The Paranormalist 3: Curse of the Abyss Read online

  My mind turned back to the night before. As far as I could recall, I’d spent a few hours before bed immersed in an occult tome in my library while sipping brandy. The last thing I remembered was sinking into my super-comfortable memory foam mattress, slightly buzzed from the alcohol.

  One thing was for sure—the rough surface biting into my back sure as hell wasn’t memory foam.

  What the hell was going on?

  I received my answer a beat later as a beam of light speared the encroaching darkness, and a familiar voice called out to me.

  “Simon, are you okay?”

  Instant relief flooded my chest. Thank God, I thought. She is okay, it was all a dream.

  “Simon, say something! Are you down here?”

  The question hung in the air as the beam from the high-powered flashlight waved back and forth in the darkness.

  “I’m over here,” I croaked, my voice dry and raspy and in dire need of a glass of water.

  As the beam of light found me in the darkness, I made out Vesper’s silhouette framed by jagged rocks. I couldn’t help but smile, feeling a horrible weight lifted off my shoulders.

  Going by the relief flooding her lovely features, Vesper was experiencing a similar emotion. “Simon!” she cried out and surged toward me. As the beam of her bouncing flashlight swept around the space, I realized where we were. Suddenly my sore back and the goosebumps dotting my exposed flesh made a lot more sense. I was inside the cave system below my property—the same spot that, fifteen years earlier, had housed my father’s infernal temple.

  I inspected the slab of rock on which I'd napped. Felt no surprise when I saw it was the sacrificial altar. How many innocent lives had drawn their last breaths while tied to this cold stone surface? Suddenly my nightmare made a lot more sense.

  Before I could dwell on this latest insight, Vesper was upon me. She engulfed me in a hug before catching herself and pulling away. Her initial relief at seeing me unharmed gave way to a glare.

  “You scared the hell out of me. I thought…” Her voice broke off.

  “I had a dream. A nightmare,” I explained lamely.

  She stared at me. Her bedhead suggested that my screams had awoken her in the middle of the night.

  Vesper had lived with me long enough to know that nightmares were a fringe benefit in my chosen line of work. She’d probably lost count of all the times my nocturnal cries had interrupted her beauty sleep. But in those cases, the screams had always been limited to my bedroom. This time, I must’ve sleepwalked into the library, passed through the hidden bookshelf entrance, and walked down the set of rough-hewn stairs into the underground temple.

  Once here, my sleepwalking ass had nothing better to do but lay down on my father's sacrificial altar and catch up on my zzz’s.

  I didn’t have to be Freud to know what my subconscious was trying to tell me. My latest case had opened up a lot of old wounds, dredging up a past I’d rather not dwell on. The witch Asmodina had stolen my father’s remains and tried to bring him back to life. She’d nearly succeeded. No wonder I was having a hard time catching up on my beauty sleep.

  Vesper studied me, concern etched across her face. Without her usual goth warpaint, she looked younger, almost vulnerable. I wanted to brush a strand of wild black hair from her eyes but fought back the impulse. We were close, but not that close. Partners and friends—but nothing more by unspoken consent.

  I tried to tell myself it was better that way.

  Vesper took my outstretched hand in hers and started guiding my groggy ass to the stairs that would take us back to the library.

  I shivered. The cave was freezing. Los Angeles had a rep for being a sunny paradise, but the temperatures dropped sharply at night, especially when you’re living right on the beach.

  I let Vesper pull me along, drawing comfort from the warmth of her hand. The memory of her terror-stricken visage haunted me. I kept seeing the knife sinking into her chest. Was the dream a warning or merely a manifestation of my lifelong trauma over what my father had done? Did a part of me fear that one day I might follow down his infernal path?

  Never, I swore to myself. I would rather die than…

  “You want to tell me about this latest nightmare of yours?” Vesper asked as we climbed the stairs.

  She didn’t give me a chance to answer. I guess she knew me well enough by now not to expect an honest reply.

