My cell phone rings on the table beside my armchair.

It’s him again. Just calling to check in, he sometimes says.

I consider checking to see if the call recording application is up and running but decide it isn’t worth the trouble. I’ve tried to capture his calls dozens of times without success. When I play them back I can hear my voice on the recording, but any response I receive is nothing but a wall of static.

The call log on the phone never shows I received a call from him after we hang up. My cell carrier also has no records when I call to check. For an old man, his technology skills must be top-notch.

When I retired from the force six years ago, he remained a suspect in my oldest and most frustrating unclosed cases.

I call him The Mimic.

He kills three victims, once a month for three months, using the modus operandi of some of the most infamous serial killers in history. Once his cycle is complete, he vanishes for nine months.

The cycle would start over in a new city across the state.

Sometimes he vanishes for a year or two, but he always comes back.

He never stops calling either.

Tension mounts at my temples as I accept the call and put the phone to my ear.

“Hello.”

“Merry Christmas, Detective Coats,” says the calm voice on the other end of the line. He calls multiple times a year, and I dread every one of them. His tone always sounds like that of an old friend. “How have you been? Is retirement treating you well?”

“I’m about the same as last time you called,” I respond. May as well talk to him. If I don’t, he will call back dozens of times anyway. “Retirement isn’t very restful knowing you’re still out there. Maybe one of these days I can change that. Half a dozen state prisons would love to give you a cozy little room and three hot meals a day. I’ll drop you off there myself. Just tell me where you are, Alistar.”

The voice on the other end of the line booms with gleeful laughter.

His name is Alistar Lynch, I believe, though I can’t be positive. A rare book dealer by that name vanished in 1986, the same year The Mimic claimed his first set of victims. Alistar liquidated his estate, drained his bank accounts, and disappeared without warning.

How did I make the connection? I hate to admit it, but he told me himself. I was two years into my career and still had the new car smell of a rookie on my uniform. Dennis Garrison, a veteran detective, had drafted me into the investigation.

During my first week, Alistar called and identified himself to me unexpectedly. By that point, he had been active for over five years and we were no closer to catching him than we had been with his first cycle. Boredom, he told me, was his motive for identifying himself. He thought if we knew who he was, perhaps we could have provided him with more of a challenge.

“Bartholomew,” he coos through the phone line. “I told you where I was two years ago and I tried my best to meet with you. All I asked was that you didn’t call the police, but you didn’t listen. Instead of discussing our bond face to face, I had to take care of the two police officers that you sent to the location. Why should I trust you again? You would just end up with more blood on your hands.”

A sour knot balls in my stomach at the mention of the fallen officers. Two years prior, Alistar called and offered to meet me. He said he wanted to meet the man who had spent so many years tracking him, and perhaps he would allow me to take him into custody. I wasn’t to call the cops or he wouldn’t show.

Four years into retirement, my training still clung to the back of my mind like tar on a roof. Of course, I wanted to bag Alister. The monster had evaded capture for the better part of four decades, but going alone to meet a self-confessed serial killer was madness. I knew I was past my prime. Even if I did manage to take him in, I had no authority. The arrest wouldn’t stick.

What if after all of these years of chasing him, I botched the process and the beast walked free?

I decided to call the state police and give them the time and location. Better to let the young bucks handle the action. The officer taking the call was an old friend, Walter Dempsey. A hard-nosed detective himself, he was preparing to retire at the end of the year.

Walter attempted to reassure me that someone was just playing a cruel joke on me, but I insisted that our prime suspect would be waiting there. Everyone at my old post knew about my “phone calls.” The lack of call logs or recordings made them skeptical and I understood.

Some cops don’t take to retirement well. Can’t let go of the job. They try and find ways to stay relevant with your old colleagues.

Walter, for his part, thought that it may be some asshole kid prank calling me. A handful of the younger guys at the post thought my cheese was slipping off my cracker. Maybe they were right, but not about the calls.

Nonetheless, Walter agreed to take a young patrolman named Vincent Harris with him to the location to do a walk-through. It was a courtesy, he said, for my years of service. I found out later he didn’t even enter it in the patrol log for the day. He didn’t think enough of the tip to make the search official. No one knew where the two of them had gone.

Hours after he was due to return my call, I still hadn’t heard from him. My incessant calls and text messages went unanswered. In a panic, I called the patrol post but none of them had heard from Dempsey or Harris in hours. Their shift had ended but their patrol vehicles had never checked back in. All attempts to hail them on the cruiser radio went unanswered.

