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The other night, I was reading my oldest daughter a story at bedtime from one of her favorite books of ghost stories, and afterward she asked me, “That story wasn’t true, was it, Daddy?”

“No, of course not.” I told her.

“Because things like ghosts and monsters don’t exist, do they?” she hugged me goodnight.

“No, they’re not real.” I lied and petted her head.

After making sure both girls were tucked in good and tight, I left their room while my wife kissed them each, and stood for a while looking out the living room window to the darkened street below. I could feel my body tensing up instinctively, like it knew something was coming, but nothing ever did. Still, I looked out the window for far too long, remembering the terrible October of my 15th year.

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