The Paranormalist- Servants of the Endless Night

by William Massa

  Vesper’s silence told me everything I needed to know. I was suddenly wide awake. I knew John, even considered him a friend.

  I don’t have too many of those, so when I lose one, it hits me real hard. Suddenly I felt like skipping my espresso and going straight for a real drink .

  I sidled up to Vesper and read the news headline on her computer screen.

  “Famous Ghost Hunter Found Murdered in Krippner House.”

  Going by the time stamp next to the headline, the story had hit the web about the time I was getting better acquainted with Ashley Jones.

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Why does that name sound so familiar?”

  “Crazy serial killer with a taste for runaways. Active in the late nineties. TV movie is currently in development.”

  “Sounds like two hours of fantastic entertainment in the making.”

  “And looks like the ghost of Krippner might be working on a sequel.”

  Vesper zoomed in on a picture of Haskell, and my mouth went dry. It was hard to believe that he was gone. The man had been larger than life. A real character. In a normal world, Haskell would’ve become a standup comedian or actor. Instead he chose to hunt ghosts on TV. And made a fortune in the process. I guess it pays off to follow your passion, no matter how crazy it might sound.

  In this case, Haskell’s passion had been Haunt Chasers , an incredibly popular reality TV series. For eight seasons now, Haskell and his two co-hosts had visited places which were reported to be haunted.

  The show was spooky fun, filled with cheap thrills. Odd angles, night vision footage and hand-held cameras defined the visual style of the the series. The charisma and exaggerated reactions of the three hosts, John Haskell foremost among them, gave the whole thing a human dimension.

  The way I saw it, the show was pure theater, the paranormal equivalent of professional wrestling. There was little evidence that any of the haunts were real.

  Truth be told, I didn’t quite understand why Haunt Chasers and other shows of its ilk were so popular as of late. I guess people need something to believe in. Or they just enjoy a good scare.

  My friendship with John Haskell had developed slowly. At first, our relationship had been purely professional. John wanted to interview me for his reality show, and on another instance he’d begged me to let his crew explore my mansion. My Malibu home, with its sordid history and the rumored underground temple, was tailor-made for a show like Haunt Chasers .

  Naturally, I’d declined the invitation, but Haskell had taken the rejection like a pro, and we started grabbing beers together whenever he was in town.

  As my reputation as an occult investigator grew, our conversations changed. Haskell would want to talk more and more about some of the strange phenomena he’d experienced while filming the show.

  Judging by the halting tone as he recalled a few of his more harrowing stories, not every haunting on his TV show was created through skillful editing and post production work. Some might even be real.

  Haskell never really expected me to offer him an explanation of what he’d witnessed at some of those locations. I doubt I could’ve given him one without visiting the houses myself. I’d hear him out and that seemed enough for him at the time.

  Despite our growing friendship, I’d never opened the doors of my home to his cameras.

  I was a guardian of secrets. Secrets the world wasn't ready for.

  Was the Krippner house one of those secrets?

  I had feeling I was about to find out.

  Chapter Five

  I have a hard time sleeping on planes, and today was no different. The flight was only half full, and I had an entire row to myself, but catching some shut-eye still proved to be challenging. Whenever I started to doze off, my mind would spin back to the case at hand and I’d be wide awake again.

  After the third time I jerked awake, I gave up and instead decided to take another look at the files Vesper had uploaded to my smart phone.

  The files were sparse on details. I would have to wait until I arrived in Maine to get the full story about the Haskell murder. The information Vesper had put together for me focused more on the Haunt Chasers show, along with the stories and myths which had sprung up around the Krippner house.

  John Haskell and his fellow investigators, Sara Maitland and Rob Fisher, had been visiting New Harbor, Maine because of its well-deserved reputation for being one of the most haunted places in the country.

