John Kendada's boots scraped against the pavement as he walked away from the alley, but the sound felt distant hollow, like footsteps in an empty church. The streets of Colorado Springs were quiet at this hour, curtains drawn, lights dimmed. Yet John felt eyes on him, as though the city itself watched with bated breath.
Back in his dim apartment, he hung his coat on the crooked hook by the door. Dust particles floated lazily through the air, illuminated by the weak glow of a single desk lamp. Nothing had changed since his retirement: the stacks of old case files, the half-finished bottle of bourbon, the untouched revolver resting in its wooden box.
But tonight, everything felt different.
John sat, ran a hand down his tired face, and lit another cigarette. The first inhale burned his lungs sharp, grounding. He closed his eyes, but the image of the woman's body flashed behind them, followed immediately by another face.
Chikatilo's face.
A sudden knock on his door jolted him upright.
Angelo stepped in without waiting for permission. "We found something," he said, breathless, holding a sealed evidence bag.
John squinted. "What is it?"
"A letter. Left under the victim's hand."
The message, scrawled in uneven strokes of ink, was short:
"You missed me."
John's grip tightened around the plastic. A slow, cold dread crept up his spine, settling at the base of his neck.
"He's taunting us," Angelo said. "But who? Some lunatic trying to play ghost?"
John didn't respond. His mind drifted backward, spiraling into the memory he had tried to outrun for twenty years.
Rain pouring in sheets. The smell of wet earth and blood.
Chikatilo's silhouette emerging from the darkness calm, almost graceful.
A smirk.
Then the chase. Then the scream.
John had sworn he heard a second scream that night one that didn't belong to the killer.
He shook off the memory and stood abruptly. "Show me where you found it."
Angelo hesitated. "John, it's late. We can go in the morning."
"He doesn't wait," John said. "And neither do I."
They drove through the silent streets, past war-era buildings, flickering neon signs, and the lonely whistle of a distant train. Colorado Springs hadn't recovered from the Depression, and it showed in every dark alley and empty storefront. Shadows clung to every corner like damp moss.
When they reached the alley, John stepped out first, scanning the ground with the instinct of a man who had lived half his life among corpses and clues.
Then he saw it just beyond the bloodstain where the body lay earlier.
A footprint. Bare. Deep. As if the owner had been standing there for a very long time.
Angelo crouched beside him. "We didn't see that before. Could be from the coroner's team."
John shook his head. "Look at the arch. The stride. Whoever made this was… watching."
Angelo swallowed hard. "Watching us, you think?"
John didn't answer. He felt the air shift cold, unnatural. A whisper of wind curled around his ears, carrying with it a faint, unfamiliar scent.
Not blood. Not decay.
Something older.
He stood slowly, heartbeat suddenly too loud in the quiet street. His breath fogged in the air despite the mild night.
"John?" Angelo asked, voice trembling.
John stared into the darkness, the weight of unseen eyes pressing against him.
"He's here," John whispered.
"And he never left."