The Paranormalist 3: Curse of the Abyss

by William Massa

  “I won’t be long,” I promised.

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  I eyed her for a second, mind blanking.

  “You might want to leave your weapons here. Unless you want to set off the club’s metal detectors.”

  I nodded. Good point. I had to get out more.

  Reluctantly, I removed my two-sided shoulder harness. I hated leaving my gear in the car, but in this particular case, I had little choice.

  Vesper went to work on her phone as I slipped out of the car and made my way toward the entrance of the club. Already, I could feel the thumping bass in my bones.

  I was curious to see if my Ouroboros tattoo might pick up any residual psychic energy inside. I was also hoping to strike up a conversation or two with the folks who ran the place. See if they could shed any light on the history of the joint. If the bartender who’d performed CPR on the overdose victim from that video was on duty, all the better.

  The crowd had already grown substantially by the time I arrived at the doors. Fortunately, the line moved fast. I must’ve looked like I belonged here in my stylish skinny suit as the bouncers quickly waved me inside. Or maybe they just figured I had enough cash to afford the drinks. Either way, I appreciated the lack of drama at the door.

  Inside, blinding strobe lights and pounding hip hop greeted me. The club was divided into three rooms, each space devoted to the different musical genres. I was most interested in the realm where Cleo worked her techno-magic.

  I circled the still empty dance floors, not sure what I was hoping to find. I took note of the mixing table at the center of the dance area. A muscular Asian DJ sporting a mane of long black hair and an impressive collection of tats was getting ready for the long night ahead. He barely paid me any mind, full attention riveted to his gear.

  I circled the DJ booth, keeping my senses open. Almost immediately, my Ouroboros tattoo came alive. It stung like a bad sunburn—not the searing pain that announced a demon, but something had been here.

  The residual occult energy in this place was weak but still noticeable. The priest’s spirit had left a psychic footprint, which told me the entity had dwelled within these walls for quite some time. It took a while for that kind of energy to build up, to soak into the walls and floors.

  According to Vesper’s initial Google search on the drive over here, the club had first opened its doors to the public three months earlier. Cleo Dix, aka DJ Trinity, had only joined the Club Link party bus about two weeks before her first dark miracle. And that raised an interesting question. Out of all the people who worked here, why had the entity trapped within this structure chosen her? The spirit could have chosen any number of employees or patrons in the months before Cleo arrived, but it had zeroed in on her.

  Cleo’s faith must have acted as a beacon of a sort. Like a moth drawn to the flames, the evil spirit could not resist her.

  I turned away from the sound booth and made my way to the bar, where I ordered myself a drink. I tried to hide my shock when the bartender demanded a twenty for a simple gin and tonic. Despite squatting in one of the worst areas of the city, the owners of the club weren’t shy about charging top dollar for their booze. Sure, I had plenty of cash, but it was the principle of the thing.

  I tried to chat with the bartender, hoping he could tell me anything about the history of the place, but he merely shrugged and pocketed the cash. Maybe he’d been told not to talk about the viral video, or maybe he just didn’t care.

  Disappointed, I continued exploring the club while I sucked down my overpriced drink. It wasn’t even good gin.

  After fifteen minutes, however, I was ready to give up and ditch the place. I had talked to two bouncers and another bartender, none of whom could shed any real light on the history of the warehouse. Besides the recent overdose in the club, there was not much to report. The place was the brainchild of a successful restaurateur who ran a few other hotspots throughout in the city. The warehouse had been on the market for a while before the guy took over.

  My investigation at an impasse, I decided to cut my losses, hit the bathroom, and call it a night. On my way to the gender-neutral restroom, the burning sensation in my Ouroboros tattoo intensified.

  If the entire club was steeped in dark energy, as I’d originally assumed, then the pain should have been a constant ache. But the sudden flare made me wonder if the occult emanated from one specific area of the club.