  I swiped my phone and took in the headshots of the two other hosts of the paranormal reality show. Both Sara Maitland and Rob Fisher were familiar to me as well, as we’d all grabbed lunch together a few times while Haskell was wooing me. Like Haskell, they both were in their early thirties and obsessed with the paranormal.

  Sara Maitland, a strikingly pale redheaded beauty, was an avowed horror nut and had even penned a few novels in the genre. Rob Fisher was the sound guy and painted strange science fiction landscapes in his spare time, which he sold through his website. He also taught a TV production course at NYU when the show was on hiatus.

  Both of them were smart and attractive with outgoing, bubbly personalities which had turned them into instant reality TV stars. Sara and Rob had their following, but Haskell's larger-than-life charisma had been the show’s main draw. Without Haskell at the helm, I doubted that Haunt Chasers would return for a ninth season.

  This thought drove the loss home again, and I took a deep sip of the Jack and Coke I’d ordered earlier.

  The alcohol burned down my throat as I shifted my focus to the picture of the infamous Krippner house. The sagging cottage with the sloping roof and grimy windows sat on a tree-lined hill. The wooden structure looked like it was rotting from the inside out, the exterior walls cracked and mapped with blemishes.

  Going through the report, I learned that the house had stood empty since Krippner’s death. I knew from personal experience that murder houses didn’t precisely set the real estate market on fire.

  I delved deeper into Krippner’s horrific crimes, feeling sick to my stomach. The man had preyed on the weakest members of society, targeting runaways who were desperate to escape abusive homes. Their sad attempts at improving their lives had ended in a killer’s basement freezer.

  A picture of the notorious serial killer filled the screen of my smart phone. Average, nondescript looks, utterly unremarkable, the sort of guy who blends in with the scenery. He could’ve been your neighbor or the guy in front of you in the supermarket line. That was the banality of evil for you. But under that placid expression dwelled a beast. A killer.

  Needing a break from all this dark shit, I put my phone down for a moment and tried to focus on the little kid waving at me three rows down from where I was sitting. I waved back and mustered a smile while visions of Krippner’s murders flickered in the back of my head. Human evil was as bad as the inhuman variety, if not worse.

  Sucking down the rest of my Jack and Coke, I turned back to my phone and learned about the terrible discovery the New Harbor police had made in the monster’s basement. The bastard had kept body parts from all his victims. Krippner, like many serial killers, took souvenirs, and the authorities had unearthed enough forensic evidence to link him to the nine missing runaways.

  Nothing in the report that Vesper had prepared for me suggested that there might be an occult dimension to Krippner's murders. The man was simply a homicidal maniac. Sometimes the monsters are human, and sometimes death amplifies their evil instead of extinguishing it.

  Krippner had perished in the same house where his victims had drawn their last breath. Following his death, locals started to report noises coming from the house, and there were many eye-witness reports of strange lights and shadows seen around the abandoned property.

  I didn’t find it at all surprising that the home of a feared serial killer would give rise to wild stories and become a top destination for a local ghost tour. Doing a segment on the Krippner home was pretty much a given for a show like Haunt Chasers .

&n
bsp; My mind turned back to Haskell’s murder. I wondered how the reality show host had ended up in that basement. Was he murdered in the house or was his body taken to he location after his death? Had Haskell voluntarily returned to the Krippner home? Or had someone forced him to return to the place?

  Questions upon questions. The answers would have to wait until my arrival.

  I was about to turn off my phone when another detail of the case caught my attention. It concerned North Bay Harbor Detective Tracy Winters who’d requested my help with this investigation.

  Going over the files, I discovered that her father was the officer who shot Krippner twenty years earlier, the same officer who payed for his heroic deed with his life. Surely, another crime in the Krippner house after all these years was opening old wounds for Winters’ daughter.

  I pondered this latest wrinkle for a beat and then closed the file folder on my cell phone. My mind was experiencing information overload.

  Sudden exhaustion gripped me, the lack of sleep catching up. I let out a yawn and leaned back in my seat. Five minutes later, I was out cold.

