The Paranormalist- Servants of the Endless Night Read online

  The Paranormalist

  Servants of the Endless Night

  WILLIAM MASSA

  Critical Mass Publishing

  Copyright © 2019 by WILLIAM MASSA

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Raul Ferran/shutterstock

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  A CHILLING GHOST STORY!

  Not everyone you meet online is who they claim to be.

  Sometimes they may not even be alive...

  Mark found her photo on a popular dating app. Her name was Akasha, and she was beautiful. Seductive. Irresistible. She wrote that she was looking for friendship. Love. A real connection. But Akasha is concealing a terrifying secret...

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  Also by WILLIAM MASSA

  THE NIGHT SLAYER SERIES

  Midnight War

  Monster Quest

  Shadow Plague

  Dark Masters (coming soon)

  THE SHADOW DETECTIVE SERIES

  Cursed City

  Soul Catcher

  Blood Rain

  Demon Dawn

  Skull Master

  Ghoul Night

  Witch Wars

  Crimson Circle

  Hell Breaker

  Dragon Curse

  THE OCCULT ASSASSIN SERIES

  Damnation Code

  Apocalypse Soldier

  Ice Shadows

  Spirit Breaker

  Soul Jacker

  THE PARANORMALIST

  Servants of the Endless Night

  Curse of the Black Moon (coming soon)

  Origin of Darkness

  THE GARGOYLE KNIGHT SERIES

  Gargoyle Knight

  Gargoyle Quest

  STAND ALONES

  Fear the Light

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Also by WILLIAM MASSA

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  Despite a population of only thirty-thousand souls, the coastal village of North Bay Harbor was known for having one of the most popular ghost tours in Maine. In fact, Haunted Travel Blog had rated the tour as the third-best in the country. Janet Clark, whose family had operated the business for two generations, couldn’t be prouder.

  Janet, who dressed as an undertaker’s assistant while guiding a group of tourists through the village where she’d spent most of her thirty-two years, saw the tour as more of a history lesson than an outright creep-fest. But like any old town, North Bay Harbor had its fair share of spooky tales, and those added some spice to the ninety-minute walking tour.

  There was the spirit of the weeping lighthouse keeper who appeared during stormy weather; the ghost of the 1930s actress Susan Hax, who’d taken her life at the downtown theater; the specter of the mother who haunted the pier, calling out to her lost children on every new moon. All local legends that had become part of the fabric of the town.

  And then, casting a shadow over all of them, there was the last stop on the ghost tour—the house of the notorious serial killer Erik Krippner.

  Krippner's crimes had left a dark, indelible stamp on the idyllic seaside village. Twenty years earlier, he’d preyed on young female runaways along highway 2. Krippner would bring his victims to his North Bay Harbor cottage, where he would murder and dismember them.

  The mere thought of such a monster having once dwelled in her home town sent chills down Janet’s spine. Not surprisingly, the Krippner home was her least favorite stop. She wished she could skip it, but you couldn’t have a ghost tour and ignore the home of the resident boogeyman.

  Krippner's cottage stood abandoned in a small forest clearing encircled by sloping hills and dense forest—a blight on the natural landscape, as Janet saw it. The group of intrepid tourists trailing her didn’t share her dislike of the place. Their voices hummed with excitement and morbid anticipation. Crimes had a way of captivating folks’ imaginations. The more horrific the better.

  Everyone likes a good villain—as long as you’re not the next victim.

  Janet’s customers were looking for chills and thrills, and they were determined to get their money's worth .

  Giving herself an internal push, Janet stepped up to the house. She fished the key from her pocket, took a steadying breath, and unlocked the door.

  She’d never get used to this part.

  The door opened with a spooky creak, the dark home waiting for them to step inside. Crossing the threshold sucked the oxygen from Janet's lungs. The air was denser within the walls of the cottage, more oppressive. With each new breath, it felt like phantom hands were tightening their grasp on her throat.

  Janet shuddered at the image, telling herself that this was just a house, but the pressure around her neck didn’t ease.

  These first few seconds were always the worst, reminiscent of the initial discomfort she experienced whenever she went for a swim in the ice-cold ocean before her body adjusted to the water’s freezing temperature.

  Janet could tell that the tourists shared her reaction to the home as their excited laughter stopped and the vibrant chatter died down. People looked up from their phones and, for a moment, forgot to snap the requisite selfie.

  The Krippner house commanded respect. And fear.

  After the serial killer’s death, the city had tried to sell the property. Finding a potential buyer had proven challenging; no one was eager to live in a place where so many people had met a horrible fate. Ultimately, the city council had turned the home into a tourist attraction, and much of the original decor remained, adding to the chilling authenticity of the house.

