Prologue: A Short Talk on Basements and their Uses

The year is 1990. A family sits in their basement.

The basement's concrete was cool and the moisture in the air was heavy and felt like a sickly caress on skin. The washer was humming and the dryer was buzzing vigorously. If one listened carefully, they could hear water rushing through the pipes, making its own little melody in a world of chaotic noise.

There are other sounds as well; a chair is scraped harshly across the floor and heavy breathing hits the air.

There is blood on the floor. It is a deep red that looks like chocolate syrup in the dying light.

Basements are conundrums. They are meant for storage; to be a safe place to put all the material things needed but not always used. They are meant for shelter; a place to hide when the winds rip and bite at the house with ferocious strength. That is what basements are for: to protect and to store.

Yet many hesitate at the top of the stairs. It's dark in the basement. It is a deep abyss that devours everything- save for the shallow light that shines through a little window barely worth mentioning. At night, the sun's luxury is swallowed up, so every step down those creaking stairs makes the heart beat faster and hands grip the rail a little tighter. At the bottom, the smell of dirt, mold, and water wafts through the air. Hands scramble as best as they can for the light switch and the body relaxes when light engulfs the dark.

Unease still trembles inside the heart even when the light is on. There a multiple reasons for this: there's the feeling of being watched even though you are alone; there is the fact that any noise you make will be suffocated by thick concrete and; no matter how spacious the basement is, the longer you stay, the more closed in you feel.

Logically, the basement is simply a room; it cannot hurt anyone because it is not a living thing with intentions of its own. Yet, people will avoid them as best as they can and when they must go down they do their business quickly. When they are finished, the moment they turn off the light, they race up the stairs in their best attempt to flee from the darkness that overtakes.

There is only relief at the top of the stairs and the satisfaction that one has, once again, survived.

There are questions lurking here: why do so many fear their basements? What illogical notion has led to this fear?

The basement is a room designed to protect. People would not store their valuable possessions down there if this was not so. Perhaps then, that very same reason gave birth to the fear.

There are no ghosts in the basement; the shadows cannot grab onto you and drag you into their dark corners. Monsters conjured out of the imagination cannot hurt you. The basement's strong points are its faults. It is a vast room built to withstand pressure and suppress noise.

So good at suffocating noise- no one would hear any screams coming from the basement.

In the basement sits three chairs with three people tied to them. A fourth person stands. The washing machine clicks off as a knife pierces flesh. A shrill shriek is ripped from a dry mouth. The pipes rumble with water as the knife carves into skin. There are chunks of flesh on the floor and blood gushes; a geyser taking shape in human form.

Three screams become two.

The first to go was the father. He left this world screaming in agony, begging for his family to be spared.

The second to go was the mother. She left this world in uncertainty and panic; her perspective had her in two places at once and she could not decipher between the two.

The last to go would be the son. He was silent save for his shallow breathing. Breathing that slowed with each step the killer took up the stairs. Dark deeds finished, they left to continue on with their life, holding no regard for the three that were just destroyed by their hands.

The basement is an isolated room. It is the perfect place to conduct a symphony of torture and murder without interruption. The neighbors would never be able to hear the yells through the thick walls.

Except, they did.

It was not long before sirens blared and lights flashed. Cops swarmed the house, guns ready and eyes alert. Looking and searching for signs of life. They found a basement stained with blood. This was the 7th family to fall victim to the Basement Butcher, as the police had so kindly named the killer. Of all the victims, this family was the quickest to be discovered. The other six families had been found weeks after they had been killed. Why had this family been heard? Was there a flaw in the basement's design? A crack in the foundation that let the outside world hear their screams?

Or perhaps there had been a flaw in the Basement Butcher's meticulous calculations.

Earlier in the day to let out the stale air that had gathered in the basement, Spencer Reid had opened a little window barely worth mentioning.

Time passes. Killers come and go in the Nevada heat. Some are caught, some die, and some disappear. The year is 2000 and after a 10 year pause the Basement Butcher adds an 8th family to their killing count with a special message:

They want Spencer Reid. A boy they killed a decade ago.

AN: Guess who's back~