  Good thing, too. I would need my rest, considering what was waiting for me in Maine.

  Chapter Six

  New Harbor is one of those picturesque coastal villages that’s so pretty it looks fake. The town overlooks the Atlantic Ocean, about an hour from Bangor. According to the file Vesper had prepared for me, its population was about thirty thousand in the winter, but the town truly comes alive during the summer months.

  Violent crime was rare here, which made the Krippner murders doubly shocking. Despite being a blemish on the idyllic setting, tourism was booming. In fact, Krippner had done the place a macabre favor. True crime aficionados continued to descend on the town in droves even two decades later, eager to see the murder house for themselves.

  I guess that's human nature for you. Some people are drawn to the darkness like moths to the flame .

  And yes, I’m talking about myself. I worry about my own dark tendencies. I am my father’s son after all; his blood is my blood. Am I a time bomb waiting to go off? Could I one day succumb to the same evil forces that seduced my father?

  I pushed the depressing thought aside as I pulled up to the small, red-brick structure that housed the New Harbor Police Department. I killed the engine of my gray Chevrolet Impala rental car and got out.

  An American flag flapped forlornly against the overcast sky. It was early September, but fall was in the air, and there was a snap to the wind rustling the yellowing leaves of nearby trees.

  One thing was for sure—I wasn’t in Malibu anymore.

  I threw a double-breasted peacoat over my black suit and still fought back a shiver. A drizzle started to fall as I briskly made my way toward the police building.

  A mixture of curious and hostile glances greeted my arrival. Perhaps my reputation preceded me?

  I focused on the desk clerk and said, “Hi there. I’m Simon Kane. I’m here to see Detective Winters about the Haskell murder investigation.”

  The male desk clerk held my gaze for a long beat, almost like he was trying to place my name. He made a call, and a few minutes later, Detective Winters arrived in the reception area. She was in her twenties with an athletic build that suggested running or bicycling. Dirty blonde hair framed strong, attractive features, her blue eyes sparked with a guarded intelligence.

  Even though Winters had requested my help, she didn’t look exactly thrilled to see me. Giving me a quick once-over, she offered me her hand.

  “It was Commissioner’s Barker’s idea to bring you in on this case,” she said matter-of-factly once the introductions were over.

  I suspected as much. It explained the icy reception I was receiving. I should be used by this sort of reaction by now. A lot of cops have a difficult time wrapping their head around what I do. For many, working with the Paranormalist is as bad as calling in the local psychic. I guess they see me as a fraud eager for media attention. I had to convince them otherwise.

  “I hope your flight was pleasant, Mr. Kane.”

  “I had a whole row to myself.”

  “That’s nice,” Winters said coolly. “According to Barker, you’re the guy the FBI calls when things get weird.”

  “I’m the only one crazy enough to answer the phone.”

  Winters cocked an eyebrow, not charmed by my attempt at humor.

  “I’ll be honest. I googled you.”

  “You can’t believe everything you read online.”

  “That’s kind of my point. I see nothing to convince me that you’re anything more than a fraud and publicity hound. If it wasn’t for Barker insisting on bringing you in on this investigation- ”

  “We wouldn’t be having this conversation,” I finished.

  I was getting a little impatient with Winters’ cynical attitude.

  “Did you make me fly cross-country so we could butt heads, Detective, or are you going to let me take a look at the body?”

  Winters flinched, a trace of vulnerability edging into her wary expression. The heavy bags under her eyes seemed suddenly more pronounced.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Kane. It’s been a long thirty-six hours. And this is new ground for me.”

  “I understand. But I’m here to help.”

  Winters nodded. “Okay. Let me show you the body, then.”

  My presence earned me more curious glances as we navigated the bustling precinct. Cops popped up like prairie dogs from their cubicles to get a look at me, then quickly ducked back down.

