OCCULT ASSASSIN
#3.5
COFFIN COLLECTOR
A SHORT STORY
By William Massa
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Copyright © 2015 William Massa
Published by Critical Mass Publishing
All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
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Also by William Massa
THE OCCULT ASSASSIN SERIES
Occult Assassin #1: Damnation Code - Amazon US Amazon UK
Occult Assassin #2: Apocalypse Soldier - Amazon US Amazon UK
Occult Assassin #2.5: Ice Shadows (A Novella) - Amazon US Amazon UK
Occult Assassin #3: Spirit Breaker - Amazon US Amazon UK
Occult Assassin #4: Soul Jacker (Available for Preorder) - Amazon US Amazon UK
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HORROR/DARK FANTASY
FEAR THE LIGHT
GARGOYLE KNIGHT
MATCH: A SUPERNATURAL THRILLER
SCIENCE FICTION
CROSSING THE DARKNESS
THE SILICON SERIES
SILICON DAWN
SILICON MAN
COMING SOON
TARGET EARTH: THE SYSTEM #1
THE STORY SO FAR
After a decade spent fighting the enemy abroad and keeping his country safe, Delta Force Operator Mark Talon is ready to settle down with the love of his life. But Talon’s world crumbles when his fiancée becomes the victim of a murderous cult.
In the wake of his terrible loss, Talon dedicates himself to a new mission – hunting down twisted occultists around the globe and stopping them before they can unleash the forces of darkness upon an unsuspecting world...
In Coffin Collector, his quest for vengeance will take him to Florence, Italy…
CHAPTER ONE
DARKNESS GREETED TRAVIS Willyard upon waking. Instead of looking up from a soft bed at the wood ceiling beams of his studio apartment, he found himself confined in a black and soundless space. He tried to move left and right, only to realize he was boxed in. Frantically, he tried to sit up, but banged his head against a wooden surface. His pulse quickened, and he fought back the first signs of claustrophobia.
Where am I?
He shifted about and explored his extremely tight quarters by touch. He was…encased in something. He pressed against the rough wooden ceiling of his new prison, his labored breaths amplified in the tight space. Soon words tumbled from his lips, nearly unintelligible in his parched throat, building into terrified screams.
“Hello! Let me out of here! Somebody help me!”
There was no response.
Oh my God, what’s happening? How did I get here?
Travis searched his memory. Through the haze of last night’s binge drinking and the terrible hangover splitting his head, he vaguely remembered spending the evening at Rivalta, one of the poshest bars in town. He was four weeks into his summer semester at the Florence University of the Arts and was having the time of his life. As an art student, he cherished this beautiful European city and all its historical relics and artistic masterpieces. Engaging classes during the day gave way to a different kind of stimulation when the sun went down and the local beauties hit the discotheques and bars. Travis appreciated art in all its forms, particularly the female form, and he had been meeting his share of lovely and willing locals. He wanted this to be a summer to remember, a final hurrah before returning to New York, where graduation and the responsibilities of adulthood would be waiting for him.
He was madly in love with the city. And the city had returned his passion in kind.
Until now.
He dimly recalled two lovely girls chatting him up at the bar. He had bought them drinks, the place had started spinning… And that’s when the memories stopped. He must’ve passed out, but why? He considered himself a seasoned drinker; a few Negronis wouldn’t knock him off his feet.
There was only one explanation: Someone must’ve spiked his drink.
It was absurd. Why would anyone kidnap him? Granted, Americans weren’t the most popular people around with many of the locals, but still… As some of the Italian girls had explained after a passionate night of lovemaking, people from the US were spoilt, arrogant, and loud—but also a lot of fun and good in the sack. Young people might be drawn to them, but the older population considered them a cultural blight. Travis had received confirmation of this a few nights earlier when he had stumbled drunkenly through the city’s streets, one of his buddies singing at the top of his lungs. A window above them opened, and a disgruntled Florentian dumped a bucket of ice-cold water on top of them. They’d laughed their asses off at the time, but what if some local felt water wasn’t enough to teach the foreigners a lesson?
Clenching his teeth, he kicked and slammed the wooden ceiling of the box with all his might. This time, the lid popped open. Harsh light flooded in. Travis blinked, shielding his eyes, and recognized with horror that he’d been trapped in a coffin all this time.
He scrambled out of the casket as fast as possible, shaking all over. What the fuck? Was this some sick joke? For a second, he expected his guffawing buddies to pop out from behind the coffin and provide him with a legitimate reason to punch their lights out. But no human laughter joined in with his anxiety-ridden gasps.
As his breathing normalized, he began to inspect his environment more carefully. He was inside an immense high-ceilinged warehouse. Murky light shafted into the cavernous space through a series of skylights, revealing a sight that made his blood run cold. Everywhere he turned, rows upon rows of coffins stretched out before him, an eerie maze of death. They came in all shapes, sizes and materials: wood, metal, and even fiberglass. Some were elaborately adorned while others appeared simple and basic.
