ECHOES OF A SIGNATURE

Chapter 1: The Handprint

The door creaked open with an eerie reluctance, as though the house itself was warning him not to enter. Jason Holt stepped inside, backpack slung over one shoulder, sweat dripping from his temples. He had sprinted from school, skipping last period because his mom hadn’t answered his texts—and she always answered.

The air was heavy. Thick. Wrong.

“Mom?” he called out.

No answer.

His sneakers tapped against the hardwood floor as he walked into the living room. The TV was on, static hissing into the silence. One of the picture frames on the wall had shattered, the glass glittering like ice on the ground.

Jason’s heart hammered as he moved forward, inch by inch, past the dining room and into the kitchen.

Then he stopped.

His mother’s body was sprawled on the floor, eyes wide open, lips parted as if mid-scream. Blood pooled beneath her head, a thick red halo. His father was slumped against the fridge, a knife driven deep into his chest. His face was pale, lifeless—but what stopped Jason cold wasn’t the corpses.

It was the mark.

On the white kitchen wall, drawn in what looked like blood, was a handprint.

But not an ordinary one—it had six fingers.

Jason’s knees buckled. He stumbled backward, his mouth moving but no sound coming out.

Then—pain. A sharp stab of light behind his eyes.

Everything spun. The floor twisted beneath him.

He blinked—once.

Then darkness.

Hours Later...

Jason sat at the edge of an ambulance stretcher, shivering beneath a wool blanket. Blue and red lights painted the neighborhood in violent flashes. Cops swarmed the house. Crime scene tape fluttered like streamers.

“Can you tell me what happened, Jason?” a detective asked, crouching beside him. He was tall, gray-bearded, with kind eyes. “Anything you remember?”

Jason shook his head. “I—I don’t know. I came home and saw them… then everything went dark. I don’t know how long I was there.”

“You were found unconscious on the kitchen floor,” the man said carefully. “Your fingerprints were on the knife.”

Jason’s blood ran cold. “No. I didn’t—I would never—”

“We don’t think you did,” the man interrupted quickly. “You’re in shock. But we need to understand.”

Jason looked down at his hands. Blood. Dried into the lines of his palms.

He couldn't remember picking up the knife.

He couldn't remember anything after seeing the bodies.

And deep in his chest, a new fear took root:

What if I did do it?

10 Years Later...

“Profile this,” Agent Reyes said, slamming a folder down on Jason’s desk.

Jason, now 27, barely flinched. His expression remained unreadable, his jaw sharp, his black suit immaculate. “What’s the case?”

“A body found this morning in a motel on the east side. Throat slit, eyes wide open.” Reyes lowered his voice. “But here’s the kicker: a handprint on the wall.”

Jason’s breath caught. “A handprint?”

“Six fingers,” Reyes said.

Jason stared at him, unmoving. The world narrowed. The walls of the FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit disappeared, replaced by a cold kitchen and his mother’s dead eyes.

It couldn’t be. Not after ten years.

“Send me the crime scene photos,” Jason said.

Reyes nodded. “Already in your inbox.”

Jason waited until the man left, then opened the folder. There it was.

A motel bathroom. Blood sprayed across the walls.

And on the mirror—a handprint. Six long fingers.

Just like back then.

His heart pounded like war drums. His hands trembled slightly—barely noticeable, but it was there.

The killer was back.

Or worse...

He had never left.

Later That Night…

Jason sat in his dark apartment, photos of both crime scenes spread across his wall. A glass of untouched whiskey sat on the table.

He stared at the six-fingered print. The curve. The pressure points. There was something familiar about it—too familiar.

Then he noticed something new.

On the edge of the latest handprint, faintly smeared in blood, were the letters “JH.”

His initials.

His knees went weak. His mind screamed against it, but deep inside, a whisper clawed its way to the surface:

What if I left it there?

Jason looked into the mirror.

And for a split second—he didn’t recognize his own reflection.

His phone vibrated. One new voicemail. Blocked number.

He pressed play.

A distorted voice whispered:

“You saw me that night. And you forgot. But I didn’t.”

Then—silence.

Jason’s heart stopped.

He stared at the phone.

Then turned around—

And saw a bloody handprint on his apartment wall.