Coffin Collector

OCCULT ASSASSIN

#3.5

COFFIN COLLECTOR

A SHORT STORY

By William Massa

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Copyright © 2015 William Massa

Published by
Critical Mass Publishing

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
 

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form without permission. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted material in violation of author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Also by William Massa

THE OCCULT ASSASSIN SERIES

Occult Assassin #1: Damnation Code -
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Occult Assassin #2: Apocalypse Soldier -
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Occult Assassin #2.5: Ice Shadows (A Novella) -
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Occult Assassin #3: Spirit Breaker -
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Occult Assassin #4: Soul Jacker (Available for Preorder) -
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HORROR/DARK FANTASY

FEAR THE LIGHT

GARGOYLE KNIGHT

MATCH: A SUPERNATURAL THRILLER

SCIENCE FICTION

CROSSING THE DARKNESS

THE SILICON SERIES

SILICON DAWN

SILICON MAN

COMING SOON

TARGET EARTH: THE SYSTEM #1

THE STORY SO FAR

After a decade spent fighting the enemy abroad and keeping his country safe, Delta Force Operator Mark Talon is ready to settle down with the love of his life. But Talon’s world crumbles when his fiancée becomes the victim of a murderous cult.
 

In the wake of his terrible loss, Talon dedicates himself to a new mission – hunting down twisted occultists around the globe and stopping them before they can unleash the forces of darkness upon an unsuspecting world..
.

In Coffin Collector, his quest for vengeance will take him to Florence, Italy…

C
HAPTER
O
NE

DARKNESS GREETED TRAVIS Willyard upon waking. Instead of looking up from a soft bed at the wood ceiling beams of his studio apartment, he found himself confined in a black and soundless space. He tried to move left and right, only to realize he was boxed in. Frantically, he tried to sit up, but banged his head against a wooden surface. His pulse quickened, and he fought back the first signs of claustrophobia.
 

Where am I?

He shifted about and explored his extremely tight quarters by touch. He was…encased in something. He pressed against the rough wooden ceiling of his new prison, his labored breaths amplified in the tight space. Soon words tumbled from his lips, nearly unintelligible in his parched throat, building into terrified screams.

“Hello! Let me out of here! Somebody help me!”

There was no response.
 

Oh my God, what’s happening? How did I get here?
 

Travis searched his memory. Through the haze of last night’s binge drinking and the terrible hangover splitting his head, he vaguely remembered spending the evening at Rivalta, one of the poshest bars in town. He was four weeks into his summer semester at the Florence University of the Arts and was having the time of his life. As an art student, he cherished this beautiful European city and all its historical relics and artistic masterpieces. Engaging classes during the day gave way to a different kind of stimulation when the sun went down and the local beauties hit the discotheques and bars. Travis appreciated art in all its forms, particularly the female form, and he had been meeting his share of lovely and willing locals. He wanted this to be a summer to remember, a final hurrah before returning to New York, where graduation and the responsibilities of adulthood would be waiting for him.
 

He was madly in love with the city. And the city had returned his passion in kind.

Until now.

He dimly recalled two lovely girls chatting him up at the bar. He had bought them drinks, the place had started spinning… And that’s when the memories stopped. He must’ve passed out, but why? He considered himself a seasoned drinker; a few Negronis wouldn’t knock him off his feet.
 

There was only one explanation: Someone must’ve spiked his drink.
 

It was absurd. Why would anyone kidnap him? Granted, Americans weren’t the most popular people around with many of the locals, but still… As some of the Italian girls had explained after a passionate night of lovemaking, people from the US were spoilt, arrogant, and loud—but also a lot of fun and good in the sack. Young people might be drawn to them, but the older population considered them a cultural blight. Travis had received confirmation of this a few nights earlier when he had stumbled drunkenly through the city’s streets, one of his buddies singing at the top of his lungs. A window above them opened, and a disgruntled Florentian dumped a bucket of ice-cold water on top of them. They’d laughed their asses off at the time, but what if some local felt water wasn’t enough to teach the foreigners a lesson?
 

Clenching his teeth, he kicked and slammed the wooden ceiling of the box with all his might. This time, the lid popped open. Harsh light flooded in. Travis blinked, shielding his eyes, and recognized with horror that he’d been trapped in a coffin all this time.
 

He scrambled out of the casket as fast as possible, shaking all over. What the fuck? Was this some sick joke? For a second, he expected his guffawing buddies to pop out from behind the coffin and provide him with a legitimate reason to punch their lights out. But no human laughter joined in with his anxiety-ridden gasps.
 

As his breathing normalized, he began to inspect his environment more carefully. He was inside an immense high-ceilinged warehouse. Murky light shafted into the cavernous space through a series of skylights, revealing a sight that made his blood run cold. Everywhere he turned, rows upon rows of coffins stretched out before him, an eerie maze of death. They came in all shapes, sizes and materials: wood, metal, and even fiberglass. Some were elaborately adorned while others appeared simple and basic.
 