  The group followed Janet in hushed silence as she led them into the living room. Janet gave the visiting crowd a chance to soak in their spooky surroundings, before she jumped into her script again.

  “Krippner murdered nine teenage runaways within these walls over a three-year period. Finally, the hard work and bravery of two local detectives brought the killing spree to an end.”

  For a second, Janet could have sworn the temperature in the house dropped, almost as if something within these walls disapproved of the way Janet was telling the story.

  She swallowed hard and pressed on. “A beast of a man, Krippner naturally refused to surrender. There was a heated gun battle. Arresting officer Karl Winters was mortally wounded but managed to heroically return fire before succumbing to his traumatic injuries. Both Krippner and Winters died right in the room where we now stand.”

  This little nugget of information triggered a few gasps from the crowd. They eagerly scanned the floor and walls as if they were trying to spot faint bloodstains. Their excitement was almost ghoulish, but a few of the other tourists looked shell-shocked, staring blankly into space with faces that had become expressionless masks.

  The place was
getting under their skin.

  Death permeated the sagging structure and made even the bravest soul contemplate their mortality .

  "Some say Krippner’s evil presence still lingers in this house," Janet said, dropping her voice to a near whisper.

  She was already looking forward to the glass of red wine and the piece of cheesecake waiting for her when she got home.

  Just give the vultures a good show and get out of here , she thought.

  “Please follow me, folks. We’re about to head for the dark heart of this accursed place, a torture chamber where the madman committed his most heinous—”

  A sudden pounding sound cut Janet off mid-sentence and made everyone jump. Nervous laughter filled the house. They tour group exchanged glances and whispered to each other, clearly wondering if this was part of the show.

  Janet knew it wasn’t.

  The sound had emanated from the basement—the place where Krippner had killed the runaways and kept trophies of his victims in a large walk-in freezer.

  The basement that was supposed to be the next stop on the tour.

  Janet chewed her lip, trying to decide what to do. Had a rat or a possum found its way into the cellar? She dismissed the possibility almost as soon as the thought occurred to her. The pounding had been too loud and forceful.

  So what had made the strange noise?

  Janet was still contemplating her next move when the sound repeated itself, this time with even more strength than before. Her pulse quickened, and clammy sweat popped up across her forehead. The oppressive atmosphere of the house seemed thicker than ever, almost as if it wanted to push her toward the basement.

  “It’s coming from downstairs,” one tourist said.

  Visions of Krippner's bloodied victims clawing their way up the dank staircase ghosted through Janet's mind.

  Stop letting your imagination run wild , she admonished herself. You’ve done this tour hundreds of times.

  The group watched her expectantly. All waiting for her to decide what to do.

  The tense silence stretched on a little too long. And then one of the tourists—a tall, strapping hunk who she’d caught checking her out a few times—took action. The man rushed toward the basement door located under the staircase.

  Initial relief at the man’s initiative gave way to her sense of responsibility. As the primary tour guide, it was her job to control the crowd. Their safety rested on her shoulders. Visions of some frivolous lawsuit ruining the business her parents had worked so hard to build galvanized her into action.

  Janet gritted her teeth and ran after the tall man. By the time she’d caught up with him, he’d already opened the basement door.

  Her eyes widened, and she felt her mouth fall open in shock, mirroring the tall man's frozen expression. Sprawled along the length of the staircase was a corpse. The dead man was naked, his skin tattooed with strange symbols, his limbs and neck grotesquely stretched and twisted as if they were made of latex and not flesh and bone.

  Janet took a terrified step back. Worse than the mangled state of the man’s corpse was the naked terror etched into those lifeless features.

  An irrational thought slashed through Janet’s mind, one she could not shake:

  Krippner is back.

  Chapter Two

  THE PAST, 15 Years Ago.

  I was only thirteen years old when I learned that the devil was real.

  It must’ve been a little after one a.m. when a beam of white-hot light clawed its way into my bedroom.

  I blinked, disoriented for a beat.

  A thumping, throbbing noise shook the walls and rattled my teeth. I glanced at the trembling shelves, irritated and not a little scared. A few more seconds of this and my whole DVD collection would come crashing down.

  It felt like a massive storm or earthquake was unleashing its fury against my home. What the hell was going on? Was I awake or dreaming?

  The sounds continued to build, and curiosity overcame my fear. Heart slamming against my ribcage, I slid out of my warm bed and stumbled toward the window.

  A bleary glance through the curtains turned my blood to ice and chased away the last cobwebs. Suddenly, I was wide awake.

  Up in the dark sky, a buzzing police helicopter circled my home, its roaming searchlights the source of the blinding light invading my room. Prop wash made the palm trees outside sway violently.

  My bedroom was on the second floor of the Malibu mega-mansion my father had purchased a decade earlier and afforded me a good overview of the front of the property.

