Genesis Rising

Chapter One:

The First Strike

Opening Scene: The Crime

Location: Suburban neighbourhood, late 1970s. Pre-dawn hours.

The rain was still falling when Detective Lucas Graves stepped out of his car, the cold droplets tapping rhythmically against the roof. He pulled the collar of his coat higher, the early morning chill sinking deep into his bones. The quiet suburban street before him still looked peaceful, despite the flashing blue and red lights that disrupted the calm.

Lucas stood for a moment, looking at the house just beyond the police tape—an ordinary two-story home, painted a soft cream colour, with a rose garden trimming the front lawn. Two days ago, no one would have looked twice at it. Now, it was another house on his list. Another family devastated.

His breath misted in the air as he glanced at the small cluster of neighbours gathered across the street, huddled under umbrellas against the rain. Their faces were pale and drawn with fear. They whispered to one another, their voices carrying softly through the damp air.

Lucas knew the look in their eyes. They were wondering if it could have been them behind that police tape. And part of him knew it could have been. This killer didn’t operate by the rules. He didn’t choose his victims based on a pattern of logic that Lucas could see. He chose them because he could.

Detective Graves, a uniformed officer called from the sidewalk, his voice tense. You’ll want to see this one right away.

Lucas nodded grimly and ducked under the tape. He tried to block out the rising tension in his gut as he approached the house. He’d seen it all before—every kind of violent end that humanity could inflict on itself—but there was always something different about walking into a fresh crime scene. Something that twisted his insides, no matter how many years he’d been doing this.

The officer by the front door was young, barely out of the academy by the look of him. He stood stiffly, his face pale beneath the brim of his hat. Lucas could tell he was trying not to look too rattled.

Bad one? Lucas asked, though the answer hung in the cold air between them.

The officer nodded, swallowing hard. Yes, sir. Upstairs.

Lucas stepped inside, his boots sinking into a plush white carpet that muffled his steps. The house was eerily quiet, as if the violence that had occurred here had sucked all the life out of the walls. He took in the surroundings—the neat, orderly living room, the family photos on the mantel, the vase of fresh flowers on the coffee table. It was a home, not a crime scene. Or at least, it had been. And now it was something else entirely.

The hallway was dimly lit, and Lucas could see the faint outlines of Bloody footprints leading up the stairs. He followed them, each step heavier than the last. The air grew colder the further he went, as though the house itself was recoiling from what had happened inside it.

At the top of the stairs, he paused, steeling himself. The door to the master bedroom was open, and from where he stood, he could already see the outline of the body on the bed—motionless, twisted in a way that told him everything he needed to know.

Lucas, a voice called from behind him. Rick Monroe, Lucas’s partner of six years, stood in the hallway, his face drawn. He was holding a notepad, but he hadn’t written anything down. Lucas could tell the scene had shaken him more than usual, and that wasn’t a good sign.

Victim’s upstairs, Rick said, his voice low, almost apologetic. Husband’s out of town. She was alone.

Lucas didn’t respond. He just moved forward, pushing the door open with the back of his hand, careful not to touch anything. As the room came into full view, his gut twisted.

The woman on the bed was in her mid-30s, her body stiff and angled cruelly across the blood-soaked sheets. She was bound at the wrists and ankles, the strips of torn fabric cutting deep into her skin. Her eyes were still open, frozen in terror, staring at nothing. Her throat had been slashed—one clean cut from ear to ear—and blood had pooled beneath her head, soaking the pillows and mattress.

But it wasn’t the blood that made Lucas pause. It was the bruises on her neck—faint, but unmistakable. He could tell she had been strangled before the final cut, as if the killer had wanted to watch her struggle before ending it.

Lucas swallowed hard, the metallic taste of bile rising in his throat. He’d seen more bodies than he could count, but this one—there was something different about it. Something deliberate. The killer hadn’t just murdered her. He’d taken his time. He’d made it personal.

She’s the only one in the house? Lucas asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

Rick nodded. Kids were with the grandparents for the weekend. Housekeeper found her this morning. She’s downstairs, but she’s in shock.