This place was a museum dedicated to the art of coffin making.
 

Inhaling deeply to stave off his fear, Travis stumbled through the grotesque labyrinth, shaken by the morbid, surreal setting. He needed to find a way out.
 

His searching gaze paused on an exotic glass sarcophagus. The outline of a man was barely discernible inside the coffin.
 

Fighting back his terror, he approached the glass sarcophagus and caught a better look at the figure resting inside. Sunken, waxy features indifferently regarded the world, the skin covered by a thin veneer of paint, which gave the body a doll-like quality. But this was no doll; this man had once been alive. Another horrible idea occurred to him. What if this corpse wasn’t the only one? What if every one of these coffins contained a preserved body?
 

A voice in his head told him to keep moving, but instead he closed in on the nearest casket, its faux-gold handles gleaming in the milky light filtering into the warehouse. Giving himself an internal push, Travis opened the lid and froze. The mummified remains of a woman stared back at him. Her empty eye sockets bored into Travis as if she blamed him for her horrific state.
 

That did it. He’d seen enough…
 

Travis whirled and ran. There had to be an exit somewhere.
 

Behind him, he heard a noise. He slowed, his panicked gaze combing the warehouse.

Was that movement behind a row of caskets?

More footsteps echoed in the warehouse. They seemed to come from different sides of the labyrinth. That meant more than one person was stalking him. What sick game were these freaks playing?

No time to dwell on it. Travis kept moving, trying to be as noiseless as possible as he navigated the maze. His mind grew blank as he arrived at the center of the warehouse, where another surreal sight awaited. A rectangular stretch of soil dominated the space, the cement floor giving way to a large patch of earth, about twenty feet long and ten feet wide. An ancient looking wooden casket rested in the middle of the plot, right next to an open grave.
 

Something almost indefinable set this coffin apart from the others, a timeless, primal quality, almost as if it originated from another world. Strange symbols and sigils lined the coffin’s rough-hewn, organic-looking surface. The casket seemed imbued with unnatural life, almost as if it had been constructed from flesh and bone instead of wood. Travis’ skin grew clammy and bile rose in his throat, the coffin’s malevolent energy triggering a physical response. Acid churned in his gut.

Another sound made Travis spin around.
 

This time he caught a glimpse of one of his stalkers. A massive individual, built like a professional wrestler. The man was bald, his square head the size of a bowling ball with rough-hewn, almost malformed features. He looked like he belonged to a different species of human, a missing step in the evolutionary ladder perhaps. Travis’ heart thrashed against his ribcage as he spotted the pistol in the man’s grubby paw.

More sounds rang out behind him, and two other figures peeled from the shadows of the coffins. One was tall and rail-thin, his hollow eyes regarding Travis with no emotion. The man next to him was normal-sized, but his pockmarked face held the same empty, soulless expression. The two men were dressed in expensive black suits, their polished exterior heightening instead of lessening their inherent savageness. Travis sensed these men hurt people for a living and weren’t fazed by much in this world. They carried their brutality like a badge of honor.

Another pair of footsteps cut through the warehouse. He turned and saw an old, wizened creature approaching. The ringleader behind the freak show. Immaculately dressed, projecting wealth and refinement, the man had to be at least in his eighties or nineties. Long silver strands of hair clung to his liver-spotted skull, and gnarled fingers clawed a cane. A blinding white suit, black loafers, and red shirt oozed Italian style and sophistication. The tanned, wrinkled skin clashed with the fabric’s crisp sheen. Exotic rings adorned his bony fingers, and his gold watch glittered in the warehouse’s pale light.

“Who are you? What do you want from me?” Travis’ voice sounded timid and terrified, and he wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
 

Why provide these freaks with further satisfaction?

Two of the men zeroed in on him. He flinched as they approached and backed away into the patch of soil. Powerful hands grabbed his arms and brusquely dragged him toward the waiting casket.
 

“What the hell is this shit? Please, you can’t do this. Help! Someone—!”

The words died on his lips as a fist snapped his head back. He spat blood.
 

The third man removed the lid of the eerie coffin. Fear flickered over the goon’s features. The kidnapper visibly shared Travis’ atavistic revulsion for the coffin, and somehow that was the most terrifying thing yet.

The lid landed in the dirt, the insides of the moldy coffin now revealed. Travis’ heart skipped a beat. The wooden box waiting for him wasn’t empty. Skeletal remains gleamed inside the casket, all flesh stripped clean from the yellowed bone. Travis couldn’t fathom the dark motives driving these men, but their intent was clear: they planned to put him in the strange coffin with the skeleton and bury him inside this fucked-up warehouse of horrors.
 

As soon as the horrible certainty sliced through his mind, one of the goons brought the handle of his pistol down on Travis’s head. He slumped forward, hitting the ground face-first, his blood mixing with the earth. The white pants and expensive loafers of the old man came into view. The figure paused at the edge of the soil bed, seemingly eager for a front row seat but unwilling to get any dirt on those polished shoes.

“Bury him,” the old man said in Italian.