The Paranormalist 3: Curse of the Abyss Read online

  The Paranormalist 3

  Curse of the Abyss

  WILLIAM MASSA

  Contents

  Also by WILLIAM MASSA

  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

  Also by WILLIAM MASSA

  About the Author

  Also by WILLIAM MASSA

  THE NIGHT SLAYER SERIES

  Midnight War

  Monster Quest

  Shadow Plague

  World of Darkness

  THE SHADOW DETECTIVE SERIES

  Cursed City

  Soul Catcher

  Blood Rain

  Demon Dawn

  Skull Master

  Ghoul Night

  Witch Wars

  Crimson Circle

  Hell Breaker

  Dragon Curse

  Vampire Quest

  THE OCCULT ASSASSIN SERIES

  Damnation Code

  Apocalypse Soldier

  Ice Shadows

  Spirit Breaker

  Soul Jacker

  THE PARANORMALIST

  Servants of the Endless Night

  Soul Taker

  Curse of the Abyss

  Lost Souls of Venice

  THE GARGOYLE KNIGHT SERIES

  Gargoyle Knight

  Gargoyle Quest

  STAND ALONES

  Fear the Light

  Chapter One

  Friday nights were the time to let loose.

  Nowhere was this truer than at Club Link. The dance floor inside the high-ceilinged space pulsed with bass-drenched house music as bodies writhed and contorted to the pounding rhythm. Beautiful women in skintight dresses ground their perfect curves against the hard, glistening muscle of their dance partners, the flashing red and blue spotlights giving the dancer’s sweat-soaked skin an otherworldly glow.

  The air crackled with youthful energy and hedonistic abandon—it felt like all of Los Angeles had come together to celebrate the end of another grueling workweek.

  Cleo Drix, aka DJ Trinity, fronted her classic turntable setup which overlooked the sprawling dance area—a high priestess of sound holding court over her devoted flock. Cleo was drawing energy from the ebb of flow of bodies, her head bobbing to the beat of the music, both mistress and slave to the tunes emanating from the club’s speaker system.

  Club Link had opened its doors to eager Los Angeles club-goers less than a month earlier. The place was quickly gaining a rep for being one of the hottest joints in town to get your groove on, and DJ Trinity played no small part in this newfound reputation. Cleo loved what she did, and it showed. She could work magic on the dancefloor. Her fingers flashed over the dials of her mixing board, her hands spinning and scratching the turntables at precisely the right moment to take the party to the next level.

  Tonight, Cleo was whipping her audience into a frenzy and loving every second.

  Music and dance were her passion, the swaying crowd her muse as she gave herself over to the throbbing beats. She was born for this job. More than a mere calling, music ran in her blood.

  When the lights went off, and the sound system came alive, she forgot about all the problems in her life. She stopped thinking about how she spent her days slaving away to make a living as a barista while waiting for her big break in the music biz. Her earnings from her DJ and MC gigs served as a much-needed additional revenue stream but were barely enough to pay the rent, much less cover all her other bills.

  Then again, she would have done this job for free.

  Manipulating great music, selecting the right songs, and knowing how to unleash them upon an eager crowd, that was what she lived for. In a perfect world, she would’ve been able to support herself with her DJing—and hopefully soon, she’d be able to focus exclusively on her art. Club Link was her biggest venue yet, and her Instagram was blowing up. Her recent success gave her hope that even bigger and better opportunities were waiting for her right around the corner.

  I’m getting there, she thought, slowly but surely.

  All her hard work was about to pay off; she could feel it.

  Eyes blazing with enthusiasm, she cued up the next song and slowed down the tempo, switching the genre and giving the dancers a chance to take a much-needed breather after the furious workout of the last ten minutes. It was all about reading and playing the crowd, giving them what they wanted—or what they didn’t even realize they wanted—at the right time.

  Cleo wiped the sweat off her brow and enjoyed the momentary lull herself. She might not be dancing like the club kids below, but she was always moving to the rhythm of the music. If she didn’t feel the beat, neither would the crowd.

  As Cleo took a deep gulp from her water bottle, she felt someone watching her. She turned to the bar, the rows of liquor bottles sparkling in the flashing club lights.

  The muscular black bartender was checking her out, his eyes filled with an unmistakable glint of heat. Noticing her gaze, he gave her a big thumbs up of approval. What was his name again? Frank, or was it Tony?

  Cleo smiled back at him without being too flirtatious about it. The man was cute and she appreciated the attention, but she had a boyfriend.

  As she turned away from her admirer, she caught a quick glimpse of herself in one of the mirrored globes hanging from the ceiling. Cafe-au-lait skin courtesy of her mixed-race heritage, long black dreads, high cheekbones, and a strong jaw. She wore a white tank top over black jeans, and steel-studded armbands complemented her choker. The long hours in the gym were paying off, too—her body was athletic yet curvy, and she looked the part of the hot DJ. Men wanted her, and women wanted to be her. And no one could resist shaking their booty once she unleashed her sonic assault. She was DJ Trinity, and she was ready to take these fine folks on a brilliant acoustic ride they would not so soon forget.

