Psychro Killer: Epilogue

Cherry

By Caldwell

Wed, 25 Sep 2024
  • 435 reads
6 comments
 

It was late, and the night sky stretched endlessly over the mountains, the stars hanging low like witnesses to the unfolding tragedy below. The wind whispered through the rugged cliffs, carrying the scent of salt from the distant sea and the faint echoes of voices long forgotten.

Vassilis stood near the entrance to the cave, his heart pounding in his chest, the cold sweat of anxiety clinging to his skin. He had been here many times before—this secret place where he and Hestia would meet under the cover of darkness, far from the prying eyes of the village. But tonight was different. Tonight, he wasn’t here for pleasure or romance. He was here for something much darker.

Hestia arrived late, her face pale, eyes flashing with anger the moment she saw him. She hadn’t forgiven him for what had happened, for the mistake that had ruined everything.

"I'm pregnant, Vassilis," she had said when they last met, her voice shaking. The words had struck him like a blow, sending him into a tailspin of panic and dread. He hadn’t known what to say then, and he still didn’t know what to say now.

As Hestia approached, her steps quick and determined, Vassilis swallowed the lump in his throat. He had rehearsed what he was going to say, though even in his mind it sounded hollow, desperate. He had to convince her to end the pregnancy, to make it all go away before the entire village found out. If they did, his life—and hers—would be over.

“We need to talk,” he began, his voice rough and quiet, but Hestia didn’t let him finish.

“You’re a coward, Vassilis,” she spat, her hands balled into fists. “You think I’ll just make this all disappear for you? Like none of it ever happened?”

“Hestia, please, listen to me. You don’t understand what this will do to both of us,” he pleaded, stepping closer. “I can’t—”

“I won’t,” she snapped, cutting him off again. Her eyes were wild, her anger fierce and unforgiving. “You want me to get rid of it, don’t you? That’s what you’ve come here to say.”

He hesitated, and in that hesitation, the truth spilled out without him needing to say it. She saw it in his face, in his eyes, and it broke something inside her.

She slapped him, hard, her palm cracking against his cheek. “You disgust me,” she whispered.

Vassilis staggered back, more from shock than pain. “Hestia, stop—”

But she didn’t stop. Her fury unleashed, she pushed him again, harder this time, sending him stumbling toward the edge of the cave’s mouth. The rocks beneath his feet shifted, loose stones scattering down the slope, and he felt a sudden rush of fear.

And then, she screamed.

It wasn’t a cry of rage—it was something deeper, something primal. The sound tore through the still night air, echoing off the walls of the cave and into the valley below. Vassilis froze, his hands raised as if to calm her, to stop the scream that was bound to draw attention.

“Hestia, please!” he begged, his voice cracking. “Stop screaming. Someone will hear!”

But she didn’t stop. The scream grew louder, more frantic, as though all the pain and betrayal she had suffered was pouring out in that one terrible sound.

Vassilis’ heart raced, his mind spinning out of control. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. He backed away slowly, his eyes darting around in a panic. And then he heard it—the voice.

"What have you done to her?" a man shouted from the distance.

Vassilis turned, his blood running cold. There, standing a few hundred yards away, was one of the villagers. He recognized the man’s face, but in the shadows, it looked distorted, accusing.

The witness had seen them together before, and turned a blind eye to their secret meetings. But now, with Hestia’s screams filling the night air, there could be no pretending. This was no longer just an affair. This was something far worse.

“What have you done?” the voice repeated, louder now, angrier.

Vassilis didn’t wait. Fear coursed through him like fire, and before he could think, his body moved. He turned and ran, his legs carrying him down the slope and away from the cave, away from the screams, away from the village and everything he had built.

Behind him, the witness’s voice echoed in the night: “By tomorrow, the whole village will know.”

Vassilis didn’t stop running. He couldn’t. The truth would be out by morning, and by then, it would be too late.

The next day, he left Crete with Helena. They boarded the ferry without looking back, without saying goodbye. And in the shadows of that fateful night, the village began to whisper. They whispered about the screams, about the man who had vanished, and about the woman who had stayed behind with a secret she could never reveal.

Hestia never spoke of it again. The village never asked.

But the caves remembered. They always did.

Certificate 15
Story
Psychro Killer
Drama

Comments

Submitted by Rhiannonw on

Did the villagers know that Hestia was the girl supposed to have been killed by him? Rhiannon

 

Submitted by Caldwell on

Always with the questions, huh? What are we going to do with you... hahaha

You're right. There are holes.

