The Paranormalist 3: Curse of the Abyss

by William Massa

  I took a deep breath and said, “They’re sacrifices. I’d guess that he was performing a ritual—possibly one that’s scribbled in his black book somewhere. Or he was hoping the devil himself would take notice of his sick genius and reward him for his bloody handiwork.”

  I balled my hands into fists, nails cutting in the fleshy palms of my hand. I’d faced my fair share of fanatics in the past, men and women seeking a transformative experience through their horrific crimes. The passages I’d skimmed through in the Unholy Bible suggested that this priest saw himself as a demon wearing a human mask. Or perhaps he’d believed these acts would turn him into a demon and earn him some privileged position in Hell.

  I pointed at the name on the tombstone next to the disinterred corpse. “Try to see if you can find anything on these crimes. Start with this one.”

  Vesper nodded, her mood somber.

  I had a feeling neither one of us would get any sleep tonight.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The good news was that, within about a half an hour, we’d identified all the victims from the grisly polaroids.

  The crimes were all different enough to not suggest an obvious connection to an outside observer. Beating a man to the point paralysis wasn’t the same as digging up a corpse. According to the media reports of the time, nothing linked these crimes and no one had suspected a serial killer working in Los Angeles. If the priest had left some sort of calling card or signature, the cops had kept a lid on it.

  All the crimes shared one detail in common—the killer had committed them eight years earlier over the span of two months. Then, as suddenly as they began, the crimes stopped. There was only one logical explanation: The killer had died before he could complete his grisly project. We still didn’t know who the priest was or what had killed him, but I sensed we were getting much closer to answering those questions.

  My eyes lit up when I saw the name of the detective who’d investigated some of these crimes. It was none other than Detective Sanchez, my liaison at the LAPD. Finally, a bit of good news. Whenever I worked a paranormal case locally, chances were good our paths would cross. Most recently, we’d collaborated on the Asmadina investigation. He was a good cop, smart and dedicated. And he hated to let a killer slip through his fingers.

  I immediately thumbed in his number. Sanchez answered on the third ring. The detective knew from experience that a phone call from me meant that occult trouble was afoot.

  “What’s up, Kane? Let me guess—you’re about to fuck up my night?”

  “Sorry Detective, I don’t commit the crimes, I just try to solve them.”

  Sanchez grumbled under his breath. “So what are we up against this time? A ghoul invasion of the LA subway system? Werewolves in the Valley? Or a vampire plague in Beverly Hills? Scratch the last one, who would even know the difference with the bloodsuckers who live out there.”

  “You’re on a roll today, aren’t ya?” I said, leaning back in my chair.

  Sanchez and I might not be drinking buddies, but he was a colleague. A man I trusted to have my back. He might have an attitude that veered between sarcastic and hostile when it came to my work, but the detective knew the score.

  “It’s been one of those days,” Sanchez said with a heavy sigh. “So how can I help you?”

  “I’m working a new case that appears to be linked to a series of crimes committed eight years ago. And it looks like you worked several of those crimes.”

  “Would you care to be a little more specific? I’ve worked a lot of crimes.”

  I brought Sanchez up to speed with as few words as possible. Once done, it was the detective’s turn, and he didn’t disappoint.

  “I remember. Especially the one where the body was dug up and placed next to the grave. Gave me nightmares for weeks.”

  “What about the guy whose legs were shattered?”

  “Poor bastard had to endure who knows how many surgeries only to end up in a fucking wheelchair.”

  As Sanchez ranted, my eyes kept returning to the image of Jesus saving the paralyzed man. It had been a long time since I’d attended Sunday school, but the idea someone perverting his miracles made me feel ill.

  I forced myself to stay focused. “Could he describe the man who attacked him?”

  “He did. Said it was a priest. Or someone dressed like one.”

  I must’ve gripped the phone a little harder at that point because the plastic case crackled. We were making real progress.

  “Any other attacks by a priest around about the same time?”