After speaking with the post captain and telling them of my discussion with Dempsey, he dispatched five units to the derelict warehouse where Alistar Lynch had requested to meet me. Unlike Walter, they went heavily armed and in larger numbers. I still don’t believe the captain thought I was telling the truth, but he was wise enough not to risk it.

They found the patrol car outside.

Inside, they found a bloodbath.

Both men were found kneeling in the center of a filthy room, shot execution-style in the back of their heads. They had been disemboweled post-mortem. Their blood pooled around them in a horrifying crimson disk. A message had been haphazardly traced on the floor from the vile runoff.

Bart Coats, I just wanted to talk. Now, look what you made me do. Shame Shame, old man.

I told myself that day I would meet him alone if the opportunity arose again. Doing things “by the book” resulted in the death of two brave men. Just doing a retired detective a favor. A little bit of post End of Watch comfort, they probably thought.

This was the first conversation since their deaths that he had even responded to the idea of meeting. Sleep rarely comes at night anymore. When it does, ghastly images of Dempsey and Harris accuse me of sending them to their deaths.

I have to make this work.

“I’ll meet you, Alistar,” I respond. “Name the time and place. No cops. I won’t bear the weight of another death. We’re not young men anymore. I’m pushing sixty and you’ve got a decade on me. Aren’t you getting tired?”

Silence from the other line fills my head.

“Alistar?” I question. “I’ll meet you, just…”

“Fine, Bartholomew,” he says. “Meet me at this address and we will have a little chat. Got a pen and paper?”

_________________________

I pull my car into the lot of a long abandoned gas station four miles outside of town. A sign rattles back and forth in the breeze advertising gas prices that haven’t been seen in twenty years.

A relic of times gone by, I think to myself. It’s almost poetic of him, to pick this place. It used to be useful years ago, but now it was just falling apart and taking up space.

Like me.

The pumps are crumbling away into flakes of rust. Two large panel windows are caked with so much dust and dirt that my obnoxious headlights can’t penetrate the darkness within. Everything here has been left to decay. A location that embodies the ravages of time.

The bright sheet of yellow legal paper taped to the window stands out against the ruin like a lighthouse.

Carefully, I step from the car and pat my side. My Glock 22 is nestled in the holster beneath my jacket. The sleek body of the weapon comforts me momentarily. I know I shouldn’t be here, but finding a resolution to this is all I have left.

By the end of the night, I’ll have my man or my man will have me. Either way, the phone calls will stop.

As soon as I see the bastard, I’m putting a bullet in his head and another in his heart. One for Dempsey, the other for Harris. If I succeed, I’ll put the empty casings on their gravestones.

I slide the 22 from my holder and switch off the safety. Each step I take through the debris-ridden parking lot fills the quiet night air. Scanning my head from side to side as I approach the note, I see no trace of anyone or anything. The corpse of the gas station is abandoned aside from one old cop and that fluttering yellow note.

My blood turns cold as I reach out and pull the note from the window. Flowing cursive fills the page. I can’t help thinking what a steady hand he has for an older man.

Bartholomew,

If you’re reading this, then you showed up just like the good detective I’ve always hoped you were. My apologies if you’re disappointed not to find me here. I haven’t backed out of our deal, but I wanted to be able to see you from far enough away to be sure you were alone this time. While it wouldn't upset me in the least to dispatch a few more of your old friends, I would much rather meet you face to face.

As you read this, I’m watching you from a great distance down the road. Night vision scopes have come so far over the decades. Worry not! I wouldn’t shoot you. What a cowardly and anti-climactic ending that would be to our game of cat and mouse.

Get back in your car and flash your high beams three times so I know you’ve read this letter. Wait until you see three flashes in return and then head down the gravel road in the direction of the light.

If you continue past the beacon for three miles, you will see a hunting cabin. Come inside. You can bring your gun. I know you have one.

It won’t keep you safe.

Your friend,

Alistar Lynch

The smooth paper goes rigid and coarse as I ball it in my hand. Sitting down behind the wheel, I crank the ignition, and the car roars back to life. Turning the light control knob three times, the field beyond the decaying gas station illuminates momentarily. Dry grass sways in the evening breeze and the yellow eyes of nocturnal creatures reflect the unexpected blasts.

Then nothing.

Darkness swallows my world again. Dull neon dash lights glow weakly against the evening inside the cab of the car. Sweat is dripping down the back of my neck. The night isn’t overly warm, but I can feel the sick bastard gazing at me through his night vision apparatus.

