The interior of the out-of-place home was as lovely as its exterior albeit a little messy. There was a day room off to the right, directly after stepping inside, which was filled with canvases, paints, brushes, and a lot of other art supplies.

In the center stood an easel, displaying an unfinished portrait of what looked like a shadow person. Since the intriguing painting was quite coincidental, I couldn't help but to inch nearer to study it.

When I was young and the trouble with sleep started, I had seen my fair share of the unsettling creatures. They had been one of the first things I researched too. Apparently, shadow people were a common sight during sleep paralysis experiences.

Dreams during these occurences were referred to as hypnagogic hallucinations since the body wasn't entirely awake or asleep. In fact, it wasn't unusual for psychosis patients to see them during their waking visions either.

I stared at the painting, letting it consume me. The paranoid state shadow people were infamous for inducing seemed to begin reaching out of the canvas to surround me...almost as though the more I locked my sight on its representation, the more I brought it to life. My mind connected to the fear and uncertainty always felt in their presence.

"Coffee?" the abrupt sound of Ames' voice jolted me from my trance.

Spinning around and grinning awkwardly, I took notice of her blank expression. She stood in the hallway behind me, holding a yellow mug. I blinked my eyes away and accepted the token.

"Thank you," I nodded, following her into the living room opposite us.

There was a large leather couch and matching recliner centering a flat screen television and an old record player. On the long coffee table in the middle of the room were several files, stacks of papers, and a couple of books. The woman took a moment to flip some of those things over before taking a seat in the recliner.

"Do you have sleep problems?" I asked, my gaze flitting across the way and finding the art again.

"Hm?" her gaze matched mine, sight of the piece seeming to jumpstart her brain, "Oh. Um, yeah. You too?"

I nodded, "Since I was little."

"Why don't you sit down?" she motioned to the couch between us, reminding me that I was still on my feet.

I looked away from the picture and to the sofa. It was a bit worn, but looked fairly new. Given the appearance and possessions of her home, I gathered that she wasn't hurting for money. That came off as strange due to her background though I suppose many successful or at least stable people had come from broken families. Another possibility was that she had come into cash by selling the story about her dad.

I picked a spot on the middle cushion where I sat leaned forward, staring down at my drink. It was black. I had never drunk coffee without cream and some sort of sweetener. Even back when my nightmares were at their worst and I was doing all I could to stay awake, my java was watered down to the point of being more milk than anything else.

"Oh, I forgot to ask how you took yours," Ames appeared to be reading me.

I looked up, mouth opening, yet unable to speak before she continued.

"There's sugar in the freezer. Keeps the bugs away," she said, "And I don't have creamer, but there's some milk in the icebox, if you'd like."

I mumbled a thanks and then stood up, taking my mug with me to the kitchen past the wall behind her. The kitchen was just as nice as the rest of the house that I had seen. Fresh paint, stainless steel appliances, and cabinets and drawers that looked perfectly straight without any scuffs.

"Utensils in the drawer to the left of the sink!" the woman called from the other room.

I quickly found a spoon and retrieved the package of sugar from the freezer. After measuring out several spoonfuls of the sweetener into my mug, I returned it to its place. I then got the milk and poured as much of it as I could without the cup over-flowing. I put it back and then stayed behind just long enough to glance over the area once more.

I wasn't sure why and I was aware doing so was rude. Nonetheless, I guess old habits die hard. It wasn't like I had it in mind to steal anything though. Curiosity and precaution fueled me over anything.

As I passed Ames on my way back to the couch, I offered a brief 'thank you' to which she replied 'no problem.' Upon the plush couch, I started sipping my drink. To my surprise, it was fresh. I had expected it to be the remnants of the morning coffee and figured on bitterness, but it was just about perfect. I wondered if her morning had started late or if she just drank a lot of coffee...maybe because of the nightmares...

"It's good," I said. "I appreciate it."

She smiled, taking a drink from her own cup before prompting a conversation by saying, "I assume you've just heard about the Mysterious Murderers episode concerning our town. I am in it, but it hasn't been shown yet, so..." she trailed, waiting for me to clarify.

I recognized the train of thought, "The man working at the convenience store on the corner of town told me to come here when I asked him about McGraff," I explained.

She tilted her head back for a moment. Her eyes were on me as if she was considering something, like whether I was telling the truth or like she knew the man and figured he had said more about her, yet not wanting to presume so. Her strong gaze made me feel uncomfortable so I returned my attention to the coffee instead.

Finally, she spoke, "Is that right?"

I looked up to see she was still staring at me. Jesus. This lady was kind of creepy. I put my eyes on the drink in my hands again, "He said you were his daughter. I mean that you were McGraff's daughter."

"Uh-huh," she mused matter-of-factly.

I faced her again only to see her chuckle at my discomfort. Her lips fluttered upward as she relented, "It's ok. You didn't do anything wrong. I had figured he had and that's not really something to brag about. Well, not something a normal person would brag about- being the child of a serial killer, ya know?"

"I guess not," I agreed, "I did think it was rude of him."

The woman sighed, "Yes. Well, that part I'm used to. A great deal of people will feel sorry for someone like me. An identical if not greater portion will be leery of me since mental illness is often genetic. It's also very circumstancial," she added, "And I have both genetics and circumstance against me."

"I understand," I shrugged, "You seem like a nice person to me."

"Everyone thought he was nice too," her voice was hollow.

I swallowed loudly, at a loss for words.

"Why exactly are you so interested in my father's case?" she narrowed her vision critically.

