Yes, this is totally creepy. Thank you. :D

Now, this story is based LOOSELY (and I stress this dearly) on The Dark Knight movie. I say loosely because I have never actually seen the movie, just a completely awesome trailer. Go to Youtube and type in this exact name: The Dark Knight Trailer 2 - Psych Version.The video is named exactly that, so it'll be the first one.

So, I've…really got nothing more to say other than this is not going to be the same Psych characters we all know, love, and borrow. This is the 'Oh my f- god, what the hell did you do to them?' Psych. It's based on my imagination. I will try to limit them to what they might actually say or do, but there are no promises, especially with Shawn, Gus, and Madeline; it is most definitely AU. This entire piece will have flashbacks throughout. Year will be posted.

Enjoy. Rating is a very, very, VERY hard M for a reason. This is really not for people under the age of 17 due to graphic violence, murder, swearing, and some other stuff that I shouldn't even think about, let alone write. The Shawn here is so dark, I swear there is no light to be seen for 62 thousand light-years.

Also, I started this a while ago, meaning that it may be a little...dated, shall we say? Not by like, a bajillionths of a thing or anything. Also, I'm not very sure on this, but it's something to try, and I really, really hope you enjoy. Seriously, please heed the warnings for this story. Any questions may be asked through review or PM, and I will be more than happy to answer them. Updates won't be regular, but I have the first three chapters done, and I'll post the next one on Friday.

Please review with any comments about this story because I really would like to know if it is something I should continue posting or take down and save for my rainy days.


1985

"Shawn!" Henry yelled, looking for his son. He went up the stairs, looking in closets and under the bed. "Shawn!"

"What Dad?" the boy asked, coming up behind his father.

Henry forced himself not to jump, slowly turning to face the dark-haired boy. "Shawn, come downstairs with me. We need to talk."

Shawn's eyes darted across his father's face for a moment. "OK," he said, leading the way down.

They sat at the kitchen table. "Shawn, in all honesty, this isn't good news. Your mother has applied for custody again."

Shawn's eyes bugged. He stuttered for a moment, searching for words. "I-I-I-what?"

Henry closed his eyes, sighing quietly. Swallowing, he looked again at Shawn. "Buddy, I know. You don't want to go. Unfortunately, you have no choice, and neither do I. She's spread lies to the judge about how I'm treating you. Here," he grunted, searching the mail for a minute to hold up an opened envelope. Handing it to his son, he added, "Take a look for yourself."

Shawn took it, hands trembling in shock and something else…rage maybe? Henry couldn't tell. Looking at all sheets quickly, Shawn's eyes finally found the letters. "Abuse letters…sent to her?" Shawn looked up in confusion. "I never sent her anything."

"I know, Shawn. And that's what makes this difficult. They're typed, and you can type something without saving it and claim it is from somebody," Henry said. He sighed again. "I really want to defy this, just…get away somewhere. But they'd find us, you know."

Shawn nodded. "I know," he said.

They sat in silence, which was broken by a knock on the door. Henry opened it to see Gus, Shawn's best friend, standing there.

"Oh, hi Gus. Come on in," Henry invited, holding out a gesture of 'Come in.' The young African-American did.

"Shawn, what's wrong?" Gus asked, sitting next to the drawn child.

"My mom's getting custody of me," Shawn mumbled.

Gus gasped. "That's terrible!"

"I know, right? She got inco- incar- put away in jail for murder!" Shawn said, voice raising even as he stumbled over the word. He slammed the table with a fist.

"Hey now, no need to take it out on the table," Henry soothed. "I'm going to find some way to get you back into my custody, but until then, you have to go with her."

"I'll go pack," Shawn mumbled.

"I'll help," Gus said after a moment, following Shawn upstairs.

Henry waited until they were out of earshot. "Fuck," he moaned, knowing in his heart he would never get his son back.


2010

Shawn stood at the top of a ridge just outside Santa Barbara. He took a deep draught of salty air and grinned.

"Hello. I'm back," he whispered reverently, glancing around the scenery. Taking out a phone, he speed-dialed Gus' number.

"Hello?" the tired voice of an INTERPOL officer asked.

"Hey, Gus, buddy! How you been? Where're you at?" Shawn said brightly into the phone.

"Home in Santa Barbara, why?" Gus asked, answering only one of Shawn's questions.

"Because I'm standing on the hill on the east side of Santa Barbara looking at the city."

Gus gasped, instantly sounding much more alert. "You're back? That's great!"

Shawn smiled, rather evilly if he did say so himself. His mother would be proud if she could see him. "Yeah. I bet some people won't be so happy though." He flipped the phone closed on the conversation and stretched. "Actually, quite a few," he said with a simper that blew into a full laugh. It echoed around the empty area.


Head Detective Carlton Lassiter of the Santa Barbara Police Department (SBPD for short) was driving his Crown Vic car into his parking space. He hadn't even opened the driver's door when his in-car scanner went off.

"All units, we have a 187 reported at 605 Alpine Lane. Looks to be a copy-cat murder or suicide. Repeat: there is a 187 at 605 Alpine Lane, appears to be a copy-cat murder."

"Damn it," Lassiter swore, switching his car to reverse and flying out of the lot. Activating the sirens, Lassiter felt a strange sensation in his gut as he wove through traffic to the address. Suicide…got to be. There's no way this is homicide.