A brilliant beam of light shoots into the sky car in the distance and vanishes. Then a second before the darkness returns. Now a third.

He’s there.

Shifting the car into drive, I pull my car back onto the gravel road and begin in the direction of the signal. Gravel peppers the bottom of my car like half-hearted buckshot as I creep down the winding path. The swaying grass and yellow eyes return to my field of vision as I roll slowly ahead.

There are too many yellow eyes watching me. The hairs on my arm are standing on end as I look around the field of piercing gazes. It is almost as though this evil man has drawn every dark thing to him on this unsettling night.

Yips and howls are filling the air. At first, they sound threatening, but slowly they begin to sound mournful. Like warnings in the dark.

Turn back! It isn’t too late! Death awaits you down this road!

I pound my hands against the car horn and the high-pitched wail causes the yellow eyes to break and scatter. The field is dark again, tall grass swaying lazily. No more warnings.

My car tires crunch in the gravel as I pull over to the spot where the light came from. On the ground, there is a floodlight, a night vision scope without a rifle, and a tattered paperback. Rolling it over with my foot, I see a crimson horse on the cover and bold yellow words hanging over its head.

The Catcher in the Rye.

While I was creeping slowly through the darkness, taking an account of my life, and pondering my precarious future, Alistar Lynch had sat in this spot reading a book. I laughed loudly. From the moment I left my house this evening until now, I’ve felt as though I were on a collision course with my ultimate fate while a murderous old man sat in the dark with a paperback.

I kick the book into the high grass and slide back behind the wheel of the car. My mind flirts with the idea of picking up the night vision scope to try and spot Alistar in the distance, but I decide against it. Leaving it behind is smarter. If he manages to either kill me or escape, this will be the first physical evidence he has left behind in half a decade.

No sense in leaving my prints all over it.

I can feel my heart slamming against my chest as the car rolls on. It is still a long way off, but as my headlights bounce, they are catching the distant silhouette of a cabin. Alone on a small hill, it rests there like a small castle in the inky darkness. An evil man sits inside, I think, awaiting an audience with me.

My mind races with a fearful survival instinct.

Turn the car around.

No, I’m too close. He would never agree to meet again if I leave now. This is no time for cowardice.

He’ll kill you. Is that what you want? You’re no martyr, Bart Coats.

He may, but I’ll try to kill him first. And so what if he does?

This is a trap! Do you really think he will let you take him to the authorities?

No, truly I don’t. It’s too late anyway. My car creeps up a slight incline off of the gravel road and onto a packed dirt pullover. I’m here. The cabin is only fifty feet up the small hill.

Shutters have fallen into the yard and dry-rotted in the sun. All of the windows are broken out, leaving jagged glass teeth in the warped frames. Holes puncture the roof in a dozen spots and the rough-hewn wooden rafters droop beneath. The front door is closed. Through one of the broken windows, I see a silhouette.

Cutting the ignition, I step out of the car. Dry autumn air fills my nostrils mixed with the scent of old lumber from the cabin. The night is cool, but a chill permeates deep into my bones. Decades of work end up at a dilapidated cabin on a hill.

A rusty squeal pierces my ears as the door of the cabin swings open. I level my 22 and fire three rounds into the center of the opening and wait. My heart races and I can feel my pulse in my ears. Struggling to focus in the dark, I can’t tell if I hit him.

“Whoa there!” Alistar proclaims. “I thought we were going to talk! That is truly no way to start a conversation, my old friend.”

“Alister Lynch,” I call. “Step out of the house with your hands in the air.”

“Fine, fine.” He chirps. “Have it your way, Bartholomew. Cross my heart, I’ll do as you’ve asked.”

My eyes have adjusted to the darkness of the countryside now. The dark silhouette of a thin man fills the doorway. His arms, disturbingly long, reach so high they almost brush the frame.

I exhale deeply and a cold sweat spills into my eyes as I pull the trigger three more times.

Each bullet lands center mass, but Alistar doesn’t even stagger. Sirens are blaring in my head to get in the car and leave, but I’m so close. I pull the trigger until there is nothing but a hollow click.

Still, he stands in the doorframe, unmoved and uninjured.

“I told you your little toy wouldn’t keep you safe,” he says in a patronizing voice. “I’ve met you here in good faith, yet you try and shoot me down like a bothersome animal. Shame, Bart. Shame.”

