Stephen King has long been my favorite author, and although I may not be his biggest fan, I’m surely ahead of whoever is in second place.

 I can’t count the many hours that I’ve spent basking in the glory that he has penned to paper in the form of horror. I’ve got to admire his ability to take a nightmare or a warped fantasy that would ordinarily force many of us weak minded individuals into costly therapy sessions, and turn it into a multi-million dollar best seller. I admire him for this, but more so, I admire him for a much stranger reason. He cannot have experienced first hand the horrors that he so vividly describes in his many books. I mean, how could he? (Please Mr. King, don't sue me!)

That’s the key point where him and I really differ… I have.

The following is a short account of a book I am currently writing based on my real-life horror.

Call it my form of therapy.

The events and happenings are all true and accurate. You can choose to believe, or totally discount, the prerogative is yours.  I, however, do not have that luxury. I know it is all terrifyingly true, has happened, and continues to happen to me.

I strongly suggest that you leave the lights on,  and be sure to kiss your loved ones good night before you read this. I pray that this sort of thing never happens to you…

So sleep well, Stephen King…I wish that I could.

Because I know…The Dark Man is always there…

And he still watches…