  “You never get a rest, do you? It doesn’t matter if you’re awake or asleep, you’re always fighting monsters.”

  “Welcome to my world,” I grumbled.

  We set foot in the library, and I fought back a shiver as another gust of frigid air shot up the dark stairway. Jaw set with determination, I closed the secret bookshelf door and made myself a silent promise to have the entrance of the temple bricked up soon.

  Almost as if she’d read my mind, Vesper said, “How come you never sealed this up?”

  She was asking a good question. Over the years, I’d often felt tempted to seal the cave system, to bury my past for good. But deep down, I knew that a bulwark made from timber and rock would never be strong enough to keep the demons at bay.

  And part of me didn’t want to lock it away. I tried to find the words to explain myself to Vesper.

  “The temple reminds me of what happened here, of where I come from—where I never want to end up. On those days when I wonder what I’m doing with my life, stepping into the darkness below puts it all back into focus. Does that make any sense?”

  Vesper considered my words for a beat and nodded.

  “I still hold on to the necklace my ex gave me. And it’s sure as hell isn’t because I’m still pining over him.”

  Vesper pointed to the silver skull pendant around her neck. It was straight out of the Biker Babe meets Rock Goddess chic catalog.

  “He gave me this lovely piece of jewelry days before he sold me to those devil-worshiping bikers. At first, I was going to toss it, but… I can’t. I guess my way of reminding myself never to date an addict again, especially if their friends worship demons.”

  Vesper's words brought a wry smile to my face. It was good to know I wasn’t the only one here who had issues with their past. What a pair we made.

  My eyes turned toward the Anubis Egyptian Death clock mounted over the exit of my occult library, another souvenir of my father’s morbid collection. A small statue of the god of death—jackal-headed Anubis—stood watch next to a clock adorned with the all-seeing Eye of Horus. It served as a reminder that time was always ticking into the future toward our inevitable end.

  My dad was not a lot of fun at parties, as you might imagine.

  It was six o’clock, and I doubted I’d be able to fall asleep at this point. Not so for my faithful assistant, who looked exhausted. Vesper eyed me blearily and stifled a yawn. I flashed her a warm smile.

  “Go back to bed. I’ll be okay.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. Thanks for coming to my rescue. Again.”

  The comment elicited a smile from Vesper. During my last case, the witch Asmodina had trapped me inside her magical warehouse—a place from which I most likely wouldn’t have escaped without Vesper’s help. My assistant had overcome her crushing agoraphobia, which had kept her trapped within my mansion, to come find me.

  And yes, I gave her a raise. I’m not a monster.

  My assistant squeezed my hand and left the library. I, meanwhile, headed to the kitchen and started brewing a pot of coffee. The first light of day was trickling through the large deck windows, offering me a breathtaking view of the beach and the Pacific Ocean beyond. Between the magnificent view and the delicious scent of my dark roast, the horrors of the night seemed far away.

  I did my best to enjoy the scenery while I nursed my caffeine addiction. The world could be a dark place, but there was also light. I couldn’t allow myself to forget that.

  After my coffee, I hit the Malibu mountains for a morning hike. When I got back an hour later, my body lathe
red in sweat, my legs filled with a pleasant warmth from the exertion, I saw that someone had called my cell and left a voicemail. A frown furrowed my brows as I listened to the message.

  “Hey, Simon, its Father Jimenez, I hope you’re doing good.” There was a moment of silence before he continued. “Would you mind coming down to Church of the Blessed Sacrament? We must talk…”

  I could think of only one good reason a priest would contact a paranormal investigator. Somewhere in the City of Angels, the devils had struck again.

  Chapter Three

  I set foot inside the Church of the Blessed Sacrament about an hour later. As I took in the high, vaulted ceilings and the stained-glass windows, I felt small and insignificant. Not worthy of venturing into this place of worship. Even though I’d committed my life to the fight against the forces of Hell, I also felt tainted by my father’s crimes, his sins casting a long shadow over me.

