Psychro Killer: Chapter 9 - Just Like His Father

That night Niko found himself in a dream that felt unsettlingly familiar, as though he had walked this path before but couldn’t quite recall when or why. He was standing in the centre of a village square, but it wasn’t the one in Crete. This was different. The light had a strange hue, a sickly yellow that drained the colour from everything around him. The air was thick, clinging to his skin like smoke, and there was a faint buzzing noise in the distance, growing louder and louder.

He turned to see a man sitting at a small table by the edge of the square, casually smoking a cigarette. The man was familiar—he wore a shell suit, the kind people wore in the 90s, garish in purple and teal. His posture was relaxed, almost too relaxed, but something about him felt wrong. It wasn’t until Niko moved closer that he realised why: the man looked like him. Same face, same eyes. Except older—hardened by something Niko couldn’t place.

“You got a light?” Niko asked, feeling the question tumble out of his mouth as if it wasn’t entirely his.

The man looked up, a thin smile creeping across his lips. He blew out a lazy cloud of smoke. “You shouldn’t be smoking,” he said, his voice calm but sharp, like a blade hidden in soft fabric. “You’re only four years old.”

Niko frowned, confused. “What are you talking about?” he asked, but when he looked down at his hands, he saw they weren’t his hands at all. They were small, soft—like a child’s. His heart raced. He tried to speak again, but no words came.

The man stood up abruptly, and in place of a cigarette, Niko saw that the man was holding a knife. There was blood on it—fresh, bright red. His face had changed too, the relaxed calm gone, replaced by a look of panic. His eyes darted around the square, scanning for something unseen.

“Get out of here,” the man hissed, his voice trembling now. “Go! Before anyone sees. Before they find out what we did.”

Niko’s throat tightened, his mouth dry. “What we did?” he shouted. “What are you talking about? What the fuck did you do?”

The man didn’t answer. He dropped the knife, his eyes wide and wild, and ran into the shadows beyond the square. Niko stood there, frozen, staring at the knife on the ground. He wanted to move, to chase after the man, but his legs felt like lead. The buzzing sound was louder now, and it filled his head, drowning out all thought.

“You coward,” Niko whispered, his voice barely audible, but the anger in it was undeniable. “You fucking coward.”

Suddenly, the ground beneath him began to shift, the cobblestones cracking and pulling apart. Niko stumbled backwards, his chest tightening with fear as the square collapsed into a dark abyss. From the depths, he heard voices—whispers at first, then louder, sharper, accusing.

"He's just like his father. He'll do the same thing."

Niko fell to his knees, gripping the edge of the crumbling earth as the voices grew more insistent. “No,” he muttered, shaking his head. “That’s not me. I’m not him.”

But the whispers continued, relentless, and the abyss yawned wider. From the darkness, a figure began to rise—a woman, her face pale and half-obscured by shadow. She looked at him with hollow eyes, her lips parted as though she was trying to speak, but no sound came.

Niko tried to call out, tried to ask who she was, but the buzzing had grown deafening, a swarm of sound that made his head throb. His grip slipped, and before he could catch himself, he was falling—plummeting into the void below, the figure above him watching silently as he disappeared into the darkness.

Niko woke with a start, gasping for air, his heart hammering in his chest. His sheets were soaked in sweat, twisted around him like a straitjacket. He sat up, hands trembling as he rubbed his face, trying to shake off the lingering terror. But the feeling wouldn’t leave him.

Niko clenched his fists, jaw tight. His father’s unfinished business was becoming his own, whether he wanted it or not. And he knew, deep down, that until he uncovered the truth, it would keep haunting him, dragging him deeper into the abyss.

Niko woke up feeling raw, his body heavy with exhaustion after the relentless nightmare. The echoes of his own voice shouting at the man—his father, maybe, or some twisted version of him—still lingered in his head. His nerves were shot, and the weight of everything felt suffocating. He moved through the morning in a fog, his frustration bubbling dangerously close to the surface.