This place was a museum dedicated to the art of coffin making.
Inhaling deeply to stave off his fear, Travis stumbled through the grotesque labyrinth, shaken by the morbid, surreal setting. He needed to find a way out.
His searching gaze paused on an exotic glass sarcophagus. The outline of a man was barely discernible inside the coffin.
Fighting back his terror, he approached the glass sarcophagus and caught a better look at the figure resting inside. Sunken, waxy features indifferently regarded the world, the skin covered by a thin veneer of paint, which gave the body a doll-like quality. But this was no doll; this man had once been alive. Another horrible idea occurred to him. What if this corpse wasn’t the only one? What if every one of these coffins contained a preserved body?
A voice in his head told him to keep moving, but instead he closed in on the nearest casket, its faux-gold handles gleaming in the milky light filtering into the warehouse. Giving himself an internal push, Travis opened the lid and froze. The mummified remains of a woman stared back at him. Her empty eye sockets bored into Travis as if she blamed him for her horrific state.
That did it. He’d seen enough…
Travis whirled and ran. There had to be an exit somewhere.
Behind him, he heard a noise. He slowed, his panicked gaze combing the warehouse.
Was that movement behind a row of caskets?
More footsteps echoed in the warehouse. They seemed to come from different sides of the labyrinth. That meant more than one person was stalking him. What sick game were these freaks playing?
No time to dwell on it. Travis kept moving, trying to be as noiseless as possible as he navigated the maze. His mind grew blank as he arrived at the center of the warehouse, where another surreal sight awaited. A rectangular stretch of soil dominated the space, the cement floor giving way to a large patch of earth, about twenty feet long and ten feet wide. An ancient looking wooden casket rested in the middle of the plot, right next to an open grave.
Something almost indefinable set this coffin apart from the others, a timeless, primal quality, almost as if it originated from another world. Strange symbols and sigils lined the coffin’s rough-hewn, organic-looking surface. The casket seemed imbued with unnatural life, almost as if it had been constructed from flesh and bone instead of wood. Travis’ skin grew clammy and bile rose in his throat, the coffin’s malevolent energy triggering a physical response. Acid churned in his gut.
Another sound made Travis spin around.
This time he caught a glimpse of one of his stalkers. A massive individual, built like a professional wrestler. The man was bald, his square head the size of a bowling ball with rough-hewn, almost malformed features. He looked like he belonged to a different species of human, a missing step in the evolutionary ladder perhaps. Travis’ heart thrashed against his ribcage as he spotted the pistol in the man’s grubby paw.
More sounds rang out behind him, and two other figures peeled from the shadows of the coffins. One was tall and rail-thin, his hollow eyes regarding Travis with no emotion. The man next to him was normal-sized, but his pockmarked face held the same empty, soulless expression. The two men were dressed in expensive black suits, their polished exterior heightening instead of lessening their inherent savageness. Travis sensed these men hurt people for a living and weren’t fazed by much in this world. They carried their brutality like a badge of honor.
Another pair of footsteps cut through the warehouse. He turned and saw an old, wizened creature approaching. The ringleader behind the freak show. Immaculately dressed, projecting wealth and refinement, the man had to be at least in his eighties or nineties. Long silver strands of hair clung to his liver-spotted skull, and gnarled fingers clawed a cane. A blinding white suit, black loafers, and red shirt oozed Italian style and sophistication. The tanned, wrinkled skin clashed with the fabric’s crisp sheen. Exotic rings adorned his bony fingers, and his gold watch glittered in the warehouse’s pale light.
“Who are you? What do you want from me?” Travis’ voice sounded timid and terrified, and he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
Why provide these freaks with further satisfaction?
Two of the men zeroed in on him. He flinched as they approached and backed away into the patch of soil. Powerful hands grabbed his arms and brusquely dragged him toward the waiting casket.
“What the hell is this shit? Please, you can’t do this. Help! Someone—!”
The words died on his lips as a fist snapped his head back. He spat blood.
The third man removed the lid of the eerie coffin. Fear flickered over the goon’s features. The kidnapper visibly shared Travis’ atavistic revulsion for the coffin, and somehow that was the most terrifying thing yet.
The lid landed in the dirt, the insides of the moldy coffin now revealed. Travis’ heart skipped a beat. The wooden box waiting for him wasn’t empty. Skeletal remains gleamed inside the casket, all flesh stripped clean from the yellowed bone. Travis couldn’t fathom the dark motives driving these men, but their intent was clear: they planned to put him in the strange coffin with the skeleton and bury him inside this fucked-up warehouse of horrors.
As soon as the horrible certainty sliced through his mind, one of the goons brought the handle of his pistol down on Travis’s head. He slumped forward, hitting the ground face-first, his blood mixing with the earth. The white pants and expensive loafers of the old man came into view. The figure paused at the edge of the soil bed, seemingly eager for a front row seat but unwilling to get any dirt on those polished shoes.