Lucas turned back to the body, his eyes scanning the room for any sign of a struggle. But everything was too neat. The killer had been careful. Too careful. No forced entry. No signs of a break-in. The house was untouched beyond the bedroom. The wallet was still on the dresser, jewellery was out in the open, untouched. It wasn’t a robbery. It was something else.

Whoever did this, Lucas muttered, knew exactly what they were doing. This wasn’t random.

Rick shifted uncomfortably. It’s a clean scene. No prints. No hairs. Nothing.

Lucas frowned. He stepped closer to the bed, careful not to disturb the scene, and examined the knots around the victim’s wrists. They were tight, methodical—professional. Whoever had tied them knew how to immobilise someone quickly, efficiently.

Lucas, what are you thinking? Rick asked, his voice hesitant.

Lucas didn’t answer right away. His mind was racing, pulling at threads that hadn’t quite formed into a pattern yet. But something about the scene felt eerily familiar, like a memory he couldn’t quite place.

I think we’ve seen this before, he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rick frowned, glancing back at the body. What do you mean?

Lucas straightened up, his gaze lingering on the bruises around the woman’s neck. This isn’t the first time a scene like this has shown up. There was a case a year ago—different neighbourhood, different victim—but the same MO. No forced entry. No struggle. Same level of control.

Rick raised an eyebrow. You think it’s the same perp?

Lucas nodded slowly. I think we’re looking at something bigger than a single murder.

Later that morning, at the precinct.

The precinct was alive with activity when Lucas walked in. Phones ringing, detectives arguing over cases, the usual hum of the day-to-day. But for Lucas, everything else faded into the background as he made his way to his desk. His mind was still on the scene, replaying it in slow motion.

He sat down heavily, the old wooden chair creaking under his weight, and pulled out the file on the latest case. But even as he stared at the photos of the victim, his mind was already wandering to something else. Something darker.

He reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out an old file, the edges worn and frayed. It was a case that had gone cold nearly a year ago—a woman found in her bed, strangled, her house untouched. No signs of a break-in. No evidence left behind.

It wasn’t exactly the same, but it was close. Too close.

Lucas flipped through the photos, comparing them to the ones in the new file. His pulse quickened. The way the hands were bound. The bruising around the neck. The clean, precise nature of the kill. It was all there, hidden just beneath the surface.

But the killer hadn’t left a trail. Not then, and not now.

Lucas, Rick’s voice broke through his thoughts as he appeared in the doorway of the office, holding a cup of coffee. You need to take a breath, man. We’ll figure this out.

Lucas didn’t look up. There’s something we’re missing.

Rick sighed, leaning against the doorframe. You’re starting to sound like a crazy person.

Lucas ignored the jab, his eyes fixed on the files in front of him. He reached for a pen and began scribbling notes in the margins, his mind racing through possibilities, connections, things others might have missed.

What if it’s not just a coincidence? he muttered under his breath. What if he’s been doing this for years?

Rick’s expression softened. You don’t know that yet. Let’s focus on what we do know.

Lucas finally looked up, his eyes hard. What we know is that someone just killed a woman in her own bed. And we don’t have any leads. No suspects. No motive.

Rick didn’t respond. He just stood there for a moment, watching Lucas, before finally turning and walking away.

Lucas leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing as he stared at the case files. He didn’t have all the answers yet. But he had a feeling this was only the beginning.

Chapter Two:

Ghosts of the Past

Location: Erin’s apartment , modern-day. Night.

The cursor blinked on the screen, impatiently waiting for Erin Calloway to type the next line. She stared at the half-written paragraph in front of her, the words swimming on the page. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but nothing came. Nothing but the silence that filled her small apartment.

Outside, the city was alive cars honked in the distance, a siren wailed faintly, and the hum of traffic buzzed through the thin walls. But inside, Erin’s world was still. Too still. The only light came from the glow of her laptop, casting a pale blue hue over her cluttered desk.

