I remember when I was no more than knee-high, a dream that constantly plagued me. Let's call the being Mr. Shadow because it's a good name for him. He was a hulking, broad-shouldered, twisted, shadowy figure. He wore what looked like a hoodie and other baggy clothing. Every night I would wake up screaming. My mother would ask while smoothing my hair for comfort, "What's wrong sweety?" And I would respond with the words that still send chills down my spine, "It was Mr. Shadow, mommy. I seen him again." "Dad, I didn't do this to myself?" "I don't want to hear it," he said in his sharp tone.