  I sensed the hesitation on the other end of the line. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

  “I thought you didn’t want me to ruin your evening?”

  “You already did, so might as well go all the way.”

  I told Sanchez about the dead priest and the dark miracles. The detective had seen enough weird shit over the last few years to not hang up on me when I started speaking about ghosts.

  After I finished, faced another long silence on the phone.

  I was about to ask Sanchez if he was still there when the detective spoke up again.

  “Now that I think of it, there was another case involving a priest.”

  Blood roared in my ears as I waited for Sanchez to go on. Should have poured myself a bourbon to get through this conversation.

  “You see, there was a detail you mentioned that we never reported to the press. The killer did leave a calling card behind. Little images of Jesus performing miracles.”

  “That’s our guy.”

  “Again, this stays between us, Kane, but there was another survivor of these attacks.” He paused, and I heard the clink of ice in a glass. “Janet Welsh. I remember her clearly. The husband was serving a third tour in Afghanistan. Prayer helped Janet deal with the stress of her husband's endless deployments, and she spent many a night at church. On one such night, a priest approached her. Or I should say, a man dressed as a priest. The going theory was that this psycho was on some blasphemous crime spree and was targeting deeply religious people as his victims.”

  I cursed softly. That fit with the Nightmare Priest’s current victim. Cleo was as devout as they come, according to Father Jimenez.

  “Not surprisingly, the bastard predominantly found victims in churches,” Sanchez continued. “No one will look twice if a priest approaches you in church. By the time you realize the guy in the white-collar isn't the real deal, it's way too late.”

  Pretending to be clergy was another insult against the forces of light, further evidence of the killer's willingness to mock God and serve the darkness. It all tracked with what I’d discovered in the warehouse.

  “I will not like what happens next, am I?”

  “The bastard assaulted her, placed her on the altar. And was about to blind her with a knife.”

  I thought of the creepy blind man whose vision Cleo had restored at Cafe Minotti. Phone cradled under my ear, I flipped through the bookmark cards and found one labeled: Jesus heals a man born blind. Mark 10.46-52.

  “What happened to Janet?”

  “I guess God was paying attention that night. Before this freak could carve out her eyes, the church’s real priest showed up and intervened. There was a fierce fight as the real padre fought the impostor. According to his testimony, he wrestled the knife out of the killer’s hand and stab him in the chest. The fake priest took off after that, but going by the amount of blood he lost, we figured he didn’t make it. He probably crawled into some hole and died. Either way, the crimes stopped.”

  “You might be more right than you know,” I mused.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I’ll explain in a minute.” This was it, the final piece of this dark puzzle, but I still had one last question. “Can you tell me who the priest was who saved Janet from being blinded?”

  “Shit, what was it? Father Juarez?” Sanchez paused, mentally reviewing the details of a case nearly a decade old. “I’ve got it—Jimenez. Say, do
n’t you sometimes work with a Father Jimenez?”

  The room tilted, and I clutched the phone a little harder. For a beat, it felt like my cell would shatter in my hand.

  I understood now why Cleo's presence at the club had awoken the spirit from his dormant state. She was a living link to the man who'd fatally wounded the Nightmare Priest.

  And I could guess who the spirit would go after for its final act. Now that he’d claimed full control over Cleo, he would target Father Jimenez and get his revenge.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I was ripping down Wilshire in my BMW, foot clued to the gas pedal.

  As I zipped back and forth through late-night traffic, I kept trying Father Jimenez’s cell number. Why wasn’t the priest picking up? I could think of a dozen possibilities—and none of them were good.

  It was almost eleven o’clock. Morning mass was at six, but Jimenez was a bit of a night owl who seemed to function on less than six hours of sleep. Kind of like me, actually. The idea that the brave, kindly priest would end up like one of those victims in the nightmarish polaroids twisted my stomach into knots.

  I rarely pray, but I did right now.

  I prayed I wouldn’t be too late.