Erin leaned back in her chair, rubbing her eyes. She hadn’t slept in two days. Not really. The case had been consuming her thoughts—again. It always came back to this. No matter how many other stories she wrote, no matter how many other crimes she researched, her mind always circled back to the Night Stalker, Why?

The file was spread out in front of her—old newspaper clippings, crime scene photos, victim profiles. She had everything. Every scrap of information she could get her hands on. But it still wasn’t enough.

She glanced at the wall to her right, where she had pinned up a makeshift investigation board—photos of the victims, maps of the crime scenes, timelines, and hand-written notes connected by red string. It looked like something out of a detective’s office, but this wasn’t an official investigation. This was her obsession.

On the desk, the article she was supposed to be writing stared back at her, unfinished. It was for her true-crime blog, a piece on an unrelated case she had been working on. But she couldn’t focus on it. Not when the 40-year-old unsolved murders kept gnawing at the back of her mind.

She stood up, stretching her arms over her head, and crossed the room to the board. Her eyes traced the lines she had drawn between the victims, the questions she had written in bold black marker.

Why did he stop?

It was the question that haunted her the most. The Night Stalker had killed at least seven people between 1978 and 1983. Then, suddenly, nothing. No more murders. No more break-ins. No more taunting letters to the police. He had vanished without a trace.

Serial killers didn’t just stop. Not unless something made them stop.

Erin’s eyes drifted to the photo in the center of the board—the first victim, a woman named Angela Harper, killed in her home in 1978. She had been the start of it all. The first one. The one that set everything in motion.

Erin knew the case better than anyone, even the detectives who had worked it four decades ago. She had spent years researching it, collecting every piece of evidence she could find. She knew the names of the victims by heart, knew the dates of their deaths, knew the details of their lives. But she still didn’t know who had killed them.

Her phone buzzed on the desk, breaking the silence. Erin glanced at the screen. It was a notification from one of the genealogy websites she had signed up for months ago, hoping for a break in the case. She clicked on the notification, her heart rate quickening despite herself.

The message was short.

We’ve found a match to your DNA profile.

Erin’s breath caught in her throat. She stared at the screen, her mind racing. It wasn’t her DNA, of course. It was a sample she had submitted on behalf of one of the victims’ families, hoping it would lead to something. Anything.

With trembling fingers, she opened the email and scanned the details. The match wasn’t close—just a distant relative, someone who shared a small percentage of DNA with the unknown killer. But it was something. A crack in the wall.

She sat back down, her pulse pounding. She had been chasing this case for years, but this was the first real lead she’d ever had. The first piece of evidence that might actually take her somewhere.

Her hands shook as she reached for her phone and dialled the number she had memorised months ago. It rang twice before a gruff voice answered on the other end. Lucas Graves.

Location: Lucas Graves' house, modern-day. Late evening.

Lucas Graves hadn’t answered his phone in weeks. He had let the calls pile up, the messages from reporters, true-crime buffs, and conspiracy theorists all blending together into white noise. He had retired from the force 25 years ago, and he didn’t want anything to do with the Night Stalker case anymore.

But something about the voice on the other end of the line made him pause.

Detective Graves? the woman asked, her voice crackling through the static.

He hadn’t been called ‘Detective’ in years.

I’m not a detective anymore, Lucas grumbled, his voice rougher than he remembered. It had been a long time since he had spoken to anyone about the case. Too long.

I know, the woman said quickly. I’m sorry—it’s Erin Calloway. I’m a journalist. I’ve been working on the Night Stalker case for a few years now. I’ve... I’ve uncovered something.

Lucas sighed, leaning back in his recliner. His small bungalow was dark, the only light coming from the old lamp beside his chair. The walls were bare, and the house was eerily quiet, save for the sound of the wind rattling the windows. He had gotten used to the silence after his wife left. After his kids stopped calling.

I’m not interested, he said flatly, already regretting picking up the phone.

