When I was five or six-years-old I had an imaginary playmate named Mr. Bixby.
I told my mother he was a little doctor, and when he would visit me, he appeared as a floating ball of light in my bedroom.
At about the same age I started having horrible nightmares. My mother would come into my bedroom and I would be terrified, pointing at something only I could see, my eyes bugging out and mouth open screaming—but so frightened I wasn’t making a sound.
She didn’t understand why I was so deathly afraid to go to sleep in my bedroom every night. But I knew what was happening. Mr. Bixby had turned bad.