As he walked through the village square, the remnants of the festival were still scattered about: bottles, overturned chairs, the faint smell of incense and food. He spotted Elena by one of the stalls, laughing with a few of the other villagers. The sight irritated him for no reason he could articulate. His sleepless night had turned him into a live wire, snapping with static energy.

"Did you sleep at all?" Elena asked when he approached, her voice light, almost teasing.

"Does it look like I did?" he shot back, sharper than intended.

Elena blinked, her smile faltering, and Niko instantly regretted it. She didn’t deserve that. "Just making conversation," she said, stepping back a little.

"Yeah, well, I don’t need the small talk," Niko muttered, brushing past her.

For the rest of the morning, his mood didn’t improve. Everything grated on him: the chatter of the villagers, the relentless sun, the sting of his own bitterness. The worst part was that the more he lashed out, the guiltier he felt. But he couldn't seem to stop himself. It was like his skin was too tight, his thoughts suffocated under layers of unresolved tension.

 

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As if sensing Niko’s inner turmoil, Yannis came by and threw him a task. “We need to fix the fence by the field,” he said flatly, holding a coil of wire and some old tools. “Even during a festival, life doesn’t stop.”

It was typical of Yannis to act like the festival was just a blip in the routine, and Niko grudgingly followed him out to the fence line. The rhythmic work of tightening wire, hammering stakes, and hauling wooden posts was grounding, though not entirely soothing. Yannis worked in silence for a while before speaking again.

“Your father... he helped build this same fence once, you know,” Yannis said, not looking up from his task.

Niko stopped hammering and glanced over. He could feel the tension in Yannis’ voice, something simmering beneath the words.

“Vassilis was good with his hands, but his mind…” Yannis trailed off, wiping sweat from his brow. “Well, you’ve probably heard enough stories by now. But let me tell you this—don’t make the same mistakes he did.”

Niko bristled, unsure whether Yannis was accusing him of something or just warning him in general. "What mistakes?" he asked, hoping for clarity.

Yannis shrugged, his usual gruffness returning. "He came here, took what he wanted, and left the rest behind. The man had… demons. Same as any of us. He just let his run wild."

The conversation was evasive, filled with half-answers, and Niko could feel his frustration rising again. Yannis was hiding something, softening the story for reasons Niko couldn’t yet understand. And it left him wondering whether he was any closer to the truth or just circling the same old lies.

 

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By the time afternoon rolled around, the heat had drained some of Niko’s anger, leaving only the weight of his guilt. He knew he had been unfair to Elena, and it gnawed at him. After lunch, he found her sitting under a tree on the outskirts of the village, quietly painting in her sketchbook.

“Elena,” he said, approaching cautiously. She looked up but didn’t smile, her guard clearly up after his earlier behaviour.

“I’m sorry,” Niko began, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been… off today. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

For a moment, she didn’t respond, just studying him with those perceptive eyes of hers. Finally, she sighed and gestured to the space next to her. “Sit.”

Niko hesitated but then lowered himself to the ground beside her. They sat in silence for a while, the sound of cicadas filling the air.

“I want to show you something,” Elena said, flipping through the pages of her sketchbook. She stopped on a watercolour painting of the Cretan landscape: soft brushstrokes of olive trees, the mountains in the distance, and the sunlight filtering through the leaves in a way that felt almost ethereal.

Niko stared, taken aback. He hadn’t expected this. “You painted this?”

Elena nodded, a bit shy now. “I don’t show many people. My father wouldn’t approve. But I… I love doing it.”

“These are incredible,” Niko said, genuinely impressed. He flipped through a few more pages, each painting more vibrant and alive than the last. “Why are you hiding this? You have real talent.”

Elena shrugged, her shoulders tense. “I don’t know. I guess I never thought much about it. Here, we’re supposed to do what’s practical, not what we love.”

Niko looked at her, sensing something deeper. “You could do so much more with this, Elena. You don’t have to stay here forever, painting in secret.”

She glanced at him, her expression softening. For the first time that day, she smiled. "Maybe," she said quietly. "But for now, this is enough."