My mind reels and dizziness overtakes my vision. I can feel my stomach churn as my blood pressure skyrockets. I don’t understand. There was no way I could have missed him.

“I’m feeling a bit angry, detective. Last chance to come inside and speak. If you want your answers, you had best come inside. I won’t be here for long. If you continue to misbehave, you may not be either.”

The figure vanishes into the darkness of the house. I fumble the keys from my pocket and begin to back toward my car. Fumbling for the door handle, I prepare to get in the car to speed away.

I thought it was too late to turn back.

This wasn’t what I expected. I can’t hurt… him? It?

“Inside!” he demands. “Now!”

My legs feel as though they have lost their own agency as I lurch forward and up the hill. I struggle to turn around, but my knees bend against my will and I ascend the stairs. The planks of the old wooden porch sag under my weight and I try to increase my speed before I fall through, but I continue on at the same even pace.

My body continues to carry me toward a threadbare couch opposite an old armchair. Alistar is already settled in the chair as my body guides itself to the couch and my body guides itself gently to the cushions. It is too dark to see, but particles of dust fly into my nose and the smell of mildew overwhelms me.

I try to lift my arms and legs, but they sit heavily on the couch. It feels like I’m a marionette without strings. Whatever force he is using over me, I cannot fight it.

“Here we are, Bartholomew,” he says. “How old you’ve gotten. It’s been ages since I’ve seen you.”

“We’ve never met,” I say, calmly as possible. My mind is in full panic, but I’m doing my best not to show it. “I’ve seen your picture a hundred times in the case file. I would have seen you.”

Alistar laughs.

“You’ve seen pictures of Alistar,” he purrs as he says the name. “I left that vessel long ago, detective. You’ve never seen me.”

I hear the dry crack of snapping fingers. A soft, yellow glow blooms on a table between us. The wick of a fat tallow candle ignites. Alistar’s silhouette comes into sharper focus. Other candles around the room begin springing to life. The room is alive with dancing flickers of light.

In front of me, I can see the thing I’ve been tracking for so many years. My stomach drops. If there was an ounce of moisture in me, I would piss my pants. I’m still frozen in place by some compelling force, or I would run in terror.

The outline of a man fills the chair in front of me, but it is featureless. A complete absence of color or texture. I would call it a living shadow, but the thing is somehow darker. The thing I’ve called Alistar Lynch isn’t black. It is the absence of any light. Darker than the recess of any cave. There is simply nothing in the silhouette.

“What… what are you?” I stammer.

“I simply am, Bartholomew,” it says. The cool and collected voice of Alistar is gone. The thing sounds like thousands of voices speaking at once. There is no emotion in its words. “I have always been. I always will be. Every man and woman will meet me one day, but few have spoken to me.”

Hot tears are filling the corners of my eyes. I want to speak. To ask it something. Anything. I’m afraid if I open my mouth, I’ll vomit.

“Santa Muerte. King Yama. Thanatos. Maweth. Humans have called me so many different things. The list is long but tiresome. I am Death, Detective Coats. Not a dealer of death, but Death itself.”

“No…” I say. This is beyond my comprehension. I’m going mad. “You’re not…”

“But I am, old friend.” says the choir of voices. “I’ve grown tired of my duties. Your kind has glorified the darkest amongst you. Bundy, Dahmer, Gacey, Gein. Their artistic flourishes in my work have fascinated me for some time. I’ve even reproduced their efforts for my own amusement, but I wish to be free of it.”

It stands from the couch and begins walking toward me.

“The light of life is beginning to flicker in you, Bartholomew. Your days are few.”

Its hand stretches toward me and extends a finger. Slowly, it presses the tip against my forehead. My body spasms uncontrollably and I feel void of all warmth.

“To learn so much of death, one may become Death, Bartholomew. When the last grain of sand in the hourglass of your life falls to the bottom, you will replace me…”

_________________________

I awake in my bed in a pool of sweat. My clothes from the previous night are still on and I can feel my belt cutting into my waist. A dull throb emanates from the center of my head, so I head to the bathroom for some medicine.

It’s the middle of the night. I can’t decide if everything was a terrible dream or a horrifying reality.

But my head hurts so damn much.

I flick the bathroom light on and walk toward the medicine cabinet. As I prepare to open it, my heart skips a beat when I look in the mirror.

In the center of my forehead, there is a gray fingerprint.

The whites of my eyes have gone black. No, not black.

Void of light. Like a living shadow.