Psychro Killer: Chapter 6 - Psychro

As they neared Psychro, the road became narrower, winding up into the hills where the air was cooler. The village came into view, a cluster of houses nestled in a valley surrounded by mountains. The moment they arrived, it was clear that something big was happening. People were bustling about, preparing for what must have been this festival. Yannis was greeted warmly by everyone they passed, though he tried to maintain a humble demeanour.

“Tomorrow, I’d appreciate your help setting up Panagia tis Anoixis,” Yannis explained, his eyes shining with pride. “It’s a festival I started five years ago, a celebration of spring and the coming summer. You must stay for it, Niko. It would mean so much to us.”

“You see some of these buildings?” Yannis said, nodding toward a cluster of homes with rough, unsentimental concrete walls. “During the war, when the Germans occupied Crete, they destroyed a lot. Psychro was lucky. They didn’t raze the whole village like they did in some other parts of the island. But still, we lost enough.” His voice was steady, but Niko detected something else behind it - a restrained bitterness, perhaps, or simply the weight of history.

Niko glanced at the buildings Yannis mentioned. The scars of war were there, even in the way some homes seemed patched together, half-modernised in a rush to rebuild. The concrete renovations stuck out like scars against the older, more traditional structures. “At least it wasn’t too much,” Yannis added, his tone practical. “Some villages never recovered.”

As they drove on, the rhythm of life seemed slower, quieter. Old men sat outside on stools, their weathered hands clasped around cups of coffee, while women in black tended to the small gardens or hung laundry. 

Yannis gestured to the far end of the village, where a handful of more modern establishments stood out like neon scars against the rough stone buildings. Bright signs in English advertised cheap drinks and late-night bars, an obvious nod to the occasional tourist who wandered too far off the beaten path.

"Those," Yannis muttered, his voice clipped with disdain, "are for foreigners. You should avoid them. If you want to know the real Psychro, don’t waste your time in places like that. They cater to tourists who don’t care to understand this place." He spat the word "tourists" like a curse, as if it tasted bitter in his mouth.

Niko nodded, following Yannis’ gaze. Those signs were damned ugly. Their garishness seemed to defy the ancient rhythm of the village. 

Yannis steered the car away from the flashing signs, back toward the heart of the village, where old men sat outside cafés sipping their bitter coffee, their eyes following the car with a quiet intensity. Life here felt older, heavier, as though it carried the weight of centuries of repetition. Yannis seemed to sense Niko’s thoughts and continued, his voice softer now, almost reflective.

"This place hasn’t changed much," he said, his words slow, measured. "Most people here still work the land. They keep their herds, tend their olive groves, just like their fathers did before them, and their fathers before that. Tourism comes and goes, but the real life of this village—the rhythm of it—stays the same." He glanced at Niko, a knowing look in his eyes. "That’s what you’ll see if you look past the surface."

"Xenía and vendetta," Niko mused aloud, half to himself. It was something his mother had mentioned years ago—those two extremes that defined Crete. Hospitality on one hand, violence on the other. 

Yannis chuckled softly, though there was no warmth in the sound. "Yes, xenía and vendetta. It’s in the bones of this place. Open arms or blood feuds, and not much in between. You’ll find one or the other, depending on how you step."

Yannis' words hung in the air like a quiet warning, thick with implication. Niko caught the subtle shift in his tone, the undercurrent of something darker running beneath the surface of this seemingly idyllic village. Xenía and vendetta, Niko thought, repeating the words in his mind. Hospitality and vengeance—two sides of the same coin. The island’s duality wasn’t lost on him, not anymore.

Yannis gestured toward a small café at the centre of the square. "This is where the real conversations happen. Not in those bars." His voice softened again. "Here, you’ll hear stories from before you were born, things that might help you understand… more than you think."

Niko glanced at Yannis, catching the knowing look in his uncle’s eyes. There was definitely something unsaid. Not yet, Niko thought. The rhythm of Crete, like the island’s rocky landscape, would take time to navigate. He was only just beginning to feel his way through its twists and turns.

"Xenía and vendetta," Niko repeated aloud, this time with more intent. "How do you know which one you’re stepping into?"

Yannis' smile faded, his eyes hardening. "You don’t," he said flatly. "You just hope the first step you take is the right one."

Niko felt the weight of Yannis' words sink in. He had come here looking for answers, but already the lines between welcome and warning were blurring. The village, the land itself, seemed to pulse with an ancient energy, one that could either embrace him or devour him whole. He wasn’t sure which yet.

In the heart of the village, everyone seemed to know Yannis. He waved and called out greetings, his booming voice filled with warmth. Niko noticed how people’s faces lit up when they saw him. It was clear that he was a well-loved figure here, someone who belonged in every sense of the word.

Finally, they turned down a dirt road that led away from the village centre, winding through groves of olive trees that stretched out as far as the eye could see. The van jostled over the uneven ground, and Niko could smell the earthy scent of the olive trees mingling with the warm, dry air. The landscape was rugged and beautiful, bathed in the golden light of the late afternoon.

