I recognized some of the symbols from my studies, but I didn’t know how all these tattoos interacted with each other. It could be a case where the whole was greater than the sum of parts. One thing was clear—Haskell’s skin had become the canvas for an intricate spell.
A spell I was determined to decode.
Easier said than done. Spacing and sequencing could change the overall meaning and function of the various magical symbols inked onto the man’s skin. Occult spells were a little like complicated mathematical equations or chemical formulas. It would take time to figure it all out.
The question was whether the spell had directly killed Haskell or if it had served an additional purpose.
I pulled out my cell phone.
“Is it okay if I photograph the body? I want to send a few images to my assistant. She’ll check my occult database and library, and then we might figure out what this spell is supposed to do.”
Winters cocked an eyebrow at me. “Spell?”
I cursed inwardly at my slip of the lip. I had no intention of trying to convince the detective that black magic was real. Instead, I said, “The killer is an occultist and has studied magical ritual, that much is for certain. Likely several, given the disparate traditions represented here. The tattoos represent a spell in the killer’s twisted belief system.”
Winters relaxed visibly. The occult only made sense to her as an expression of a deranged mind, not a source of real power. I didn’t plan on changing her opinion. The world of a homicide detective is complicated enough without having to contend with otherworldly forces.
“If we want to know why Haskell was murdered, we need to know what the killer was trying to achieve. That’s where my experience with this sort of crime comes in.”
Winters considered my words and gave me a long, appraising look. “Be honest, now. Do you buy into this occult mumbo jumbo?”
My guard suddenly up, I met Winters’ unflinching gaze. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Your father had a bit of a reputation.”
“I’m not my father.”
She leaned forward. “I know, but I’ve heard stories.”
Winters’ words reminded me why I’d gone on Ashley Jones’ podcast. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I worked to atone for his sins, I’d always be my father’s son. The detective held my intense gaze for a beat.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read online.”
My words fell like stones into the charged air between us, building a wall. Keeping her firmly on one side of it. It was for her own good.
“I’m sorry, Kane. As I said earlier, it’s been a long day.”
For a moment, the cracks in her calm, strong exterior started to show. Winters looked tired and worn and in desperate need of a stiff drink. I guess that made two of us. Something inside me thawed, and I decided to give her more of an answer. Not the truth, but at least something she could work with .
“To answer your question, detective Winters, no I don’t buy into this occult mumbo jumbo . But the killer does. Magic is real to the person who believes it to be real. That belief motivates their crimes.”
Winters nodded. “I get it. If we can figure out what the killer thought he was doing, we’ll be one step closer to catching the bastard.”
“Exactly.” Another thought slashed through my mind. “I assume the other hosts of Haunt Chasers are still in town?”
“Yes. They're staying at an Airbnb in town.”
“Good. I want to talk to them before we do anything else. And then I’m going to pay a visit to the Krippner house.”
I could have sworn Winters’ face turned a shade paler. Returning to the serial killer's home was the last thing she wanted to do.
Sorry, Detective , I thought, but I need to know what we’re up against here.
She pointed at the body. “What do you make of these burns?”
The question got my attention. I leaned closer to the body, hoping to see what Winters was talking about.
It took me a few seconds to detect the burn marks among all the tattoos. They blended with all the ink. Once spotted, the two burn marks seared into the man’s skin couldn’t be unseen. They looked like handprints.
Something not quite human had laid its murderous paws on his skin. Whatever doubts I might’ve still harbored, the presence of the inhuman handprints swept them away.
A ghost had killed John Haskell.
And that meant my job was about to get much more complicated.
Chapter Seven
The gray hills and autumnal forests of New Harbor streaked past us as we drove toward the farmhouse-turned-vacation-rental where the Haunt Chasers crew was staying.
I planned to talk to Haskell’s two co-hosts and get their take on what might have happened at the Krippner house. I wondered if they’d noticed anything strange about the building or Haskell’s subsequent behavior following their shoot.
Sometimes haunted houses will infect visitors without them even knowing it. The trouble starts when the dead burrow their despair into the hearts of the living. Like parasites, they’ll dig their spectral claws in your soul and start twisting your thoughts, dreams and memories, turning your mind against you. I’ve experienced it myself, and it’s about as pleasant as you would imagine.
The dead can make the living do things they wouldn’t believe themselves capable of in their wildest dreams.
Not every spirit can pull off this dark trick. Only an entity of great evil and power can extend their influence beyond the place where they shuffled off their mortal coil.
If Krippner had gotten into Haskell’s thoughts and dreams, the house might have exerted an irresistible pull on the reality TV host, almost like a phantom siren call that became increasingly impossible to resist.
I turned my attention away from the barren landscape and rechecked my phone. There was still no answer from Vesper.
I suddenly wished I could teleport myself to Malibu. I wanted to assist Vesper in the painstaking process of identifying the tattoos covering Haskell’s body. Those symbols formed a secret code of sorts. Deciphering that code was key to understanding the forces at work here. Without access to my occult library, I would have to wait for my assistant to come through.
