possessing her could do any more harm. The few pedestrians out and about at this time of night barely paid us any mind.

  I scanned the area, hoping to spot Cleo.

  I got lucky.

  She had just reached the end of the block. Instead of waiting for the streetlights to change, she barreled through a crosswalk despite the heavy traffic. Honking cars and screeching tires greeted her reckless jaywalking maneuver.

  I clenched my jaw with determination and picked up the chase. Surely the spirit wouldn’t let its host get damaged—but the undead bastard was using poor Cleo recklessly.

  By the time I’d reached the crosswalk, the lights had turned red, and I’d lost sight of the young DJ. I wasn’t about to charge into LA traffic, even if the very fires of Hell were nipping at my heels.

  I swapped a look with Vesper, who clearly shared my frustration. She stopped chewing on her lower lip to give me a wan smile, but I could tell her heart wasn’t in it.

  We’d both seen this kind of story play out first-hand. And I had the sickening sense that the case was building toward its dark climax. I still had no idea who this priest spirit had been in life or what he was up to, but my intuition told me he was closing in on his end goal. It was getting careless. Pushing Cleo too hard, likely because it didn’t intend for the DJ to survive for much longer. The stronger the entity became, the harder it would be to save Cleo. The ghost was draining her life-force, and there was only one way this story would end.

  Unless I rewrote the ending.

  Easier said than done.

  The lights changed, and Vesper and I crossed the street. I immediately broke into a run, still unwilling to give up. I tend to be a tad fatalistic at times, as Vesper can confirm. In fact, she’d probably tell you I was a moody bastard, always expecting the worst outcome to a given situation. But I’m also a fighter.

  I hate to lose. And I don’t quit.

  So I picked up the chase and tore down the next block. And the next.

  There was just one problem—Cleo was nowhere to be seen. She could have ducked into a dozen different alleys, gone into one of the late-night businesses dotted along this road. Hell, she could have grown wings and flown away for all I knew.

  Vesper caught up with me, a lot less out of breath than I was. I guess those morning jogs along the Pacific were paying off.

  “What now?” she asked.

  I was still trying to figure out our next move when I noticed a homeless man briskly striding towers us. He wore a tattered coat covered in stains and sported no shoes. To my surprise, he didn’t carry himself like all the other lost souls who’d ended up on the streets. Back straight, expression alert—and his gaze burning with hatred. With murder.

  Before I knew what hit me, the man was upon me. My eyes registered a flash of metal as the straight razor in the homeless man’s hand caught the light of a nearby streetlight.

  And then I felt cold steel grazing my side.

  I cried out, my hands instinctively reaching for my attacker’s arms before he could bring the straight razor down on me for a second time. I caught the man’s wrists, the razor hovering inches in front of my face. He bared his teeth in a nightmarish grimace, and a foul odor washed over me, far worse than the usual reek of someone who’d been living on the streets. It was a thick, clotted stench that made my eyes water.

  My attacker angled the blade downward another fraction of an inch. The fucker was aiming for the jugular this time. If he were to free himself from my grip, the next sensation I’d experience would be cold steel slicing across my throat. I’d battled some terrifying horrors over the years and walked away victorious. I wasn’t prepared to let some random homeless guy get the best of me.

  I head-butted the bastard with all my strength. The bum let out a grunt and staggered back a step, but that was it. I would have expected him to hit the pavement from a blow like that. What the hell? Was he high on PCP, or maybe—

  Without warning, my Ouroboros tattoo stung, erasing any doubts as to the true nature of the assault.

  This guy wasn’t some street person high on drugs. Supernatural energy fueled his vicious attack.

  My fucking luck.

  The homeless guy was just a tool, an instrument serving my real enemy. The Nightmare Priest had found himself a helper. Why risk going up against magical weapons when you recruit some fool to do your dirty work?

  Still straining against the man’s terrible strength, I watched in horror as the straight razor closed in on my eyes, inch by strenuous inch. My hands were shaking from the effort, but my attacker had gravity working in his favor—plus a little extra something, judging by the sting of dark magic.

  Inexorably, the blade crept back toward my face.

  Then Vesper joined the fray.

