>I recount to you a tale of my boyhood, when that friend would visit in the night.
>I grew up alone and troubled, often heading to bed with nary a glance from my parents.
>It was around this time I, in my yearning for affection and belonging, began to indulge in the writings of the Orient and the strange rituals they practiced to honor their heathen deities.
>I recall the rapping on the window. It must have been late at night, for no other sounds could be heard.
>When I turned to the source of the disturbance, I saw her: the writer of the stolen manuscript that lied on my lap.
>Her hair was as pale as the moon, and the lower portions writhed like a nest of albino serpents.
>Her eyes shined in the darkness, their piercing gaze trained onto my shivering form as I attempted to fool her into believing I had already drifted away into a deep torpidity.
>I could hear her expression of excitement through my window as the rapping of her finger against glass continued to worm its way into my skull.
>Fortunately, or so I thought at the time, she fell for my deceit, but that did nothing to dissuade her from her infringement into my once peaceful domicile.
>Her expression never changed as she slowly cracked the window open. That sweet smile stains my memories, forever associated with the image of her form shambling through the now patulous aperture.
>My perception of her rapidly alternated between several distinct entities, all with the same ravenous expression tainting her fair complexion.
>As I felt her arms wrap around me in my own bed, once a haven for my innocence and youth, I languished to her words of greetings and sweetness.