Patience isn’t one of my virtues, and I resisted drumming my fingers against the glove compartment.
My attention shifted back to the colorful landscape hurtling past my window.
“You lived your whole life in New Harbor, Detective?”
“That’s right. I’m a Harbor kid, born and bred,” she said with a considerable measure of pride.
“It looks like a nice place to live,” I said .
A nice place to live a normal life, raise a family. Things that weren’t in the cards for a man in my line of work.
“Most times it is. I don’t get to investigate too many murders, as you can imagine. This isn’t L.A. Krippner was an aberration. No wonder they turned the bastard’s house into a goddamn tourist attraction.”
There was a trace of bitterness in her voice. She resented Krippner’s dark fame.
I nodded silently, letting the detective lead the conversation. She clearly had something to say.
“I’m sorry. It just pisses me off that everyone in Maine and beyond knows about Krippner but only a few remember the man who stopped him,” she continued after a pause. “Krippner’s murder spree is what put New Harbor on the map. It’s what we’re famous for these days. What keeps the tourists coming back.”
I considered this. It was depressing that we lived in a world where the monsters were more famous than our heroes. How many books had been written about my father and his followers? Yet the law enforcement officers who put a stop to him were barely a footnote.
“I’m aware of the role your father played in the original case. I’m sorry about your loss, Detective.”
Winters nodded, a hint of tears glinting in her eyes. She wiped her face and clenched her jaw. It seemed the good detective
had been close to her old man. I envied her, felt a pang of jealousy even. Winters’ connection to her father remained strong, even though he was long gone .
Unlike her, I couldn’t allow myself to miss my father. Not after what I’d seen that night. Not after I found out who and what he really was.
“Your father would be proud of you for following in his footsteps,” I said.
“Thanks. I don’t believe he would think too highly about me right now, though. This case… I feel like I’m out of my depth. Like I’ve been playing the role of police officer all this time without really knowing what it meant to be a cop.”
“Don’t beat yourself up. You’re under a lot of stress.”
Winters let out a sarcastic chuckle. “I’m out of my depth, that’s what I am.”
“Maybe. Or maybe you’re just getting warmed up. Either way, I’m here to help. We’ll crack this case together.”
Winters flashed me a grateful look. I guess I was saying all the right things. Her guard was coming down a bit.
“It’s not only the occult angle of this murder. It’s the whole Krippner thing. It’s bringing back a lot of stuff I thought I’d put behind me.”
“Believe me, I understand. Not a day goes by where I’m not reminded of my father’s legacy.”
It’s not easy being the son of a monster , I mentally added. No need to get melodramatic now .
Winters nodded and smiled, and the expression hinted at what a knockout she’d be without the stress of this murder weighing her down. “Sorry about earlier. I guess we didn’t get off to a great start. ”
“I work with cops all over the world. Ninety percent of the time, they’re not thrilled to see me walk through the door.”
“You get around a lot in your line of work?”
I spread my hands and shrugged. “Sometimes it feels like I spend more time in hotels than at home.”
“Sounds glamorous.”
“Not really. It’s not like I get to go sight-seeing.”
That was an understatement. My work never allowed me to play tourist. I couldn’t tell you about the Eiffel Tower or London Bridge. All I remember are the bodies. The monsters.
There wasn’t a lot of downtime in my line of work, either. The frequency of supernatural attacks was increasing, and the forces of darkness were growing bolder with each passing day. It felt like the paranormal world was gearing up for something major, steering humanity toward some final confrontation.
Such thoughts kept me up late—on those rare nights when I wasn’t out hunting nightmares, anyway.
A thoughtful expression crept into Winters’ face. “What’s the appeal of this shit? What makes people go worship the devil?”
I would have loved to tell Winters that many of the monsters I hunted weren’t even human, but a little voice told me she might not find that explanation all that comforting, so I kept my mouth shut.
“Power,” I said at last. “It always comes down to power. ”
Ten minutes later, we pulled up to the large farmhouse surrounded by forty-five acres of pristine countryside and gently sloping mountains.
I only saw one Jeep parked in the driveway, confirming what Detective Winters had said earlier. Most of the crew had left town right before Haskell’s death. No reason to hang around once the production had wrapped. Only a handful of people had remained in town to shoot a few pickups and follow-up interviews before they too moved on to their next location.
A grim thought occurred to me. Now that Haskell was gone, there wouldn’t be a next location. After eight seasons, Haunt Chasers had reached its end. A lot of people would be looking for jobs soon.
Winters parked the cruiser, and we headed toward the huge New England farmhouse. The gravel of the driveway crunched under our feet. It was the only sound to disturb the silence. The air rested heavily in the lungs here, suffocating, almost like it resisted being breathed.
According to the detective, the farm was popular among big groups as it could provide lodgings for up to fifteen guests. Besides the main house, a nearby converted barn offered additional living spaces and boasted such amenities as a hot tub and a games room.