  “Don’t mind them. Between the murder and your arrival, this town is seeing more excitement than it has in a while.”

  “Tell me more about the details of the case, Detective. How was Haskell’s body discovered? The report says a ghost tour stumbled upon his remains…”

  “Talk about irony, huh? Haskell was reported missing two days ago. He never showed up for a dinner meeting, and no one on the show’s crew could reach him by phone. One of our officers found Haskell’s rental Jeep abandoned on a forest road, about half a mile away from the house where he was found. The vehicle had a flat tire and no spare. We assume the Jeep broke down and Haskell looked for help on foot. Phone reception is bad in the woods, so he probably didn’t have a signal. We were about to search the forest when I got word that they discovered his body in that damned Krippner house.”

  Winter’s expression darkened when she mentioned the name of the infamous serial killer. It was a sore subject for her, considering that the bastard had murdered her father. I could relate to her pain on a deep level. I knew what it meant to lose a parent. I didn’t have to be a shrink to know that Winters must’ve spent years trying to put the tragedy behind her. This case was opening up old wounds. I’d have to remember that while working with the detective.

  These thoughts were still swirling through my mind as we entered the morgue and headed for the shroud-covered body sitting on a stainless steel autopsy table. The air was crisp and reeked of antiseptic and death. There was no pathologist on duty. I guess there wasn’t much work for him in a town this small. At least not until recently.

  Winter’s pulled back the shroud, revealing Haskell’s naked body. Her features remained locked in a mask. Mine didn’t. Seeing my dead friend—a man known for his warmth and lively personality, splayed out like a cold piece of meat—hit me like a punch to the gut .

  My jaw tightened, my hands balled into fists. Anger flooded my veins.

  Keep your cool!

  Focus on the evidence.

  Focus on getting the bastard who did this.

  I’m familiar with death. I deal with all the time. But it’s different when you know the victim. It’s personal.

  Winters studied me curiously.

  “Are you okay, Mr. Kane?”

  I nodded.

  “Did you know Haskell personally?”

  I nodded again. “He was a friend.”

  I held Winters’ surprised gaze for a beat and sucked in a sharp lungful of air.
Pulling myself together, I did my best to study the body as if it were just another case. Not looking at Haskell’s face helped. A little.

  Occult symbols lined the corpse from head to toe, and it was difficult to distinguish the ink from the large Y incision the pathologist had made on Haskell’s chest. There were circles, wavy lines, triangles, and strange scribblings that looked both familiar and alien at the same time—symbols from a wide range of occult traditions.

  I inched closer, my gaze riveted to a series of fractal lines that ran over the dead man’s abdomen. Haskell had hit the weights pretty hard, and even in death, his body showed his dedication. But his six-pack hadn’t helped him avoid this grisly fate.

  My job was simple here. Was the killer an occultist who knew what he was doing, or were the drawings the work of a rank amateur? It seemed as though I was looking at mere gibberish with a few occult symbols thrown in for dramatic effect. But I had to be sure.

  “What’s the official cause of death?” I inquired.

  “His neck was broken… as were most of his other bones. Organs crushed from within. Strangely, the damage is mostly internal, with very few external abrasions or bruising.”

  Almost as if a spirit had reached into Haskell’s body and torn him apart from the inside out , I thought. I had seen similar injuries before in the victims of spectral attacks.

  “What about the markings?” I asked.

  “According to Haskell’s friends, the only tattoo he ever considered getting was one of Kermit the Frog. The man was obsessed with the supernatural but not the type of guy who’d turn his body into a recruitment poster for the Church of Satan.”

  That comment almost made me smile. Winters had a black sense of humor. That was one thing we had in common.

  Winters circled the body. “The markings are fresh, and these are temporary henna tattoos. Meant to last a couple weeks at most. The question is, why do you tattoo a man you plan on killing?”

  The answer was obvious, at least to me. This wasn’t just a murder. It was a sacrifice.