  I shot down another side street, avoiding a pocket of traffic and merged onto the 10. Forcing myself to stop imagining worst-cast scenarios, my mind turned back to the deadly enemy I was about to face.

  Could my weapons destroy the undead priest and break the cursed power holding him in our reality? During our last confrontation, the silver bullets from my Glock had only weakened the entity. Hopefully, my athame would prove more effective. Of course, the Nightmare Priest would have grown even stronger since the last time I faced him, fat with Cleo’s life force.

  My cell chirped, thrusting me out of my thoughts.

  I eyed the flashing number with disappointment. The caller wasn’t Father Jimenez but Vesper.

  My assistant wasn’t very happy with me at the moment. As soon as I’d gotten off the phone with Detective Sanchez, I’d stormed out of the mansion. There was no reason to put Vesper in harm’s way this time around. She was a formidable ally, but I was still used to marching into battle on my own. Old habits are hard to break.

  The phone continued to ring.

  Sorry, kid, but you’re sitting this one out.

  I steadied my breathing and cleared my mind in preparation of the challenge that lay ahead. Fifteen minutes later, I screeched to a stop in front of Father Jimenez’s church.

  My fingers closed around the handle of my sacrificial blade. Once an instrument of evil, now a weapon for good. With any luck, the blade would be the last thing the Nightmare Priest would see before I sent him off into the next world.

  Drawing strength from the knife, I scooped up the Nightmare Priest’s Unholy Bible. It felt unclean in my hand, almost clammy. Wish I had thought to bring gloves, or maybe a Hefty bag. I’d brought the infernal book with me, feeling it might be useful in what lay ahead.

  The book was an anchor for the priest’s spirit, a bridge between his old life and his undead existence. Perhaps I could use it against him somehow. Or if things went really south, maybe I could just chuck it at his head and make a run for it.

  Lips pressed in a tight line, I got out of the car and rushed toward the church.

  In the dim streetlights, the structure had taken on a menacing air, its gothic steeple casting jagged shadows that seemed to absorb the surrounding lights. Father Jimenez’s church, usually a beacon of hope, had transformed into a cathedral of darkness.

  As I gripped the door handle, pain jolted through the Ouroboros tattoo. If there was any lingering doubt, the burning sensation in my shoulder erased it—evil had infected this place.

  I steeled myself for the worst, pushed the door open, and stepped into a nightmare.

  As the large wooden door fell shut behind me, the church changed before my stunned eyes.

  One moment, I found myself in the house of God; the next, I was inside my father’s temple. Torches flickered and painted monstrous shadows against the cave walls.

  In the near distance, Father Jimenez lay sprawled out on a jagged altar.

  A robed figure loomed over him—my father.

  I blinked, hoping to clear the vision from my eyes, a scream lodged in my throat.

  This was all wrong. My father had nothing to do with the current horror. He was dead, and his bones were nothing but dust. And that meant none of this was real. The Nightmare Priest had turned my mind against me, weaponizing my deepest fears.

  I couldn’t allow myself to fall for this game of smoke and mirrors. My father was dead. The Children of the Void were a distant memory.

  Heat flared in my shoulder as the magic of my tattoo clashed with the dark forces at work in this cursed place. There was a flash of blinding light, and the illusion shattered.

  Score one for Team Kane.

  I was back in Father Jimenez’s church. Cleo Dix, shirt streaked red from her last stigmatic attack, was slumped in the front pew, head bowed, out for the count.

  My concern for the young DJ quickly transferred to Father Jimenez, who faced a far more immediate threat to his life.

  The man still lay splayed out on an altar, just as he had in the vision. But this was a church altar, not the slab of rock on which Mason Kane had spilled so much blood. And the figure towering over Jimenez’s unconscious form wasn’t my father any longer.

  It was the Nightmare Priest.