Wait—please, Erin said, her voice desperate. Just hear me out. I’m not like the others. I’m not here to exploit the case. I’m trying to solve it. I think I’ve found a lead.

Lucas snorted. You think you’ve found a lead? Kid, I spent ten years chasing that bastard, and I came up with nothing. What makes you think you’re going to do any better?

There was a pause on the other end of the line. Lucas could hear Erin breathing, as if she was trying to steady herself for what she was about to say.

I found a DNA match, she said quietly. It’s distant, but it’s something. It’s more than anyone’s found in 40 years.

Lucas sat up straight, his heart skipping a beat. He hadn’t expected that. Not after all this time. Not after everything.

Where did you get the sample? he asked, his voice suddenly sharper.

I... I’ve been working with Angela Harper’s family, Erin explained. I submitted their DNA to a genealogy database, hoping for a match. And I got one. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

Lucas’s mind raced. He had been out of the game for too long, but he still knew the steps. He still knew what it felt like to be close—so damn close—to finding the truth. But he also knew the dangers of false hope. He had spent too many years chasing ghosts.

I don’t know what you’re expecting, Lucas said slowly. But this isn’t going to end the way you think it will.

Erin’s voice hardened. I’m not expecting anything. I’m just asking for your help. You know this case better than anyone. If there’s even a chance that this lead could take us somewhere, don’t you want to see it through?

Lucas stared into the darkness of his living room, his mind swimming with old memories. The crime scenes. The bodies. The letters. The years of sleepless nights and dead ends.

He had walked away from it all, but now it was pulling him back in.

I’ll think about it, he muttered, hanging up the phone before she could respond.

Location: Erin’s apartment, later that night.

Erin stared at her phone; the call ended abruptly. Her heart was still racing, her fingers trembling. She hadn’t expected Lucas to be easy to convince, but at least he hadn’t hung up right away. That was something. She stood up and walked back to her board, her eyes scanning the faces of the victims again. There were so many unanswered questions. So many lives torn apart. And she had promised herself years ago that she wouldn’t stop until she found the truth.

Her gaze landed on Angela Harper’s photo—the first victim. The woman whose family had trusted her to find answers. Erin’s chest tightened. She couldn’t let them down. She couldn’t let any of the families down. She grabbed a pen from the desk and scribbled a note to herself on the board: Follow up on DNA match. Contact Lucas again.

She wasn’t going to stop. Not now. Not when she was so close.

The Night Stalker had taken everything from these families. He had taken everything from her, too, even if he didn’t know it.

And Erin was going to make sure he paid for it.

Chapter Three:

Reluctant Allies

Location: A small diner on the outskirts of the city. Late morning.

The bell above the door jingled as Erin Calloway stepped into the diner, shaking off the cold November wind. The smell of coffee and greasy breakfast food hit her immediately, but it did little to calm her nerves. She scanned the room, her eyes landing on the man sitting alone in the corner booth.

Lucas Graves?   

He looked different from the photos she’d seen of him in old newspaper clippings. The man who had once been a sharp-eyed, clean-shaven detective was now a shadow of his former self. His hair had gone gray, and his face was lined with years of sleepless nights and regrets. He looked... tired. Defeated, almost.

But there was something else, too. A flicker of something behind his eyes. A spark, maybe, that had been reignited by her phone call the night before.

Erin took a deep breath and crossed the room, sliding into the booth across from him. He didn’t look up right away, just kept his eyes on his coffee cup, his hands wrapped around it like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

Thanks for meeting me, Erin said, her voice more uncertain than she wanted it to be.

Lucas finally looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took her in. I’m not here to make friends, he said gruffly. You’ve got ten minutes. Start talking.

Erin swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. She had spent years researching this case, memorising every detail, every victim. She knew the facts inside and out. But sitting here, across from the man who had lived through it, who had been on the front lines of the investigation, she felt... small. Like maybe she didn’t know as much as she thought she did.

But she pushed that feeling down. She had come too far to back down now.