  Spurred on by this latest development, I made a systematic search of the space. After about twenty minutes of pacing back and forth, I’d concluded that the energy was most active in the back of the night club. The burning pain in my shoulder was getting stronger, which I took as an encouraging sign. Further exploration led me to an empty, dimly lit alcove. A lone door stood near the end of the short hallway marked PRIVATE.

  I tested the door handle and wasn’t surprised to find it locked.

  I was considering the wisdom of picking the lock when footsteps suddenly rang out on the other side of the door, giving me pause. I took a few steps back, trying to look like a club patron who’d gotten lost on the way to the john. A beat later, the door opened and a bar-back emerged carrying three bottles of premium shelf liquor.

  He barely paid me any mind as the door fell shut behind him, and he headed to the nearest bar.

  Once the bar-back was out of view, I made my move.

  In my line of work, I often have to venture into places closed off to the public. Besides my magical weapons, I always carry with me a high-powered flashlight and essential lock picking devices. You might wonder how I would get such lock picking tools past the club’s metal detectors. Smart of you to you ask. My solution for overcoming such security measures is pretty simple. I carry my lock picking tools on my keychain. To a casual observer, they just looked like more keys.

  I swiftly went to work. Less than a minute later, the lock’s tumblers gave way under my efforts and the door snapped open.

  I snugged inside and made my way down a staircase that led me into the club’s grungy basement storage area. The place was like a medieval dungeon with an industrial twist. An intricate network of exposed pipes and electrical wiring grew from the brick stone walls. The new owners had done little to renovate the basement, dumping all the money into the upstairs. Made sense. Why waste the cash on the area that the public would never get to lay their eyes on, right?

  Using the steadily building pain in my shoulder as my guide, I navigated the basement. After passing a few more gated storage rooms filled with kegs and bottles, I reached the far corner of the basement.

  The pain in my shoulder had almost become unbearable.

  Sweeping the space with my flashlight, I tried to pinpoint the source. There was nothing obvious—no human skull hidden behind the stacked boxes or a telltale dark patch on the floor. The blank stone wall straight ahead of me seemed to be the nexus point for the paranormal energy in the club.

  I narrowed my gaze. What horrible tragedy had happened here?

  I gingerly pressed my hands against the wall. I expected the stone to be cold to the touch. Instead, a wave of searing heat rippled up my fingers. I stifled a gasp of pain. Jesus.

  There was something behind this wall.

  A secret chamber, perhaps. Most likely a hidden hiding space that never made it onto any of the blueprints. The new owners probably weren’t even aware of its existence. The warehouse was nearly a hundred years old, according to Vesper’s research, dating back to Prohibition. Perhaps the chamber had been part of a clandestine smuggling operation?

  I steeled myself for another burst of agony as my hands explored the wall’s rough surface. If there was a hidden chamber in this storage room, there would have to be some sort way to open it.

  I knocked my keys against the wall, hoping to detect a hollow space. Soon enough, I found what I was looking for. A dull thump greeted my efforts, showing that there was an unseen space behind the wall.

  Next challenge: How to access this hidd
en chamber. There had to be a mechanism of some sort. Excitement growing in my chest, I continued to poke and prod the wall. After another ten minutes, I touched a brick that gave way to my exploring hands.

  Stifling a cry of triumph, I pushed against the loose brick. The wall swung back, granting me access to the hidden chamber.

  I took a tentative step into the pitch-black space, my flashlight carving small patches of light from the darkness. I feel my heart skip a beat as an inverted crucifix stood revealed in the small chamber. Next to it was a small table dominated by a leather-bound Bible.

  I drew closer and inspected the Bible. Sections had been scratched out, its pages dominated by demonic scribblings.

  What the hell was I looking at here? I took another step closer, trying to make out the unholy text.

  And then I heard the unmistakable sound of bones crunching under my feet.

  I tilted my flashlight toward the stone floor. Not for the first time in my life, I was standing on what appeared to be a pile of human remains.