  As I peered down at the perfectly manicured lawns, flagstone pathways, and trimmed hedges, I lost count of all the cops swarming the grounds. An armada of LAPD cruisers encircled the front of the estate, sirens bleeding into the night. All of the officers brandished pistols and rifles.

  It was a scene lifted straight from an action movie—the police storming the home of the bad guys. But we weren’t bad guys, so what where they doing here?

  I watched in stunned silence as the cops fanned across the motor park, firearms up and ready. They were blocking all the roads leading to the Pacific Coast Highway and the canyon roads. They didn’t want anyone to get away, that much was clear. But what had brought the law out to my house in the middle of the night?

  The presence of so many officers meant something horrible had happened .

  Or was about to happen , I corrected myself.

  A terrible thought slashed through my mind. Was some fugitive from the law hiding out in my home? Had the cops chased some crazed killer through the Malibu mountains only to corner him right outside my room?

  But why would a criminal seek refuge at our home, of all places? At thirteen, I didn’t exactly keep up with local crime rates, but I knew the upscale, celebrity-studded Malibu neighborhood I lived in wasn’t exactly a hotbed for criminal activity.

  Another alarming idea occurred to me. Earlier in the evening, dad had entertained a few guests. About once a month, my father threw a party for his closest friends. I had never been invited. They all sipped cocktails and smoked cigars around the large pool in the back that faced the Pacific. Their laughter extended well into the wee hours of the morning, and I was usually asleep before the first of them left the estate.

  Maybe one of dad’s buddies had gotten too drunk and done something bad? But what sort of crime would be bad enough to bring out half the LAPD to our home?

  I shook my head. Rampant speculation wouldn’t answer my questions. I needed to sort this out. And that meant I had to get dad. He would know what was going on, would know what to do.

  I took one last, longing look at my bed. I wished I could crawl back under the covers and just shut out the glaring police lights and loud sirens. But I was thirteen—practically a grown-up, in my mind—and I couldn’t just hide under the covers like a little kid.

  Armed with a plan of sorts, I slipped on my sneakers, opened the bedroom door and took my first step into the circular hallway that overlooked the marble-floored rotunda below. The vague shape of a giant chandelier loomed overhead.

  I was too terrified to turn on a light. What if the cops started shooting the moment I flicked it on? They might mistake me for a criminal, silhouetted against a window.

  The sounds of the police followed me as I sprinted down the hallway toward my father’s bedroom. The mansion had nine bedrooms, most of them rarely occupied. Sometimes I wondered why our house was so big, but my father merely shrugged and claimed the mansion was an investment. At thirteen, I didn’t question this explanation of our lifestyle.

  Besides, a certain very attractive pop star lived next door, so I wasn’t going to complain.

  I passed eight closed doors before I reached my father’s bedroom, convinced every time that someone was about to jump out and grab me.

  I pounded my fist against Dad’s door. There was no response.

  Even though I would never usually disturb him, this was an emergency. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and barged into
the room.

  The covers on my father’s bed remained untouched, and there was no sign of him anywhere. And that raised an interesting question. If dad hadn’t gone to bed yet, where was he? And where were his friends?

  I peered out of the window and counted the luxury cars in the motor court. Everyone from earlier was still here. None of my father’s friends had left the mansion yet, but where was everyone? Even if they’d gotten drunk, they’d still notice the heavy police presence. Nobody could miss all those helicopters and flashing blue lights.

  Could my father and his friends be down at the beach? I wondered. Maybe they hadn’t seen the commotion yet. Or maybe they were on their way back.

  This scenario made sense to me. Of course. They'd been partying at the pool and then probably decided to walk down the hidden trail to the water below before calling it a night.

  As the chopper swept over the house again, sending another burst of powerful vibrations through the walls and floor, I knew what I had to do. I didn’t want to face those armed men alone when they raided the mansion. I had to find my father. And that meant I had to get outside and make my way down the beach.

  Determination welled up in me as I returned toward the landing and cautiously descended the winding staircase, one hand gripping the iron railing.

  It took me only a few seconds to reach the ground floor.

  Shadowy figures flitted behind the foyer’s large windows. Holy crap, they looked like the SWAT guys I’d seen on TV! There was no doubt in my mind that the cops were about to break down the door.

  My guts churning, I crossed the large living room and reached the glass sliding doors that let out onto the formal garden.

  I saw no signs of any cops in this part of the property. At least not yet.

  I waited for the helicopter to pass overhead again before I made my move.

  I tore the sliding glass doors open and ran at full bore through the garden until I reached the sprawling pool area. Ripples spread across the surface of the water, triggered by the police helicopter’s earlier aerial acrobatics.