I found a DNA match, she said, her voice steadying as she spoke. It’s distant, but it’s something. It connects to a relative of the killer—someone in the same family line. I haven’t been able to pinpoint exactly who yet, but if we dig deeper, we might be able to find a connection.

Lucas leaned back in his seat; his eyes still locked on her. He didn’t say anything for a long moment, just stared at her like he was trying to figure out if she was worth his time.

And you think that’s enough to reopen a 40-year-old case? he asked finally, his voice low and measured.

I think it’s more than anyone’s had in decades, Erin shot back. She wasn’t going to let him dismiss her that easily. It’s a lead. A real one. And if we follow it, we might be able to find the killer. Isn’t that what you want?

Lucas snorted, a humourless sound. What I want doesn’t matter. What matters is whether or not this lead is enough to get the department to take the case seriously again.

Erin’s jaw tightened. The department isn’t going to help. Not unless we give them something concrete. That’s why I need your help.

Lucas raised an eyebrow. You need my help?

Yes, Erin said, leaning forward slightly. You know this case better than anyone. You were there. You saw the crime scenes. You talked to the families. I’ve spent years researching this case, but you lived it. If we work together, we might actually be able to solve it.

Lucas didn’t respond right away. He just stared at her, his expression unreadable. Erin felt her heart pounding in her chest, the silence stretching out between them, thick and heavy.

Finally, he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. You’re not going to let this go, are you?

No, Erin said quietly, but firmly. I’m not.

Lucas shook his head, muttering something under his breath. Then, without another word, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small notebook, sliding it across the table to her.

Erin frowned, picking it up. The pages were worn, the edges frayed. It looked like it had been through hell and back.

What is this? she asked, flipping it open.

Notes, Lucas said, his voice gruff. From the original investigation. It’s not much, but it’s something. You wanted my help? Fine. Let’s see what you can do with it.

Location: Erin’s apartment, later that afternoon.

Erin sat at her desk, the notebook open in front of her, her laptop buzzing softly beside it. She had spent the last few hours pouring over Lucas’s notes, cross-referencing them with the DNA match she had found.

It wasn’t a perfect match—just a distant relative of the killer’s. But it was a start. And Lucas’s notes were filling in the gaps, giving her a clearer picture of the Night Stalker’s timeline.

She scribbled a few more notes on a pad of paper, circling the name of the person connected to the DNA match: Michael Fletcher. He was a distant cousin of the killer, someone whose family had lived in the area during the time of the murders. But beyond that, there wasn’t much to go on.

Erin leaned back in her chair, staring at the name on the page. It wasn’t enough. She needed more.

Her phone buzzed on the desk, and she glanced at the screen. It was a text from Lucas.

Meet me at the archives. We’re going to need more than a name.

Location: The city archives, early evening.

The smell of old paper and dust filled the air as Erin and Lucas stood side by side in the narrow aisle of the archives. Boxes of old case files were stacked high on the shelves, some of them so worn that the labels had faded into illegibility.

This place hasn’t changed much, Lucas muttered, pulling down a box labelled Night Stalker, 1978-1983. He set it on the table with a heavy thud, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

Erin opened the box carefully, her fingers trembling slightly as she lifted the lid. Inside were police reports, crime scene photos, and witness statements—all of it yellowed with age, but still intact. She felt a strange sense of reverence as she looked at the files, like she was holding a piece of history in her hands.

Start with the witness statements, Lucas said, sitting down across from her. There was a guy who lived near the first victim. Said he saw someone hanging around the house a few days before the murder. We never found out who it was.

Erin nodded, flipping through the files until she found the old statement. The man’s name was Paul Winters, and he had described seeing a young man in his early twenties loitering near Angela Harper’s house the week before her murder. He had mentioned it to the police at the time, but nothing ever came of it.

Lucas leaned over the table, reading the statement over her shoulder. We followed up with Winters, but he couldn’t give us much. Said the guy was tall, dark hair, wearing a jacket. Could have been anyone.

Erin frowned, her mind racing. What if the guy Winters saw was related to Michael Fletcher? If we can place Fletcher or someone in his family near one of the crime scenes, that might be enough to narrow down the suspect pool.