  To sum things up, I believed in God, but I wasn’t so sure He believed in me. I doubted He was all too happy about having me over as a guest.

  I guess when enough people call you the son of the devil, you wonder if they might be right.

  Fortunately, Father Jimenez popped up behind me and pulled me out of my dark musings.

  “Simon, I’m glad you made it,” the priest said with a smile. We warmly shook hands. Our paths had crossed on two previous occasions over the years, and Father Jimenez believed that despite my father’s dark crimes, I was one of the good guys.

  “It’s nice to see you again, Father. You’re looking good.”

  Born and bred in Inglewood, Father Jimenez was as intimately familiar with the streets of Los Angeles as he was with the Bible. Athletic with swarthy good looks, he didn’t fit anyone’s stereotype of a priest.

  “Thanks. Work is keeping me on my toes.”

  Jimenez was talking about the duties that came with running a parish of this size as well as his work with the various local gang intervention and rehabilitation programs. The priest had devoted his life to helping disenfranchised youth. The faded gang tattoo on his neck was a reminder that Father Jimenez had navigated his own long and treacherous road to becoming the man he was today.

  “You piqued my interest, Father,” I said. “I know you didn’t want to go into details on the phone, but you wouldn’t have reached out to for no good reason. What’s going on?”

  Father Jimenez’s smile vanished, and he took a glance at the empty church as if to make sure we were alone before nodding at me to follow him.

  “Best if we talk in my office.”

  Less than five minutes later, we were sitting in the small back office, and Father Jimenez was pouring us both steaming hot cups of green tea.

  I took mine without honey, enjoying the aromatic bitterness of the beverage. My eyes kept shifting to the crucifix on the wall. Over the years, I’d faced monsters and demons. I had experienced real evil. Despite my deep understanding of the occult, I wondered how an all-powerful, loving God could allow for such evil to persist.

  Was it all a grand test or part of some higher plan, as so many great philosophers claimed? I had my doubts. It felt more like an all-out war between the forces of good and evil, a war that was being waged every day on our plane of existence and whose outcome wasn’t guaranteed. I didn’t believe this existential conflict was part of some cosmic plan, and that victory for the good guys was assured, as many people thought. To my eyes, the darkness threatening our world was a formidable force that seemed to gain in power with each passing day. I was merely a soldier in this battle for humanity’s future. All I could do was put up a good fight and do my part. If evil should ultimately prevail, it wouldn’t be because I refused to get my hands dirty.

  Father’s studied me for a beat and said, “How have you been, Simon?”

  “My work has been keeping me busy, too,” I said.

  Jimenez nodded somberly. “Evil never rests, so why should we, right?”

  I grinned. We both fought the darkness in our way. And once in a while, our worlds collided—as they had a year earlier during our first encounter. A gang had conjured a demon and used the entity to target the members of a rival crew. I’d shown up in the nick of time to stop the supernatural powder keg from turning into a full-blown gang war. Father Jimenez had never forgotten my contribution to the community, and we’d met a few times since then to talk shop over a cup of tea.

  Now that I considered, maybe I had more friends than just Vesper.

  “Why did you want to see me today, Father?” I asked, my curiosity filtered through a sense of growing dread. I knew all too well that this wasn’t a social call.

  The question hung in the air for a beat, before Father Jimenez turned his laptop in my direction.

  “Best if I show you.”

  Father Jimenez pressed a button, and a YouTube video played. My eyes narrowed as I focused my attention on the screen. Judging by the pixelated, shaky quality of the footage, a cell phone cam had recorded the video. It showed a night club filled with young, beautiful people moving their bodies to the beat of a throbbing soundtrack. And then the music abruptly stopped.

  Uneasy silence replaced the pounding techno, and my stomach tightened into a knot. I’ve faced death often enough to recognize its approaching shadow—tragedy had invaded the club.

