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feet he could see it appeared to be a large man in a long robe wearing some sort of Halloween mask.
    John tried to bolt up to his feet when he heard Kelly scream. The man in the robe was holding her tightly to him and he had a big hunting knife held to her throat. Before John could even scream for him to stop and to leave his sister alone the man made one jerking motion with his hand and slit her throat.
    John could not understand the world he was living in the moment as his sister fell to the ground silent and still. The man stood there tapping the bloody knife on his thickly gloved palm. He just stood there staring at John for several seconds and then he grunted and lunged at John.
    John’s reflexes took over and he dove across the bed and using the springs of the bed he jumped bouncing off the mattress out of the broken window. He landed on the upper deck patio, which did not look the least bit sturdy. But he had no time to think about that right now. He had to move before the maniac came for him.
    He climbed over the patio and hopped on the eaves spout and straddled it to the ground. The second his feet touched the dirt he was off and running as fast as his legs would carry him towards home.
    The police eventually arrived at the house. It looked the same as John had described it, full of clutter, but there was no one there. No one living that was. In addition to Kelly’s body which had not been moved from the upstairs bedroom, the basement gave birth to the bodies and remains of at least twenty men, women, and children. Not to mention a vast array of homemade torture devices and hundreds of hours of archival footage that was recorded with his home video camera.
    “The killer was never apprehended,” John said finishing the story. Michaels sat still glued to his every word.
    “The house belonged to an old lady named Aileen Thompson, but they discovered that she was one of the victims in the basement. She had no family or anyone who would miss her, so she was never reported missing. The killer had to know that. But he escaped and went into hiding.”
    “Wow that is an incredible story. I remember when that story broke. I was about fifteen that summer,” Michaels said. “I remember they mentioned the story about you and your sister. I don’t know why I never made the connection when you transferred here.”
    “Why would you? It was a long time ago and probably the last thing on your mind,” John said.
    Michaels poured another cup of coffee. “So, do you think this is really the same guy?”
    John looked at him incredulously.
    Michaels held up his hand as he started. “Hear me out, hear me out. There was a lot of information about that story in the press back then. It might just be some weirdo living in his mom’s basement that for whatever reason made the connection between you and that story and decided to have a little fun with you.”
    “I don’t think so. He seemed to know me too well. I was a kid back then and a scared one at that. I probably gave the worst description of what happened to me that anyone would ever hear. It was probably full of goofy holes and things I forgot and left out.”
    “Maybe not,” Michaels said.
    “Maybe so,” John countered.
    “Alright, let’s say it is him. Do you think he is up to his old tricks? Do you think he never stopped killing? Maybe he found a different M. O.? Maybe he just found a new system altogether.”
    “Serial killers don’t do that. The ritual is the most important part of it. For some of them it isn’t even about the killing. It is all about the ritual and the presentation. They get off on the fear they cause to others who discover it.”
    “Ok, I will grant it that you have a lot more experience dealing with serial killers than I do, but what if you are wrong here? I mean I don’t find it to be a huge coincidence that we have a viciously savaged body of a young woman and then a day later you receive this letter from a serial killer with a past who