"I...I'm not sure," I admitted, head hung.

"Then let me conjecture here," a subtle warmth returned to her tone, bringing my focus once more, "You're most eager to know about the paranormal aspects of it. The ritual magic, his death and coming back from the grave. That sort of thing."

I chuckled, amused at how easily she called me out, "You get that from a few self-harm scars?"

"That was part of it," she smiled, "And I think it's only fair you tell me more about you in exchange for what I can share."

"You're right," my expression was kind, but my heart had fallen, "What would you like to know?"

"Tell me about your diagnosis," she stated simply, shifting the mug in her hands close to her jaw for a sip.

"Ah. Uh. Well..." I stammered. I honestly hated talking about myself, especially something so personal, but like she said, it was fair, "Post-traumatic Stress Disorder and Major Depressive. I'm a...um-"

"You had a habit," she observed with a short sip.

I gazed at her dumbly.

"You have more than just cutting scars."

"Oh," now I was feeling extremely exposed. No doubt she saw me shrink into myself, "Y-yeah. You see my dad wasn't as bad as yours, but-"

"My father was wonderful to me," she interrupted oddly, quickly adding, "For what I can remember. I was still young when he went to prison. He never hurt me, just others."

"Oh," my voice shifted to a higher pitch, truly suprised by that tidbit, "My father wasn't. He was a drunk. Abusive, angry, violent...to me anyway. I can't really speak for how he was elsewhere. I know he didn't have any friends. He spent all his spare time drinking or making me play weird games."

"Games?" Ames settled her cup in her lap and furrowed her brow.

"I remember once when I was, I don't know, eight? He had been laid off one day. When I came home from school, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes," my voice had grown low, "He said if I could...he lit one and pressed it into my arm. I cried. He told me to be quiet; I could smell the alcohol on his breath. He said if I could get through the rest of the pack without opening my mouth, that I could have peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for supper."

A stiff silence overcame the house. I had never spoken much about these things outside of therapy, so quickly picked up that I had made the situation weirder.

"Anyway, at some point around that time I began having horrible nightmares and sleep paralysis," I shrugged, "I was both scared to sleep and scared to be awake. Eventually, I ran to drugs for help. A few years ago, I was diagnosed, went to rehab, and I've been clean ever since, but still feel like shit."

"What happened to your father?" Ames placed a sympathetic expression on me.

"I don't know. I ran away the second I turned eighteen," I sighed, "I didn't even graduate."

"Mine was killed in prison," the woman decided it was her turn to share, "Some sort of fight. The part people find odd is that he didn't try to defend himself."

"You don't find it odd though?" her semantics stood out to me.

"No," she affirmed, "At least, not by the time I was old enough to start understanding things. You see, Lloyd was greatly impressed by the occult. If you're to believe that he is responsible for what are officially known as copycat killings, then you should know it was made possible through his studies on the subject."

"You mentioned something about ritual magic," I recalled, "Was that why his victims were found like they were?"

She nodded, "He believed he could become a stronger being upon death by collecting souls."

I tried to keep an open mind and honestly, I didn't know what I thought the explanation was going to be, but it still felt so surreal the nonchalant manner in which such a story was being delivered. I was having difficulty telling if I was crazy or if she was. That was until she began speaking again.

"If you are to believe, that is. Many believed, however, that I was to blame," she raised an eyebrow as if challenging me.

"Well that would only make sense if you also trusted in this magic of his," I considered, "Even then, thinking something works and agreeing with doing it are two different things. Spanking a kid is a good deterrent in many cases, but I would never do it."

Ames' hard demeanor eased. It appeared that my answer had pleased her, "I do believe in the power of things most see as fantasies. It's why I trap them, you see," her gaze jumped to the painting in the distance.

Briefly, I turned back to the foggy black figure held on the easel, "Trapped?"

"You already sensed it by looking at the portrait, I could tell by your face," she informed, "It's not easy, mind you, but yes, they used to torment me in my sleep. That was why I worked and practiced until I could draw them out, literally. I only rarely have them bother me anymore."

I found myself staring at her, our eyes easily locking. I knew she was waiting for my reaction yet I didn't know what to say. I was still trying to judge the sanity of the situation. When my expression remained staunch and unsure, she sat back in her seat.

"After all this time, I feel it's too much to hope that somebody else would consider this to be true," she released a heavy breath, "But you struck me as different. Even now, I feel that at the very least, you don't completely discredit me."

I shook my head, eyes darting from side to side, finally managing to respond, "I don't have any reason to doubt you, especially when there is nothing to answer for all those deaths. I figure you'd know more than anyone. It's just with my past, I have trouble trusting anything non-scientific."

"You know," she changed to a lighter, yet still serious tone, "I've done that too," she pointed to my arms, making me cringe again, "Sometimes it's easier to hurt yourself so when other people do it, it doesn't have the same effect. But I learned that you can remain the victim or you can rise above."

I scoffed, but she hurriedly kept talking.

Setting her coffee down on the table, she leaned close to me, "Mark, our pasts shape the way we think, the way we feel and our experiences can influence our actions, but in the end, YOU are responsible for who you become."

I looked deeply into the woman's eyes. Three years of intensive therapy summed up in one sentence: one ashamedly obvious sentence. It wasn't really any new advice. I had heard it all before; take charge of your life, deal with your demons so you they can't keep their hold over you, blah blah blah. And yet...something about hearing Ames say it made it entirely different.

"Can you show me how?" my voice almost cracked as I asked, turning to the side toward the shadow person in order to hide it.