As a kind of related aside: When I was discussing this Cretan culture with my friend, Petros, who has Cretan family he told me his fascinating introduction to his village - he had never visited his Cretan family until he was in his 20s. He was greeted at the airport very much like my character. Everyone is known by their family name there and he had a family name which enabled even the main hospital to know which part of Crete he was from. Then, as is standard there, if you're the firstborn, you take the name of your Grandfather. It skips a generation. His uncle, upon arriving in their village, took him around to each of the neighbours, he introduced him by his name, and said: "This is Petros [surname], He's a bit retarded but he's mine, so don't touch him". He described him as retarded because of his limited Cretan language. Because he had done this, Petros was then able to walk the streets without being hassled. 

I suppose I could get Yannis to parade Hestia around, but I think that would be uncouth, and actually, she would have too much pride to go through something like that and the reader would equally, and quite rightly, think that this was bananas. I think Yannis, upon understanding the truth of he situation, being such a prominent local figure, would convince the others of the situation.

 

Submitted by Rhiannonw on

Interesting to have had that Cretan family insight.

The witness had seen them together before, and turned a blind eye to their secret meetings.

I wondered if he knew it was Hestia, or just some girl. Was it Hestia who they thought had been killed at the time, and didn't realise she was still alive? or an unkown? Rhiannon

 

Submitted by Insertponceyfre... on

You've fascinated us with this story, so you'll just have to put up with all our interrogations! : ) I've been in a similar situation - links to a very small place where you have to 'belong' - (different country though) and the weird family thing really rings true to me

 

Submitted by Caldwell on

I'm surprised and delighted to discover I could keep an audience through the longest thing I have ever written. Unfortunately, I wrote at such a pace I didn't fully consider the things that have inspired these questions. It's something I will have to mull over and improve.

It's wonderful to still be learning.

I did actually modify the part where Yannis meets Niko at the airport, following my discussion with my friend Petros and it's a section that I am particularly proud of. If that's alright, I'll share again it here because I think it really improves the understanding of both the characters. Going forward, I will try and avoid so much stating the obvious and use gestures, expressions and negative space to convey stuff:

***

As Niko walked through the glass doors of the arrival terminal, his eyes swept over the crowd. A large, handwritten sign reading "NIKO" caught his attention. There, beaming under a face cracked with joy, was Yannis. Older, unmistakably recognizable, and standing beside him were two children—silent but bouncing on their toes, their eyes wide with curiosity.

Without a word, Yannis strode toward him, his gait heavy with purpose. Niko barely had time to process the flowers Yannis shoved into his hands before he felt the man’s strong hands on his shoulders, gripping him as if he were assessing the weight of Niko’s existence. Before Niko could say anything, the first slap came. Sharp, swift. Then another. Three, maybe four, delivered with the kind of brute affection that left him stunned.

Niko felt his body tighten, his instincts battling between fight and flight. What the hell is this? His thoughts spiralled. A half-wit? A controlling macho psycho? But before he could act, Yannis grabbed him by the neck—not in anger, but with a force that made Niko feel oddly secure. Like a kitten being carried by the scruff, led across the bustling airport. Yannis didn’t say a word as he manoeuvred Niko through the chaos, his grip firm but strangely reassuring. Niko stumbled toward the car, still clutching the bouquet.

Yannis pushed him into the passenger seat with a grunt, slamming the door behind him. It was only then, as he reached for his own door, that Yannis noticed the children. His grandchildren. They had followed him like ducklings, unnoticed until now, their faces still brimming with excitement.

"Alexa! George! Get in, quick!" Yannis barked, his voice cracking the silence at last. The children scurried into the backseat, giggling, as if used to this chaotic dance.

Niko sat in the passenger seat, heart racing, gripping the flowers like they might anchor him to reality. His mind raced. He had no idea what to do with the bouquet, but part of him—the part that had always been quick to judge—was already writing off his uncle. Controlling. Brutal. Unpredictable.

And yet, sitting there in the passenger seat, Niko felt something else: an unexpected calm. No need to talk. No need to perform. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t have to think. He could just be. The silence wasn’t oppressive—it was liberating. It was as if, in that moment, Yannis had stripped away all the expectations. Niko was just Niko. And, in a strange way, he felt safe. Safer than he’d felt in years.

Yannis clambered into the driver’s seat, barking a few more orders at the children as he reversed the van out of the parking lot. The cityscape of Heraklion quickly gave way to the wild Cretan countryside, the horizon stretching wide and untamed.

Niko stared out the window, his thoughts swirling as they drove further from the airport. This is a man who doesn't bother with words. A man who speaks with his fists, his grip. A man who acts, not thinks. And yet, in the pit of his gut, Niko realised something unsettling. This man—his uncle, this brute—had made him feel something he hadn’t felt in years: loved.

 

Submitted by celticman on

loved indeed. travel the world to find home.