Yannis steered the van down the final stretch, where the road ended at a stone courtyard. The buildings were weathered, their lintels low and worn smooth by centuries of use. Niko noticed how Yannis instinctively ducked his head as he stepped out of the van, a practised motion that spoke of years spent navigating these spaces. He could imagine the low doorways causing the occasional bump on the head, especially after a few glasses of raki.

As they approached the entrance, Niko heard the sounds of laughter and conversation coming from a garden area just beyond the main house. The family had gathered for an evening meal, seated around a long wooden table under a pergola draped with grapevines. The table was laden with pasta, platters of grilled meats, fresh vegetables, and baskets of bread. Jugs of wine and water were passed around, and the air was filled with the scent of roasted lamb and garlic.

The family greeted Yannis with the same warmth Niko had seen in the village. They were an animated group, speaking in rapid, cheerful Greek as they welcomed him. When Yannis introduced Niko as his nephew, there was a brief flicker of something - a momentary pause, barely noticeable, but enough for Niko to sense a shift in the air. It wasn’t hostility, but more like the quiet acknowledgment of a piece in a larger, unspoken puzzle. The smiles remained, but behind them, Niko felt the weight of history and memory, like an old photograph tucked away but never forgotten.

Yannis, ever the gracious host, led Niko through the garden and toward the house. “We’ve lived here for generations,” he explained, gesturing to the stone walls, which seemed to absorb the sunlight as though they had been part of the land forever. “This land, these buildings - they’ve been passed down from father to son. I took over after our father passed, just as he did before me.”

As they walked, Yannis pointed out various details - a stone hearth that had warmed countless winters, a shelf lined with old clay pots, their surfaces worn smooth by use. In one corner, Niko noticed a framed piece of intricate lacework, delicate patterns woven with such precision that it seemed almost too fine to touch. “Your grandmother made that,” Yannis said, his voice softening. “It’s called Kopaneli stitching.”

They continued through the house until they came to a small room at the far end, its door slightly ajar. Yannis pushed it open, revealing a modest but well-kept bedroom. The walls were whitewashed, with a single window overlooking the olive groves. A simple wooden bed stood against one wall, and beside it, a small dresser and a chair. The room was sparsely decorated, with a few personal touches that hinted at its previous occupant - a stack of well-read books, and an icon of the Virgin Mary hung quietly on the wall.

Yannis lingered for a moment, his gaze lingering on the lace curtain that fluttered by the window before turning back to Niko. “This was your mother’s room.” he said softly, as though the words themselves carried the weight of time. A silence fell between them, not uncomfortable, but filled with the understanding that this room held more than just furniture - it held the quiet remnants of a life left behind.

As Yannis left him to settle in, Niko sat on the edge of the bed, trying to absorb it all. The room, the house, the village - he could feel its connection to him, yet he was an outsider.

Outside, the sounds of the family continued, their voices carrying through the open window. Niko took a deep breath, the scent of the olive trees mingling with the cool air of the room and a deep sense of bittersweetness settled over him. The family had been so welcoming, so full of life and love, that it was impossible not to feel the pull of their warmth. He could imagine Zoe here, her laughter mingling with theirs, her eyes wide with curiosity as she learned about his roots. She would have loved it.

He could almost see her sitting beside him, her hand in his, as they reflected on this new world. Zoe, who had always been so open, so ready to embrace new experiences, would have fit in perfectly. She would have charmed Yannis with her easy smile, asked a hundred questions about the myths and the history of Crete, and made friends with everyone she met. Niko would have been so proud to introduce her to this part of his life, to share with her the joy of discovering his heritage, to watch her light up as she explored this new world with him.

But as he glanced at the empty space beside him, he had to accept she would never be here. Never. What a word. So final. No matter how welcoming this place was, no matter how much he might grow to love it, he was experiencing it alone. Zoe would never know these people, never hear the stories, never walk the paths of his ancestors.

Niko’s internal conflict was palpable as he grappled with the warmth of the family he never knew and the weight of his father’s hidden actions. The presence of Yannis, with his enthusiastic hospitality, felt hollow. Even surrounded by life and community, the tightness in his chest reminded him of the distance between himself and the truth.

His father’s past loomed like a shadow, tainting the moment. What kind of man had Vassilis really been to deny him the chance to know these people? The family’s rough, rustic charm, the warmth of Yannis, the promise of connection—they all felt like an illusion, something fragile and fleeting.

The charm of this place and its people could not erase the reality of what had been stolen from him. The vendetta, the secrets, the lies—they had cost him years of understanding, of belonging. He couldn’t shake the thought: if this family was so welcoming now, why had his father taken them away from it? What crime had been so terrible that it had erased their ties for decades?

Niko’s resolve hardened. He had to find out. He needed to know the full weight of his father’s sins, and only then could he decide if he could ever truly forgive him or his mother, and if he could accept the warmth he was receiving here as genuine.

He took a deep breath, letting the air fill his lungs, grounding himself in the moment.