Pulling next to the units already there, he stepped out of the car and walked around to the home. Police tape was already up, showing that an officer had discovered the scene. Lassiter lifted the tape and ducked under. As he stepped in the door, he stopped in his tracks.

There was no camera in there yet; hell, nobody was there yet. Lassiter's blue eyes searched the area, noting dully that it was a split-off into the living room and dining room. But his focus then rooted to one of the living room chairs.

A man was there. He wasn't too tall, more or less of average height. The hair was messed and the victim's eyes were opened. But what drew the most attention was the bloody, carved lines on the man's skin. They were obviously deliberate and in no way what a suicidal man would do. While sloppily written (it's rather difficult to write in skin when it is carved), it was obviously done from the front. The lines, though not pristine, were much too clean to have been carved from watching above.

"What the fuck happened here?" the photographer asked, doing the same that Lassiter had done and stopping as soon as he stepped foot in the door.

Lassiter looked around, spotting a tape recording. Picking it up, he looked it over, then looked at the man behind him. "Serial killer," he said solemnly, once again looking at the slashes on the dead man's body.

1 down they read.


Lassiter and his partner Detective Juliet O'Hara stood in Chief Vick's office, blinds drawn and door closed. Between the three of them on the desk lay the recording Lassiter had found on-scene.

"Well, we need to play it sometime," Vick said, settling herself into the chair.

Lassiter looked at Vick, then back at the recording. "I almost don't want to listen," he said, face pinched as he lifted the tape and placed it into the player they'd managed to find.

It crackled to life. "Hello Detective Lassiter. Or should I say Head Detective Carlton Lassiter of the SBPD?" a man's voice said. Lassiter swore he could hear a grin and laugh in the voice even though neither were present to give evidence to or from it. "Yes, I know who you are. I know what you do, and I know where you live. No, I'm not a stalker. I'm simply…observant, you could say. Enough pleasantries, however.

"I suppose you found my handiwork if you're listening to this. And I hope this message gets across: you'll never find me. I'm too clever to carelessly allow you to tail me like several other cases you have had. I am too smart, too quick, too good to simply leave you a trail. You need to work at it. You'll never succeed though."

"Why the hell tell me this if he says I won't find him?" Lassiter wondered aloud. He was shushed by Vick.

"That being said, let's try a little game, you and I. Each clue will lead you to the next victim. You might even save them, if you figure it out in time. The case has the clue written in it for this one. Good luck; you'll need it. You have until Thursday when you'll find the next victim.

"Goodbye, Detective Lassiter. I hope we meet soon." The tape was finished out by a laugh. O'Hara reached out and tapped it off, rewinding it.

Lassiter stood for a moment, then reached over for the cassette tape case. He opened it, taking the little card out. A note fell out.

"'I'll make a watch here and there. I don't leave it anywhere. I'll take you out and make you spin, but when it's done you'll never win. Who am I?'" Lassiter read aloud to the office. "What kind of riddle is that? It makes no sense whatsoever!"

"Maybe it's not that it makes sense, but what the clues are," O'Hara said. She took it. "'Make a watch here and there,' maybe he's talking about a watchmaker."

"Oh, yeah, that narrows it down," Lassiter said sarcastically. "It's likely that it is, but we need one that only makes them once in a while."

"'I don't leave it anywhere,'" Vick repeated. "That might mean that he makes watches, but doesn't take them anywhere. Watch collector?"

"'I'll take you out and make you spin.' That's not doing anything to help," Lassiter grumbled.

"'But when you're done you'll never win,'" O'Hara finished. "Watchmaker/collector that wins?"

Lassiter grew still. "The watch convention," he murmured. "There is one man that always wins." He turned, then added, "And that's the auctioneer."


Five minutes later found the Crown Vic racing for the convention center, sirens blaring. Lassiter pulled around into the parking lot, fishtailing the end of the car. He stepped out and ran inside.

Once there, he found the nearest employee he could. "SBPD," he said, flashing the badge. "Where is the auctioneer?"

"I-in the l-lounge," the terrified man said, pointing.

Lassiter took off for the left, finding the room marked 'Lounge.' He knocked, drawing his gun just in case. "SBPD!" he shouted.

Someone opened the door. "Yes?" he asked.

"Are you the auctioneer?" Lassiter asked.

"Yes," the portly man said, confused. "Why? What's wrong?"

"I need you to come with me. It's a matter of life and death," Lassiter said.

Thursday morning dawned. The auctioneer was safe in the police department under almost constant guard. The day was going smoothly.

Lassiter was out on patrol when the call came over the radio. "Available units, there is a 187 at 702 Windhouse Lane. Repeat: 187 at 702 Windhouse Lane."

"Fuck," Lassiter moaned, placing the sirens and lights on. He pulled up and walked into the home.

The coroner, photographer, and several units were already there, all of them muttering and conferring with one another.

"Is there a problem here?" Lassiter asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Sir, we just don't know what to make of it," one of the junior officers piped up. He pointed at the man. "Look what it says."

Feeling the dread in him grow, Lassiter moved to see. He accidentally kicked another cassette case. Ignoring it for the moment, Lassiter looked.

Two words were carved into the man's skin. In a bloody parody, they read: I win.


What'd you think? Most definitely beginnings of creepy, wouldn't you say? Want more, want to print and burn, print and say 'This is what not to write, see?' All those are options! Again, please review with comments, questions, concerns, and/or emotional breakdowns, and see you on Friday!