  A second later, my roaming flashlight lanced across a leering skull, and I jumped back. Even seasoned supernatural hunters get the heebie-jeebies sometimes, okay? But I didn’t plan to tell Vesper about it, lest my assistant mock me mercilessly.

  Recovering from my initial shock, I took a closer look at the remains and let out a low whistle. The skeleton was draped in a tattered black frock and white collar of a priest.

  I didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that I was looking at the earthly remains of the Nightmare Priest.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Thoughts whirled through my mind as I rushed toward the BMW. Who was this priest? Who had killed him? Why were his remains hidden in a secret room inside a warehouse? Had he lived in that room or used it as a hiding place where he could practice dark rituals without worrying about being discovered?

  The questions running through my mind just wouldn’t stop.

  I was most concerned with the inverted cross and his unholy book. When men of the cloth go bad, they go worse than almost anyone else, in my experience. Speaking of the defiled Bible, I’d helped myself to the book before sealing the hidden door again. No reason to have some poor bar-back stumble upon the secret chamber of horrors.

  My plan was to inspect the Bible once I was safely back at the mansion. Perhaps there were more clues within its pages. You might wonder why I didn’t bring the bones of the dead priest with me. At least in horror movies and certain TV shows I might mention, destroying the earthly remains of a restless spirit (or at least providing them with a proper burial) was an easy way to defeat supernatural terror. That kind of stuff works in Hollywood, but the reality is a little different—and way more challenging.

  Dark emotions had anchored the priest to this plane of existence. It would take more than fire to stop the nightmare priest.

  I prayed my athame knife would be up for the challenge when I finally faced the entity for a rematch.

  I did my best to clear my mind as I got into the car. Vesper eyes went wide with curiosity, eager to know what I’d discovered. I quickly brought her up to speed. Then it was her turn to let me know if her internet search had unearthed any new information.

  “Not much to report,” she said, her enthusiasm dimming. “I couldn’t dig up anything about the warehouse. From the looks of it, the property has stood abandoned for years. A lot of reports of squatters, but nothing about a priest.”

  I mulled this over. “Ordinarily, I’d say we should dig deeper, look for records and archived blueprints. But I fear we’re on a deadline with this case.”

  Vesper chewed on her lower lip. “Maybe it’s time to bring in the cops, see if they can get a positive idea on the skeleton?”

  I’d considered the very same idea earlier, but my gut told me time was running out for poor Cleo. This spirit was burning up her life-force, using it as fuel for these dark miracles. By the time a forensic analysis came back from the lab, all help would come too late for Cleo.

  No, we didn’t have the time for elaborate lab reports or the kind of in-depth research that involved talking to archivists and digging through microfiche.

  My jaw tightened in growing frustration.

  “Anything else?”

  Vesper's eyes sparkled as she spoke. “That’s all I’ve got for now. But I’m just getting started, boss.”

  I welcomed Vesper positive, can-do attitude. We might not have much to work with as of yet, but my assistant wouldn’t give up until we found the next piece of the puzzle.

  “Alright. Let’s head back to the Batcave.”

  I wasn’t crazy about calling it a day, but there wasn’t much else we could do. As things stood, our best option was to wait for the nightmare priest to strike again. With the undead bastard in control of Cleo, there was no way to bring her in. I wasn’t sure we’d even be able to find her again. That means we could only wait for the next dark miracle.

  Frustration simmering in the pit of my stomach, I started the car and merged into traffic. Forty-five minutes later, we pulled into the driveway of the mansion.

  Sometimes my father’s sprawling Malibu beach property feels like my home. Tonight wasn’t one of them. As the remote-controlled wrought iron gates swung open, I felt like I was passing through the gates of Hell themselves. In the pale moonlight, the sprawling mansion felt oppressive, a sleek and modern version of the Winchester Mystery House. If any home had a right to be haunted, it was mine. A lot of evil and pain had soaked into those stones.