  The cell phone cam fought its way through the crowd to get a better look at the young man sprawled in a heap on the dance floor, arms and legs flailing as if he was experiencing an epileptic fit. I noted that the victim in question appeared to be a Latino in his early twenties.

  The camera drew closer, inexorably drawn to the dying club goer. Foam bubbled from the man’s lips as his body flopped on the floor, muscles gripped by violent seizures. It looked like an overdose to me. A tragedy, but not exactly my line of work.

  Another figure edged into the frame. Moving with grave urgency, a muscular black man zeroed in on the thrashing youth, went into his knees, and started to fight for the club kid’s life.

  I watched the fierce battle between life and death in tense silence.

  Death held the better hand in this conflict—seconds later, the club kid drew his final wheezing breath of air. His gaze went blank, all life leaving his expression. There was zero doubt in my mind that the poor guy was gone.

  The silence which followed was deafening. For many of these young club-goers, this was their first real experience of mortality. “Live fast, die young, and leave a good-looking corpse” wasn’t just a rebellious motto—it was the harsh reality for some of these people.

  I stole a questioning glance at Father Jimenez. I felt terrible for the poor bastard, but I still didn’t grasp why the priest had felt compelled to show me the man’s last moments on this Earth. Nothing suggested that there was any supernatural explanation for his unexpected passing.

  And then another figure walked into the frame. A young, beautiful multiracial woman stepped up to the defeated looking black man. She gently pulled him away from the lifeless man on the dance floor and took his place.

  What was she up to? Did she honestly believe she could still help?

  I could hear the man’s garbled response—there’s nothing you can do for him, he’s gone—but the young woman refused to heed his words.

  She knelt before the dead club kid.

  At first, it appeared to be one more desperate attempt at CPR, which was bound to fail. To my surprise, within seconds of laying her hands on the body, he came back to life. There was no other way to describe it—one moment, he was a cooling slab of meat. The next, he was alive again.

  My eye widened in amazement when the kid let out a raspy gurgle as his lungs gasped for precious oxygen. Somehow, the woman had brought the man back from the other side. That kind of thing shouldn’t be possible. In the rare case where someone—usually a dark practitioner—dragged a soul across the veil, it was as a parody of life. I’d seen more walking corpses than I cared to admit. That wasn’t what was happening now.

  My eyes wi
dened even further when the woman’s wrists started to bleed. It was almost as if someone had driven nails through her wrists.

  Even with no explanation from Father Jimenez, I immediately understood the significance of those gushing wounds. Stigmata, physical injuries corresponding to the ones left on the body of Jesus Christ during the crucifixion.

  I’d seen some twisted, crazy shit over the years, but this was a new one even for me.

  Somebody screamed that it was a goddamn miracle, and then the video froze. A glance at the video’s YouTube page told me millions of people had viewed the clip already.

  Father Jimenez watched me closely, gauging my reaction.

  “The girl sure knows how to perform first aid?” My weak attempt at humor even sounded lame to me.

  “That didn’t look like CPR to me. She merely laid her hands on him.”

  I shrugged, at a loss for a comeback.

  “Frank Jackson, the bartender, used to be an EMT. In every interview he’s given, he swears the kid was a goner before DJ Trinity showed up. She touched him, and he woke up. And a moment later, her hands started to bleed. You know what they call such injuries?”

  “I may not attend mass every Sunday, Father, but I attended Catholic School when I was a kid. You believe these wounds are stigmata?”

  The question hung in the air as I held Father Jimenez’s probing gaze. I sensed that the priest desperately wanted to believe that he’d just witnessed an honest-to-God miracle.

  “We’re talking about a DJ at some night club here. The whole thing could be a publicity stunt. She wouldn’t be the first one to fake such injuries for attention.”

  “Believe me, that was my first reaction too…”

  “I mean, the bartender could be in on the whole thing,” I interrupted, warming to this line of thought. “Everyone is looking for some video that can go viral. To become the next trending story.”

  I half expected to receive some pushback for my comments. To my surprise, Father Jimenez’s expression softened.