We were still ten feet away from the property when the front door swung open, and Rob Fisher appeared on the threshold. He looked like a shadow of his former self, the rings under his eyes suggesting he’d gotten little sleep since the discovery of his partner’s body.
He shuffled onto the porch, a phantom of himself. His worn expression came slightly to life when he recognized me.
“Hello, Detective Winters. I guess things are pretty bad if they’ve called in the Paranormalist.”
“My boss thought it might be a good idea if we consulted with an expert,” Winters stated without emotion.
A knowing look flashed over Fisher’s worn features as he glanced at me. “Oh, that’s right, you and Commissioner Barker go back to the Broken Man case. Funny, we always wanted to do a segment about the investigation. But the Paranormalist likes to play hard to get. I think you and Detective Winters share that in common.”
I eyed Winters curiously.
“Oh, she didn’t tell you? We tried to interview her for our Krippner segment. She would have none of it.”
“I have no interest in making scum like Krippner more famous.”
Fisher shrugged. “Yet here we are. Krippner is back on the front page.”
I saw Winter’s expression darken and knew it was time to steer the conversation into a less confrontational direction.
“Rob, I’m sorry about Haskell,” I said. “How are you holding up?”
“I’ve been better, Kane. ”
Most people call me by my last name. I guess it’s catchier, and it’s how the media used to refer to my father. Certain things stick, and it’s best not to fight them. I had considered changing my last name at one point, but I realized I would never be at peace until I stopped running. You can’t hide from your past; it’ll always catch up with you. Your best option is to embrace both the good and the bad. Accept who you are. It took me a long time to figure that out. And sometimes I still get it wrong.
Rob Fisher’s expression darkened as he nervously chewed his lip. “I still can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Is Maitland with you?” I asked.
Fisher shook his head.
“No. I don’t know where she is, to be honest. She left early this morning, and she isn’t answering any of my calls. I think she is getting drunk somewhere. I’m a little worried about her, to be honest. She and Haskell were real tight, if you know what I mean.”
This revelation caught me by surprise. Was Maitland perhaps responsible for Haskell’s failed marriage two years earlier, or had they started seeing each other after the divorce? I knew all too well how the line between a professional and personal relationship could grow blurry, which was part of the reason I was so determined not to step over that line with a certain goth assistant back in Malibu. Long hours and intense pressure had a way of tearing people apart. And bringing them together .
“Please come inside,” Fisher offered, and we took him up on his invitation.
He led us to a large dining room area overflowing with MacBooks and cameras and sophisticated sound recording equipment. The machines were running video editing software, and I saw images of the various haunted sites the show had visited in New Harbor. Fisher must have been feverishly editing the shows together before we showed up.
Everyone reacts differently to tragedy. Some face it head-on, others choose an escape. I could relate to Fisher’s way of dealing with things. Throwing myself into my work was my preferred way of keeping reality at arm’s length and asserting my control over a chaotic world.
“You guys want something to drink?” Fisher asked us as he headed for the kitchen next to the living room area. Before we could answer, he returned with two Diet Cokes.
“Sorry, that’s all I’ve got left at this point. Sara finished all the booze.”
I accepted the soda gra
ciously. At least it had caffeine.
“So how can I help you, Kane?”
“I wanted to talk to you a little about Haskell and the Krippner house before I visit the place. What do you think is going here?”
“Weird, freaky shit. There is a good reason why they called you in on this one, Kane.” He stepped right up to me, and I caught a waft of his unwashed body. Hygiene hadn’t been a priority over the last few days. Leaning closer, he whispered, “The goddamn house killed him. ”
The words hung in the air for beat.
“Do you think something in Krippner's house made Haskell go back there?” I asked.
Fisher drained his Diet Coke and crushed the can, tossing it in a nearby waste paper basket.
“I can’t say for sure. What I do know is that Haskell wasn’t the same after we wrapped the Krippner episode. He couldn’t stop talking about the damn place.”
“Why was this one different?”
“I don't know.” Fisher snapped, his arms wrapped tightly around his body.
“What about the henna tattoos?” Winters asked. “Do you think he painted himself with all those symbols?”
Fisher shook his head. “Couldn’t tell you. To be honest, I have no idea what was going through his mind. All I know is that Haskell thought the house was communicating with him somehow.”
“Does this happen often?” Winters asked pointedly. “Do the haunted houses you visit communicate with you guys a lot?”
“Are you joking? You think this is funny?”
“Relax,” I urged before the situation spun out of control. “Detective Winters just wants to get a better sense of Haskell’s mental state.”
“Listen, Kane, Haskell wasn’t a loon. He was the most skeptical man I’ve ever known. He laughed at the true believers who watched our show. It was just an act, okay? Haskell didn’t have a superstitious bone in his body. ”
That might have been true at the beginning. I remembered some of our later meetings. Haskell’s opinions regarding the supernatural had changed over time. Some of the places he’d visited over the course of eight long seasons had genuinely freaked him out, and he’d started to ask me questions about the occult, probing for confirmation that the spooky shit he encountered was real.
The Paranormalist- Servants of the Endless Night Page 5