“Bury him,” the old man said in Italian.
From his peripheral vision, Travis saw one of the men snatch a shovel. The other two goons dragged Travis to his feet. He protested and pulled away, so they pistol-whipped him again for good measure. The world swam in and out of focus as it had the night before at the bar. That moment seemed so far away now, part of another reality. For a split second, he entertained the hope that it might all just be some nightmare. A warehouse full of coffins, the prospect of being buried alive, mummified corpses—this shit was text-book Freudian. But the sensation of his body being roughly lifted and dropped into the casket, the cracking of bones as his weight landed on the skeleton, the foul stench of the remains next to him... The tangible patina of reality felt too raw, too vivid to be a construct of his subconscious even if helped along by some potent Italian liqueur the night before. Not even a full bottle of absinthe could conjure such a fucked-up mindtrip.
This shit was happening for real. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. He wanted to scream, but his lips didn’t work. The casket’s lid slammed shut, drenching him in renewed darkness.
The next sensation was of one of movement as the goons heaved the casket toward the waiting hole. Moments later, Travis’ whole body shook as the coffin landed at the bottom of the freshly dug grave. The corpse’s bones poked into him, and his head bounced against the sealed lid. He weakly pounded the walls of the coffin, blood bubbling down his lips.
The oppressive darkness sapped his will to live, to fight.
A slight vibration of something hitting the casket. Dirt, Travis realized.
They were beginning to fill up the grave. Bury him alive. A last vestige of survival instinct surged through his body. He pressed against the lid with all his strength, but it wouldn’t budge despite his efforts. Tears stung his eyes. His pitiful sobs filled the yawning darkness. More dirt kept landing on the coffin, but the sounds quickly became muffled.
Distant.
A strange feeling of peace and tranquility replaced his terror. Finally, the noise died down completely, the goons having completed their task. The stuffy air made him wonder how much oxygen was left in the casket. How long would he have? An hour? Thirty minutes?
He remembered stories of people being buried alive, horrific tales of bodies being exhumed, revealing broken, bloodied nails—even bitten-off fingers or swallowed tongues. Travis didn’t want to go that way. Would he just pass out, or would each breath begin to slowly strangle him as the precious oxygen turned into poisonous carbon dioxide? He thought of his mother back in Florida, of his younger sister about to start college in the fall at NYU. He thought of the last girl he’d slept with, the beautiful and spirited Maria. He’d hoped to run into her again at the bar where they first met. God dammit, he was leaving so much behind.
No, this couldn’t be happening, he wanted to live…
Another sensation broke into his thoughts. Something stirred in the coffin. His hairs stood up as an icy hand closed around his throat. Maddened shrieks shattered the peaceful silence, and Travis realized he was hearing his own screams of terror.
The hand tightened, crushing his throat, and his desperate cries abruptly silenced.
CHAPTER TWO
NINETY-ONE YEAR old Marco Giallo observed in silence as his men dragged the American toward the waiting coffin. The art student was young and strong, a perfect specimen and well-suited for the ritual. For the coffin he would soon be buried in was no ordinary coffin. This was the casket of the famed German stage magician Bruno Zamora.
Anticipation built inside of Giallo as the coffin descended into the grave. The boy would have at most an hour’s worth of oxygen. They would dig him up long before he would run out of air, though. Unlike Giallo’s previous victims, who now wiled eternity away in his collection, the plan wasn’t to kill the Am
erican. Ten minutes below ground should be enough to determine if all the stories about Zamora’s legendary coffin held any truth.
As far back as Marco Giallo could remember, coffins had been part of his life. Giallo Cofani was one of the largest coffin manufacturers in Europe. His family had controlled the death industry for four generations and was still going strong. The colorful details of the business might change with time, but the grim bottom line remained the same: bodies needed to be put in the ground. Generally this required a coffin or a casket. The company’s motto was to produce beautiful coffins that you would love to die in.
While the world succumbed to mediocrity, Giallo prized beauty. Unfortunately, the latest trend was to build less expensive models while expanding cremation offerings. Eco-friendly biodegradable bamboo caskets were one of the newest fads that threatened the artistic integrity and craftsmanship that went into the creation of real coffins. Considering how poorly some people lived their lives, it shouldn’t surprise him they’d be willing to rot in a wicker box. It saddened him, but Giallo Cofani had learned to adapt.
And even if his company was forced to churn out cheap boxes, undeserving of being called coffins, he would always have his precious collection. The warehouse, which was located in the wooded and secluded outskirts of Florence, housed a collection of the most unique coffins in the world. Only Giallo and a few of his closest, most trustworthy associates knew of the existence and location of his little museum. Some pieces were originals produced by Giallo Cofani, and others heralded from all across the globe. His collection included deluxe stainless steel caskets, marvelous bronze and copper creations, carved mahogany coffins decorated with crystals and hand-painted accents, and even a 24k gold-plated casket.
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