Niko felt something shift between them in that moment, a quiet understanding. He had come here seeking answers about his father, but in this small corner of the village, with Elena and her hidden watercolours, he found a glimpse of something else—connection, maybe even hope.

 

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The evening brought with it a change in the festival’s mood, the chaos from the earlier psychotropic madness replaced by something no less wild, but with an undertone of sobriety. Music floated through the square, the sharp strumming of guitars punctuated by rhythmic clapping, and the beat of a hand drum. The villagers, still intoxicated by the celebration, danced in the open air, their movements less erratic than before but no less fervent. Niko watched as they spun, arms outstretched, feet stamping the ground in time with the music. The fires from the grills threw flickering light over the scene, casting long shadows that danced alongside the villagers.

Niko felt the pulse of it, the raw energy of the village, but now he noticed something else too—the eyes. Glances that lingered too long, whispers exchanged between groups of people who suddenly quieted when he drew near. He’d been so swept up in the strangeness of it all that he hadn’t noticed before, but now the signs were obvious. People were talking about him, and it wasn’t just idle gossip.

He caught a group of older men near the church, seated at a wooden table with drinks in hand. Their conversation died the second he passed by, their eyes following him as he made his way through the square. One of them leaned in to mutter something to the others, and they nodded gravely, their expressions unreadable but weighted with meaning.

Elena appeared beside him, smiling as she handed him a cup of raki. “Still enjoying yourself?” she asked, her cheeks flushed from dancing.

Niko accepted the drink but didn’t respond immediately. His mind was racing. “Tell me something,” he said, watching the villagers as they laughed and danced. “Does this place have the name Psychro because people lose their minds here?”

Elena tilted her head, her smile fading into a thoughtful look. “That’s an old joke,” she said. “The caves of Psychro are sacred, and some say the name comes from the ancient belief that souls travel here when they’ve lost their way. But…” She looked at him closely. “Why do you ask? Are you feeling lost, Niko?”

He laughed, a short, bitter sound. “You could say that.” He stared into his drink, watching the liquid catch the firelight. “Do you think they know about my father?”

Elena’s eyes flickered with something—caution, perhaps, or sympathy. “Some of them might,” she admitted. “This is a small place. People don’t forget easily.”

Niko felt the tension growing in his chest, the weight of their gazes pressing down on him. “I’m pretty sure they’re talking about me. And considering everyone here carries a gun, it’s enough to stop me from going over there and demanding answers.”

Elena’s smile was tight now, her eyes darting around the square. “This isn’t the place for a confrontation, Niko. Trust me. People here don’t take kindly to outsiders stirring up old wounds. You’d be better off asking Yannis if you want to know the truth.”

Niko nodded slowly, the realisation settling in. Yannis. He had been holding off, waiting for the right moment, not wanting to disrupt this fragile sense of belonging he had found here. But the time was running out, and he knew he couldn’t avoid it forever. The story of his father—Vassilis’ secrets, the truth behind his mother’s exile—was all wrapped up in this place, in these people. And now, those secrets were hovering just out of reach, ready to reveal everything.

But that was the problem. For the first time in a long while, Niko felt a strange comfort here, a sense of home in the chaos of the village, in the wild energy of its people. The last thing he wanted was to lose it before he even fully understood what it was.

“I have to talk to him,” Niko muttered, more to himself than to Elena. “I have to face Yannis, get the full story. I can’t keep pretending everything’s fine.”

Elena nodded, her gaze steady. “You’ll find the right moment.”

But the thought ate away at him—what if there wasn’t a right moment? What if, by digging into the past, he ended up destroying the one thing he had only just begun to find?

Niko clenched his jaw, cursing under his breath. “My father… he’s the reason I’m in this mess. If he hadn’t done whatever it was he did…”

Elena placed a hand on his arm, her touch gentle but firm. “You’re not him, Niko. Whatever happens, remember that.”

But Niko wasn’t sure he believed that. Not anymore. Not with the weight of Vassilis’ legacy hanging over him like a shadow he couldn’t outrun. The truth was coming, and with it, the risk of losing everything he had just started to rebuild.