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Story Notes:
This is the first story in the Psyched-Out series! Constructive criticism is always welcome, no major spoilers for any Psych episode in this one folks!
Author's Chapter Notes:
I guess the murder part is a bit graphic so hey, be careful!
The distant thunder fused with slow rainfall, hitting against the wooden roof, to create a strangely calming environment for a young, brown haired, and slightly-too-not-asleep-for-this-time Shawn Spencer. The boy, despite his drooping eyelids and constant yawning, persisted against the claws of sleep. He sat cross legged underneath red racecar sheets on his bed, eyes staring forward at the small screen in front of him. Gus had recently gave Shawn his old gameboy so that he could play super mario and ever since he had pressed start, Shawn couldn’t put it down unless he had to hide it from his dad. The time on the alarm clock next to shawn's bed read 12:30 dimly from outside the sheets, but Shawn didn’t care. Just one more level, he thought. The satisfying faint noise of mario jumping on the flag and winning the level was emitted from the device in shawn's hands as he let a small grin out and hesitated to turn off the game. It couldn’t be too harmful if he just played one more level?
Abruptly, Shawn heard his father angrily yell something from downstairs. Isn’t dad supposed to be asleep? Shawn wondered and, although all common sense of ‘don’t get in trouble’ was telling him not to do it, shawn turned off gus’s gameboy and slowly creeped downstairs to investigate why his dad was up so late, and why he was so heated. Avoiding the stairs he had memorised were creaky, he slowly walked up to the wall dividing the living room and side-of-stairs, and the kitchen where his dad was on the phone.
“No, I told you for the last time she’s not psychic and i’m not working with that fraud!,”
Shawn’s father boomed from the next room. Psychic? Shawn thought. What does he mean by psychic? Is someone psychic? For real?
“If she wanted to help she could have just told us. Not fake being something as ridiculous as psychic and expect everyone to take her seriously,” He continued
“Fine! If I’m off the case i’m off the case I don’t care,” his father yelled and slammed the phone down with force and let out a huge sigh of anger.
“You can come out now kid,” Shawn’s dad exclaimed
“Why were you yelling,” Shawn asked as he tiptoed out, no point in asking how his dad knew he was there, cop senses.
“Promise me, Shawn, that you will never grow up to be someone who hides behind mumbo jumbo like psychic powers instead of doing something more respectful”
“Ok I promise, but what if she is actually psychic,” Shawn asked
“There’s no such thing, now get to bed kid,” His dad ordered. Surprised at how calm his father was about shawn sneaking out of bed, he quickly followed his dad’s orders and ran back upstairs so that he wouldn’t get in trouble. Shawn hid under the covers and grabbed the gameboy out from under his pillow but his finger hovered over the start button. What if psychics were real? He’d seen some on T.V but his dad said not to believe everything on there. Still, fairs and circuses and all sorts of things claim psychics to be real and with so many people saying they are, what does it mean that his dad doesn’t believe them?
Shawn certainly thought that if hundreds of people claim somethings real and they have experienced it first hand, then at least one has to be truthful. For the rest of the night Shawn stayed up thinking about the call and about psychics. Philosophising over how weird the world was, Loch ness monster and Bigfoot aside, psychics were truly a mystery, and how many people could actually be one? Shawn wondered for a second, am I one of them?

Wind howled like a rabid wolf, leaves flung from the trees to the muddy and damp ground below. A storm like no other was coming to Santa Barbara and this wind and rain was only the beginning. The forest was usually quiet except for the occasional birdsong but now it was alive with the sound of rain, wind, and trees falling from the sheer force of nature’s perfect storm. A winding trail that led to a rather large cabin on a hill was now covered almost completely in leaves and twigs that had fallen from the overhanging trees. The pond just before the trail was cloudy and all the bugs on the water had found a small nook to hide in. There was almost no life in the forest as the raging storm disturbed the woodlands.
A man, dressed in a suit and tie as if he was going to a formal party or work meeting, ran through the forest. His brown, messy hair stuck to his pale head. He was covered in goosebumps, the hairs on his arms and on the back of his neck stood on end. Taking a moment to look around he immediately began bolting up the trail toward the house. He began panting as his legs became weaker, running up the rigid hill overlooking the woods became a near impossible feat as the wind began to pick up. The thunder seemed just overhead as the noise was almost deafening. The man’s suit now was soaked and his shoes were covered in mud. He stumbled and tripped up to the house's door. He took out a keychain and frantically began fumbling around looking for a key to the door in front of him. Glancing behind him almost every other second, he finally found the key he was looking for. His cold, shaking hands struggled to get the key into the lock but, after multiple tries, he succeeded in unlocking the front door.
He quickly ran into the house and slammed the door behind him, leaning against it with almost all of his weight as if he expected something to break through. The howling wind and booming thunder seemed to quiet to an almost non-existent state. The silence was both calming and absolutely terrifying. The man dropped his suit coat on the small coffee table next to the door and let out a long sigh of relief. He walked away from the door with caution and began to walk upstairs into the master bedroom. The man fell on the bed, exhausted from running, and closed his eyes, stomach down on the bed. The clock on the night-table read one minute to midnight. The man was either too tired to react, or already asleep, when footsteps sounded through the house. As the clock turned to 12:00, the door of the bedroom creaked open and a shadow loomed over the body of the exhausted man on the bed.
“How sweet,” the shadowy figure laughed out, “I guess you’ll die in your sleep,”
Lighting struck down illuminating the knife in the figures hand as they dug it into the sleeping man’s chest. Again. And again. And again.

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