To the librarian and his tome that has my name in it...

Do you know what it's like, dear readers, to lose your entire childhood?

For me, it was entirely unexpected. I had merely caught a glimpse of the old man, and then, just like that...

Gone.

My childhood ended when I first learned of the monsters. When I first saw the tall man outside my window.

Innocence died that day. And the next, my family. How old had I been? Fifteen? Sixteen?

How old am I now? Has it even been a year? Or has it been much, much longer?

On the rare occasion I find a mirror, it seems I have only aged a year or two.

But it also seems I've grown scales and fangs.

That one small glimpse, that tiny scribble into the book, is the entire cause of my current identity crisis.

I remember not who I was, but at least I know who I am.

Well, I like to think I do in any case.

To the being who rules over the afterlife and its inhabitants...

It is because of you, being from the other side, that I hope to be killed by one of them, rather than by any natural means.

It is because of you that I tell myself to keep going, to keep surviving.

It is because of you that I am still alive.

I suppose I should be grateful.

But I am not.

Because while you ensured that I stay alive, you also ensured that my family did not.

While I do not remember much of them (thanks to your blind friend), I remember the pain I felt when I lost them.

Are they with you now, being from beyond?

Are you using one of their forms to terrorize some other hapless runner?

Despite how much I miss them and wish I could remember them, I hope I will never have to see them again.

Out of all the monsters that I've encountered, you are one of the ones that hurt me most, ruler of the underworld.

And yet, you are one of the few that I have not actually encountered myself.

Odd, how that happens, no? The lesson, dear readers, is to never give up.

Never stop running, never stop surviving. For if you do, it has full dominion over you.

Whatever you do, do not embrace the Archangel.

To the pale creature that used to crouch beside my bed...

I can still hear your whispers. They haunt my every waking moment.

Sleep used to be my only escape. That was, until your facepainted friends took that away too.

I still have the scars. I hide them beneath the long sleeves of my jacket.

How long had you been there, creature? How long have you crouched at my bedside and whispered in my ear?

Was it since I was a baby? Were you there even then?

What were you saying to me, creature? What eldritch words rolled off your eldritch tounge and into my childish ear?

Even as the words echo in my mind, I cannot understand a thing.

You confound me, creature of the night. Your actions are nonsensical.

But I suppose that is to be expected, from something that is so shameless as to hide in children's closets.

Do you remember the words, dear readers? When you were children, the words your parents would say to you as your eyes darted around in terror?

"Don't be afraid," they said. "There is no such thing as the boogeyman."

Your parents were wrong, dear readers. There is such thing as the boogeyman, and you should be very afraid.

To the faceless businessman who stands amongst the trees...

I know you're there. Watching.

Watching without eyes. Smiling with no mouth.

Do you wish to feast on my succulent flesh?

Do you wish to sup on my juicy skin?

I read somewhere that humans taste quite good.

But how would you know, when you don't even have a mouth?

You don't even have teeth to chew, or a tounge to taste.

What do you have, tall man? You have tendrils.

How many tendrils sprout from your slender back? I have counted eight.

But how do I know there is not one more back there, hiding in the shadows?

I have heard one of your names is Der Ritter.

While I find it doubtful that you have any relations to the old knight, there may be some truth about your origin.

The number nine is very important in Germanic mythology.

Is it important to you, thin man? Is it the number of tendrils sprouting from your back?

I suppose, if I ever do find out, it will already be too late.

Do not be fooled by this man's refined appearance, dear readers.

He does not simply expect you to dine.

Where, Why, and How Am I?

Where am I?

Well, if I knew that, I certainly wouldn't be telling you.

Why am I?

That's my question.

How am I?

Not too good. You?

Should you have any more questions, I suggest you ask them now. I have little more to say about my identity.

Besides, wouldn't you rather hear about the monsters that ruined my life?

When Am I?

This computer tells me it is Saturday, August 17, 2013.

But how can I know for sure that the mold isn't playing tricks on my perception, like it has done oh-so-many times?

So do tell me, dear readers.

When are you?

What Am I?

There are those who would agree that I am merely a boy.

Others would argue that I am a man.

Some might say I am a little less than human.

Not quite as much might think I am so much more.

As for me? I would describe myself merely as what's left.

What's left of a human adolescent with wide eyes and big dreams.

And even bigger nightmares.