The Devil Doesn’t Stare—He Smiles

There’s something about prisons that makes your skin itch before you even walk in. Maybe it’s the silence. Maybe it’s the smell. Or maybe it’s the realization that once that door shuts behind you, nobody really cares how long it takes to open again.

I parked outside Hillcroft Federal, a high-security facility tucked into the edge of the city like an infected tooth. It had been six years since I was last here. Six years since I sat across from Vincent Greaves and listened to him describe beauty in terms of dismemberment.

I told myself this was just a visit. A formality. A check-in to cross off the list. But that was a lie, and I knew it.

This wasn’t closure.

This was reopening the wound.

I flashed my badge at the gate. The guard barely looked up. “You here for Greaves?”

My gut twisted at the name. It wasn’t fear. It was something worse. Familiarity.

“Yeah,” I said.

“He’s been... expecting you.”

I paused. “Expecting?”

He didn’t answer. Just buzzed the door open.

Typical.

---

The walk through Hillcroft was slow. Long hallways that echoed with ghost footsteps. Cameras in every corner. Walls painted the color of rot. I hated this place. I hated the way it made me feel—small, watched, and always one breath away from something going wrong.

The interview room was the same as I remembered it. One table. Two chairs. Thick glass on one wall so the guards could watch. I sat down and tried not to drum my fingers on the table. Tried to keep my face unreadable.

Then the door opened.

And he walked in.

Vincent Greaves.

He didn’t look like a monster. That was the part that always messed with people. He looked... normal. Average build. Salt-and-pepper hair, trimmed neat. Clean-shaven. Calm eyes the color of old pennies. He wore his orange jumpsuit like it was a suit tailored just for him. Straight-backed. Collected. Controlled.

He sat down slowly, eyes locked on me the entire time.

“Detective Cross,” he said, his voice smooth as ever. “You look... tired.”

“And you look like you’re still breathing,” I replied.

He smiled.

“Let’s not pretend this is a social visit,” I said. “A body dropped yesterday. Same methods. Same mess. Ring any bells?”

Greaves folded his hands. “I’ve read about it.”

“In here?” I asked, eyebrow raised. “From who? The prison librarian?”

He didn’t answer.

Of course not.

“Someone’s out there copying you,” I said. “Mimicking your exact style. You think that’s a coincidence?”

He tilted his head. “Coincidence? No. Inspiration, perhaps.”

“You think murder is inspiring?”

He shrugged. “For some, pain is the only honest form of expression. I showed them how to say it.”

I wanted to leap across the table. Smash his face in. But I didn’t. That’s not how you win with people like Vincent. You don’t flinch. You don’t react. You make them talk.

“You’ve had no outside communication. No visitors. No phone calls,” I said, sliding a file toward him. “And yet, someone out there knows exactly how you work.”

He leaned forward slightly. “Maybe I’m not the one you should be interrogating.”

“Oh, I’m not here to interrogate,” I said. “I’m here to listen. You love to talk, remember?”

He chuckled. “You’ve grown sharper, Detective. Hardened.”

I didn’t deny it.

“Do you think your copycat wants to finish your story?” I asked. “Or do you think they’re trying to rewrite it?”

Greaves’ smile faded just a little. Enough for me to see the shift behind his eyes.

“If this person is truly dedicated,” he said slowly, “then they’ll want to elevate it. Not just recreate it. That would be... lazy. Art evolves.”

“You call what you did art?”

He nodded once. “I do.”

“The girl from last night. Her skull was removed. Her flesh peeled and arranged like ribbon. Her blood was used to spell a message. That’s not art. That’s pathology.”

“To you,” he replied. “But to the right audience? It’s truth.”

I leaned back, disgust crawling across my spine. “You’re sick.”

He smirked. “And you’re still angry. I can smell it on you.”

I stood up. “We’re done here.”

“You sure?” he said, voice rising just a notch. “Because if they’ve begun... you’ll need me.”

I stopped.

Hooked. Just like he wanted.

I turned slowly. “Why?”

“Because they’ll escalate. They always do. They want your attention. But they also want mine. This new artist is calling out to both of us.”

“I don’t care what they want.”

“You will,” he said. “Because the next one won’t just be a stranger. They’ll make it personal.”

I didn’t say another word. I walked out and didn’t look back.

The air outside felt like poison.

I sat in my car for ten minutes, trying to unclench my jaw. My skin felt wrong. Like he’d left a mark just by looking at me.

Juno called just as I turned the key.

“You okay?” she asked.

“No,” I said. “But tell me what you found.”

“I ran a scan on Greaves’ communication logs. Nothing official. No visits. No emails. No calls. But...”

“But?”

“He’s been sending sketches. Through a prison-approved art program. Little ones. Harmless, at first glance. But I ran them through image analysis. The last three sketches? They match elements from the new crime scene.”

I swallowed hard.

“So he’s guiding them.”

“Looks like it.”

I stared at the dashboard. This wasn’t a copycat. It was a collaboration.

“Any chance we trace the recipient?”

“I’m trying. Greaves doesn’t label the envelopes directly. They go through a non-profit group that donates art to trauma centers. Could be anyone in that chain.”

“He’s not done,” I said. “Neither of them are.”

I drove back into the city, eyes scanning everything. Every alley. Every rooftop. I felt paranoid. Exposed.

The Skull Artist wasn’t just back. He’d never left. And now someone else was carrying the blade for him.

I wasn’t just chasing ghosts this time. I was fighting a movement.

And if Greaves was right, the next piece of “art” wouldn’t be random.

It would be about me.