  While Cleo caught her breath, she was already mentally prepping her next set. She was scanning the upcoming playlist, going over each song choice one final time, when she noticed a man lurching toward her mixing desk. His gait was unstable, his movements erratic, almost as if he was auditioning for a part on one of those zombie TV shows Cleo’s boyfriend watched.

  What’s wrong with this guy? Cleo wondered, rearing back from the approaching man.

  The man’s wild eyes ticked back and forth—and then foam bubbled from his lips. Cleo didn’t think anyone else saw it, but the crowd seemed to sense that something was off about the dude and kept their distance. She tried to signal security, to get someone’s attention without panicking the crowd.

  Too late.

  The man let out a guttural scream, which was loud enough to be heard over the music, and then hit the dance floor like a felled tree.

  The dancers scattered away from the downed man, their panicked reactions mirroring Cleo’s shocked expression. Seconds earlier, she’d been on cloud nine; now cold fear had sunk its claws deep into her. This was not the kind of PR she needed to boost her career.

  The man twitched and foamed and desperately gasped for air. A sudden realization struck Cleo—he was overdosing on something. Unfortunately, she’d seen it many times before. Clubs and drugs went hand in hand.

  As the man’s face turned purple and his pupils dilated, a voice seemed to speak directly in her mind.

  “Help him.”

  Goosebumps pricked her skin. For an irrational second, it felt
like the voice was coming from an outside source, as if someone—a man?—was whispering in her ear.

  “You can save him.”

  Definitely a male voice, a deep baritone, educated, perhaps even seductive.

  A voice that demanded to be obeyed.

  Still, Cleo remained trapped in a state of paralysis. She watched in frozen silence as the bartender stormed toward the convulsing club kid and began to perform CPR. He was pounding the man’s ribcage, breathing into his mouth, doing it over and over again, determined to save the poor guy.

  Cleo’s hands operated with a will of their own as she turned down the throbbing techno. The music died, now replaced with the desperate sounds of one man fighting for the life of another. There was the hiss of breath desperately filling unresponsive lungs, the slapping sounds of hands trying to compress the chest of the victim and get his heart to beat again. Frank—it was Frank, Cleo was sure of it now—was doing everything in his power to pry the unresponsive overdose victim from the hungry jaws of death. But even though the bartender fought with tireless energy for the unconscious club kid’s life, the odds of reviving him grew slimmer with each passing second.

  Breathe, goddamn it! Breathe! Cleo urged. But even from her perch above the dancefloor, she could see that it was already too late.

  Not unconscious, she corrected herself. He’s dead.

  She clutched her audio console a little harder, feeling suddenly faint.

  Frank’s efforts grew more desperate even though he had to know that too much time had passed.

  Yet he kept going. And going.

  Refusing to give up.

  To accept defeat.

  So when the bartender abruptly stopped his efforts, Cleo blinked in disbelief. How could he back down now?

  Too much time has passed, she told herself. The poor guy can’t be saved.

  The bartender rose to his feet, regarded the stunned crowd for a beat, and then said in a defeated voice, “He’s gone.”

  “Are you going to give up so easily?” the strange inner voice, which didn’t sound like her own, demanded.

  No.

  Before she could talk herself out of it, she stepped out from behind her mixing table and made her way to the man’s body. The crowd watched her with a sense of growing unease, unable to make sense of why their high priestess of sound had descended from her booth on high.

  To be honest, she wasn’t sure herself. It felt almost like someone else was in the driver’s seat, making her march down the steps and approach the body on the dancefloor.

  But she couldn’t just sit back and do nothing.

  She had to act.

  Without hesitation, Cleo kneeled before the lifeless man. Part of her was screaming in panic even as she calmly reached out her hands toward his chest. It was too late for CPR. How could she hope to succeed where the bartender had so dramatically failed?

  Cleo started to compress the man’s chest as the bartender had done, a rhythmic pumping that reminded her of the sick beats she’d been spinning.

  You’re wasting your time, her inner voice—the real one—whispered. It’s hopeless. Even if, through some miracle, you bring this guy back, he’d most likely be brain dead at this point.

  She didn’t even know CPR. What the hell was she doing?

  “Don’t let fear hold you back, child.”

  Cleo froze for a beat. There it was again, the strange male voice that wasn’t her thoughts, invading her mind. But the voice didn’t frighten her. Instead, she drew comfort and strength from it.

  “Lay your hands on him.”

  Cleo took a deep breath and did as she was told.

  She pressed gently against the dead club kid’s chest and did her best not to look at the lifeless eyes staring into emptiness. Cleo looked away, and that’s when she spotted the figure standing on the platform that held her DJ equipment, looking down at the scene with a look of terror on his face.

  It was the club kid. The man she was trying to save.

  The vision made her blood turn to ice. Was her mind playing tricks, making her see ghosts?