  Forks of blue electricity ignited as her taser introduced itself to my attacker. The dude might be high on dark occult energy, but he was still human and no match for ten thousands volts.

  A beat later, the wannabe killer was flopping on the sidewalk, his muscles turned to mush.

  I took a deep breath as I massaged my wrists. Already curious onlookers were closing in on us. We had to get out of here before the cops joined the party. Most law enforcement officers were not prepared to deal with the supernatural. Their ignorance meant job security for me, but I couldn’t risk letting some beat cop get wrapped up in the middle of this mess.

  “Saved your ass again,” Vesper said, her voice a little shaky.

  I shot my assistant a grateful look, then shifted my attention back to the downed homeless man. His murderous expression had cleared, his eyes now watery and dull. The fight zapped out of him, the dark spell broken.

  “You sure have a way with people,” Vesper said. I guess she thought humor could distract me from the pain. It almost worked.

  I rubbed my neck and groaned. “Very funny.”

  “So who is this asshole? Did you steal his lunch money or something?”

  “Another pawn of the dark priest,” I said grimly.

  Vesper gave me a blank look, reminding me she hadn’t witnessed the undead cleric in Cleo’s apartment. Until the incident back at Cleo’s apartment, I’d assumed we were up against a demon. That was becoming less likely by the second. It was time for me to bring Vesper up to speed and tell her about the Nightmare Priest.

  Chapter Twelve

  Club Link was located in an industrial section of downtown Los Angeles, a wasteland of rotting warehouses and homeless encampments crisscrossed by freeway overpasses. The sun always shone brightly in LA, but this asphalt hellhole seemed to suck the up the light, turning the world gray and dull. At night, the place felt like a ghost town, abandoned, with most Angelinos staying clear of the seedier sections of town.

  I guess it took a hip joint like Club Link to bring people out to this abandoned part of the city. I would have stuck to Hollywood, but that’s me.

  Never been a big fan of nightclubs. When you spend most of your hours duking it out with the hordes of Hell, you tend to take it easy on your off-hours. Give me a glass of bourbon and a good book any night of the week.

  I pulled up to the former warehouse, which had become one of LA’s hottest underground clubs. Even though the joint had opened its doors only a few minutes earlier, already a small line of eager partiers had gathered around the main entrance. Massive bouncers fronted the structure like stone sentinels, guardians to the hedonistic playground that awaited beyond the velvet rope.

  Right now, pretty much everyone would be granted access.
But the crowds would grow as the clock ticked toward midnight, and the selection process at the door would get more selective. Only the coolest and most attractive could get their groove on—unless they were willing to fork over some greenbacks to the doorman.

  Like I said, I wasn’t a fan of the club scene. It had been more than a year since the last time I ventured inside a place like this—and even then, I was hunting a vampire, but that is a tale for another time.

  I eyed the structure warily. This is where Cleo worked. Where this nightmare had started.

  I didn’t know what I expected to find within those walls. But I knew the nightmare priest was the key to the dark miracles that had descended on the devout young woman. If this is where the spirit of the dead priest had first hitched a ride inside Cleo, then this is where I would begin the next phase of my investigation.

  Vesper sat beside me in the BMW as we rolled past Club Link, checking the place out before I ventured inside.

  “So why would the spirit of a dead priest haunt some nightclub?” she asked.

  “Because this place wasn’t always a club.”

  “Let me guess. It used to be a church, and the new owners forgot to deconsecrate it.” She flashed me a big grin. “Wasn’t there a movie like that in the seventies?”

  I shot her a mock glare. Behave now. “It’s not a church, as you can see.”

  She squinted at the renovated industrial chic warehouse through the car window. “Looks bougie,” she said dismissively.

  “Anyway, while I brave the velvet rope, why don’t you see what you can dig up on this place?” I nodded at Vesper’s cell phone, which was the size of a small tablet. “It might be interesting to find out who owns the warehouse, and if it’s connected to any known tragedies in the past.”

  Vesper made a long face. “Hey, why do I always get stuck with all the research?”

  “Because you surf the internet like a boss.”

  “Benefits of being a hermit for a year.”

  I parked my BMW two blocks down from the club.