  I really ought to have the thing torn down someday. Rebuild a home in my own style—or maybe just burn it down and salt the earth.

  I parked the car in the circular driveway, and we headed inside. Vesper zipped straight for the kitchen and emerged with a coconut water espresso, a surefire recipe for staying up way past her bedtime. By the time she’d taken her seat behind her computer workstation in the living room, fingers dancing over the keys, she’d already finished half of her drink. Vesper fully understood the urgency of this case.

  While she combed the internet for any clues, I focused my attention on the Satanic Bible. Whole passages had been marked up, demonic symbols and drawings dominated many of the pages.

  One phrase in particular stood out to me: I shall receive the curse of the abyss and be reborn.

  The nameless priest had written it dozens of times throughout the book, pressing the pen so deep that it had ripped the pages at times. Whatever it meant to him, it seemed to be important.

  The intensity of the imagery suggested the work of a dangerously unhinged mind. Then again, I’d never met a well-adjusted devil worshipper. They might hide their insanity the way my father had, but it doesn’t change what they are inside.

  Monsters.

  As I flipped through the pages and perused the Bible more closely, I noticed that the back cover felt a lot thicker than the front. Strange. Further analysis revealed a stack of bookmarks in the back of the text. My fingers trembled with growing excitement as I studied them.

  The cards boasted simple yet charming drawings of Jesus as he performed a variety of miracles. In the first bookmark, Jesus was handing another robed man a basket full of bread loaves. The text under the image read: Jesus feeds five thousand. Luke 9:10 - 17.

  I flipped the card, and my blood ran cold. A polaroid of a dead woman stared back at me, her skeletal body chained and surrounded by baskets full of bread. Had this priest starved this woman to death while surrounded by such abundance?

  What in God’s name had he done?

  I turned my attention to the other bookmarks, dread twisting the pit of my stomach. More miracles, I guessed, and more photographs of dead people.

  This one showed a drawing of Jesus as he laid his hands on a man whose paralyzed body lay spread out on a blanket. Jesus Heals the Paralyzed Man, the card read.

  My heart skipped a beat as I took in the polaroid attached to the back. As expected, it showed another victim. The man in the photograph appeared to be alive,
but his legs had been shattered and twisted, the limbs pointing in unnatural directions, shiny bones poking from the skin. The nightmare priest had hobbled the man, a sick parody of the Biblical miracle.

  More victims stood revealed as I went through the other bookmark cards, each one more horrific than the one preceding it. The one labeled the Raising of Lazarus got to me. It boasted a drawing of Jesus and his apostles as they faced a man emerging from a cavelike tomb. The back of the card showed a photograph of a decomposing body splayed out next to an open grave. Had he buried this poor soul alive and then displayed the corpse as some kind of trophy?

  There was no doubt in my mind. These crimes had to be the work of the Nightmare Priest. Terrible crimes committed while the diabolical man had still been alive. His pattern was to mock Christ’s miracles, to commit crimes that reversed them. Now, in death, he was doing the same thing—but using Cleo as his instrument. Triggering stigmatic attacks after every one of his dark miracles was a way of adding insult to injury.

  If my assumptions proved correct, there would be records of these horrible crimes, records Vesper could look up. She might at least discover the identities of these nameless victims.

  Still shaken, I walked up to Vesper, bookmarks in hand, and held them out to her. My assistant’s face fell as she processed this latest horror.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered, her lovely features draining of all color.

  Neither one of us had ever seen anything like this before.

  She picked up her espresso as if to drain the last dregs, then set it down again. “So, this priest was a serial killer?”

  “That’s my best guess. He was perverting the miracles. An organized killer on a mission.”

  “But why?

  “Do they ever need a reason?” I snarled.

  My response came from a purely emotional place. I knew there was nothing random about these crimes. They were part of a dark tapestry, links in a chain. Even if I didn’t fully understand the reason yet, the priest had done these unspeakable deeds for his own twisted purpose.