  “I’m not letting you go, she whispered, her eyes riveted to the apparition behind her sound desk.

  Her hands pushed deeper into the man’s chest, almost as if she was trying to dig down to his heart and lungs, and a surge of heat flooded her body, a sensation both pleasant and terrifying at the same time.

  There was a sharp exhalation of air, followed by the stunned cries of the crowd.

  The previously dead man’s eyes snapped open and found hers.

  Cleo rocked back on her heels, a grin spreading across her face.

  She’d done it. She’d brought the man back from the grave.

  Almost as if she had to reassure herself she wasn’t dreaming, Cleo looked back up at her audio console. The man’s ghost, or whatever it was, had vanished. He was back where he belonged, back in his body. Thanks to her.

  She felt numb as she rose to her feet.

  The EMTs had finally arrived, pushing through the doors of the club and making a path through the stunned crowd. Even as the men in white surrounded the overdose victim, she felt something warm and sticky running down her wrist.

  “Oh my God, look at her hands!” someone cried.

  Cleo glanced down, a sick feeling of dread replacing her earlier triumph. Her wrists were gushing blood. Almost as if someone had driven nails through them.

  The world became a blur as one by one, the club kids started snapping pictures of her with their phones. It would be all over social media in minutes. Might even go viral.

  It’s happening again, she thought, the voice in her head bordering on hysteria.

  As the EMTs’ attention shifted toward her, the world grew hazy. The last thing Cleo saw before the darkness swept her away was a figure peeling from the shadows near the back of the club. The man was dressed in black and sported a white-collar.

  What was a priest doing at Club Link?

  The figure turned toward her. Bone-bleached skin, hollowed-out features, red-rimmed holes for eyes that almost seemed to glow in the dark club. And carved into the phantom priest's forehead, there was an inverted crimson cross.

  Chapter Two

  Torches flickered and hissed inside the yawning cave, painting the faces of the robed cultists red. The surging crowd of fanatics drew closer, a human tidal wave determined to engulf me.

  I’d lived and relived this moment countless times. In the past, I’d always fought my way through the mob, driven by a need to face the magnetic figure presiding over this unholy gathering. I’d fight my way to the back of the cave until I could clearly see cult leader towering over a stone altar. The first thing I’d notice was the glowing red sacrificial knife, flames dancing over its steel surface. Then I’d inevitably look down on the woman strapped to the slab of stone, behold her terror, which mirrored my own. And finally, my gaze would turn to the familiar face shadowed by the monklike hood.

  The face of my father.

  Mason Kane feared cult leader and founder of the Children of the Void.

  I expected things to be no different this time around. I was about to learn otherwise.

  As I weaved through the crowd, the cave spun and the world shifted by one hundred and eighty degrees. I blinked for a disoriented beat. And then I realized I was no longer part of the mob fighting for a front-row seat to the upcoming sacrifice.

  No, instead I now faced the devilish crowd of fanatics, stared back at their eager, fanatical gazes.

  The full horror of this new position clawed its way into my heart.

  I was wielding my father’s sacrificial knife while looking down at the bound female tied to the altar.

  I was no longer the child who’d stumbled into a black mass, no longer an innocent bystander to the unfolding horror.

  I’d become the leader of this dark mob.

  Like father, like son.

  I stared at the knife in my hand, a blade I’d become intimately familiar with over the last
few years: my father’s sacrificial knife, his athame, now the primary weapon in my monster hunting arsenal.

  “Embrace your legacy, Simon,” a seductive voice whispered in my ears. “This is your destiny.”

  I scanned the heaving crowd. Saw the eager features, recognized the blood hunger in those eyes.

  They wanted me to do it. Drive the knife into the sacrifice.

  Prove your commitment and loyalty to our dark lord.

  Panic raced up my spine. Bile burned in my throat.

  And below the discomfort, the hint of another, very different sensation.

  Excitement.

  No!

  The hand clutching the knife inevitably turned toward the hapless woman tied to the jagged stone altar. An invisible force had seized control of me and was directing my arm toward the victim. I’d become a puppet under the command of some unseen master. Before I knew what I was doing, I brought down the sacrificial knife.

  My chest grew tight as I felt the steel penetrate the soft flesh beneath me.

  The woman’s white T-shirt turned red.

  “Embrace your legacy, Simon.”

  My terrified eyes shifted to the dying woman’s face.

  That’s when my blood turned to ice.

  I knew this woman. Cared about her.

  Staring back at me was none other than Dakota Vesper, my right-hand woman and the closest thing to a friend I had in this world.

  My scream of horror erupted through the cavern, driving the crowd of fanatics into a frenzy.

  I violently awoke from my nightmare, my cry of horror reverberating, shrill and terrifying even to my ears. Pitch-black darkness enveloped me, deepening my sense of disorientation. My skin prickled with goosebumps as a cold draft swept over my body. I shifted my weight, the muscles on my back sore and stiff. I was lying on a rough hard surface.