Lucas raised an eyebrow. That’s a big if.

I know, Erin said, her voice determined. But it’s all we’ve got right now.

They worked in silence for the next few hours, combing through the files, cross-referencing names, dates, and locations. Erin’s eyes burned from staring at the old documents, but she pushed through the exhaustion. She could feel it—they were getting closer.

Finally, Lucas let out a long sigh, leaning back in his chair. We’re not going to find the killer sitting in a dusty old archive.

Erin glanced at him. So what do we do?

Lucas stood up, stretching his arms over his head. "We go talk to people. Starting with Michael Fletcher."

Erin’s heart skipped a beat. You think he knows something? I think he might, Lucas said, his voice dark. And if he doesn’t, he might know someone who does.

Location: Outside the archives, late evening.

The sun had set by the time Erin and Lucas stepped outside, the cold night air biting at their skin. Erin shoved her hands into her pockets, her mind still buzzing with everything they had uncovered.

Fletcher lives a few hours away, Lucas said, pulling out his phone to check the address. We’ll head out first thing in the morning.

Erin nodded, her heart racing. They were finally making progress. After years of dead ends, false leads, and frustration, they had something real. Something they could follow.

As they walked toward their cars, Lucas glanced at her, his expression unreadable.

You sure you’re ready for this? he asked quietly.

Erin met his gaze, her voice steady. I’ve been ready for a long time.

Lucas didn’t respond. He just nodded and climbed into his car, the engine roaring to life as he pulled out of the parking lot.

Erin stood there for a moment, watching him go, her breath fogging in the cold night air. She had come this far. She wasn’t going to stop now.

Chapter Four:

Under the Surface

Location: Lucas’s car , early morning. Driving through rural countryside.

The sun was just beginning to rise, casting a pale orange glow over the rolling hills as Lucas Graves drove down the narrow highway. The hum of the engine was the only sound in the car, the silence between him and Erin Calloway thick and heavy.

Erin sat in the passenger seat, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, but her mind was elsewhere. She had barely slept the night before, her thoughts racing as she tried to piece together everything they had uncovered so far. The DNA match. Michael Fletcher. The old witness statements. It all felt like pieces of a puzzle, but the picture was still blurry.

She glanced over at Lucas, who hadn’t said much since they left the city. His hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, his jaw set in a hard line. He looked like a man who had spent too many years chasing ghosts, and Erin wondered if he was already regretting getting involved again.

You’re quiet, Erin said, breaking the silence.

Lucas didn’t look at her. Just thinking.

About what?

Lucas sighed, his eyes still on the road. About how many times I’ve done this. Driven out to talk to someone, thinking I was finally going to get a break in the case. And how many times it led to nothing.

Erin frowned. You don’t think Fletcher knows anything?

I don’t know what to think, Lucas said flatly. But I’ve been chasing this bastard for a long time. Every time I thought I was close, he slipped through my fingers. I’m not getting my hopes up.

Erin leaned back in her seat, her fingers tapping nervously on her leg. She understood his reluctance—she really did. But something about this felt different. The DNA match, the old witness statements—it was more than just a hunch. It was a real lead. And she wasn’t going to let it slip away.

We have to try, she said quietly.

Lucas didn’t respond, but Erin could see the tension in his jaw, the way his knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel. He knew they had to try. But the scars from the past were still too raw.

The rest of the drive passed in silence, the landscape changing from rolling hills to dense woods as they got closer to their destination. Michael Fletcher lived in a small town a few hours outside the city, tucked away in a quiet rural area that felt isolated from the rest of the world.

As they pulled into the town, Erin couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease. The streets were empty, the houses old and weathered. It was the kind of place where people knew each other’s business, where secrets were buried deep.

Lucas pulled the car to a stop in front of a small, run-down house at the end of a dirt road. The windows were dark, the paint peeling from the siding. It didn’t look like anyone had lived there in years.

This is it,