  The dead man’s hollow eye sockets glared back at me, the inverted cross on his forehead glowing bright red in the dimly lit church. I wondered why this spirit was missing his eyes, even in death. If it was powerful enough to manifest a physical form, surely it could appear however it wanted.

  As my mind grappled with the question, the Nightmare Priest began to bring down the knife on Father Jimenez. He was about to avenge his death and settle the score. What better way to mock the creator than to slaughter one of his servants in his own house?

  I wouldn’t let that happen. Eyes blazing with grim determination, I held up the Unholy Bible.

  “I know who you are,” I said. “And I know what you want to be.”

  The Nightmare Priest hesitated, the blade in his bony fingers hovering over Father Jimenez’s throat.

  “I have your book. I know all your secrets.”

  The priest circled the altar, drawing closer. He was interested, but I might lose his attention in an instant if I wasn’t careful. His spirit seemed to be driven by anger and a lust to complete his unholy work. Which meant that targeting his ego might be the best way to proceed. Only one way to find out.

  “You know what I think? You were a nobody while alive. A drifter and druggie, living on the streets, seeking escape through whatever you could drink or snort or shoot, with a head full of bad wiring.”

  The priest growled wordlessly, his sightless gaze now firmly fixed on me.

  “You’re a loser,” I said, holding up the Bible tauntingly. “And without this book, you’re nothing.”

  The air juddered and rippled, and the nightmare priest materialized halfway between me and the altar. Closing in for the kill but still maintaining a safe distance. He’d seen how dangerous my weapons could be back at Cleo’s apartment.

  But the book that I was waving in front of him—not to mention my schoolyard insults—was making him throw caution to the wind.

  I snarled as I tore out the first page from the tome. The sound of paper tearing had become the most satisfying sound in the world to my ears.

  The best part, I was just getting started.

  A bone-chilling howl of despair erupted form the Nightmare Priest, and I instinctively took a step back.

  There you go. Come closer.

  I tore out the next page and flashed a massive grin. I wanted him to know that I was taking great pleasure in destroying his life’s work.

  I had to push the spirit’s buttons, force the Nightmare Priest to lower his guard, if I was to win this battle
. If that meant I got to turn his life’s work into confetti, all the better.

  “All these murders, and what did it get you in the end? Trapped inside a rotting warehouse while a bunch of drunk idiots literally dance on your grave. Not even Hell wanted your sorry ass.”

  As I went for the next page, the confrontation took an unexpected turn.

  The air shimmered, and I braced myself for the spectral attack which never came.

  Instead, the nightmare priest simply dissolved into thin air.

  I waited for my enemy to make his next move.

  And waited.

  What was the bastard up to?

  Mad laughter broke the silence, chilling me to the core. The terrible sound, high-pitched and mocking, had emanated from my left.

  I spun around and came face to face with Cleo Dix. I’d been so focused on the Nightmare Priest that I’d forgotten about DJ. Total rookie mistake.

  Unfortunately, she sure as hell hadn’t forgotten about me.

  Hollow eye sockets emptily stared back at me, and an inverted cross burned on her forehead. The transformation left no doubt as to who was in control.

  There was a whoosh of air followed by a sharp impact as her body collided with mine. Cleo Dix slammed into me with devastating force, given her petite frame, and knocked me right off my feet.

  For a moment, I found myself airborne before I crashed into the pews.

  Searing pain exploded in my neck and shoulders as we both hit the cold marble floor.

  Somehow, I managed not to let go of my knife, but I might as well have thrown it across the room. I would not stab this woman. Although she was doing a good job of attempting to claw my eyes out, Cleo was an innocent. A pawn in the priest’s dark game.

  Meanwhile, my enemy wasn’t holding anything back. The Nightmare Priest was playing for keeps.

  Cleo Dix’s elbow crunched down on my fingers, and I gasped with agony. This time around, I let go of the knife.

  With a ferocious snarl, Cleo kicked the blade aside, and my best chance of walking from this fight alive vanished in the encroaching darkness.