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One night, on a whim, I ventured into the old deserted house at the edge of town. It’s rumored to be haunted, you know. I can tell you now that the rumors are true. As I browsed from room to room, spectral entities brushed against me, growling in menace or mumbling incoherent laments.

But I was not afraid, nor felt unsafe.

When I returned to my dark apartment (in which I live alone), a creak of floorboard warned me that someone else was there. Thus I was prepared when the assassin leaped from the shadows, intent on murder. I dodged and landed a swift blow in a tender spot. Howling with pain, the intruder scurried through the still-open door and fled into the night.

I was calm. At no time had I felt fear.

On my way to the bedroom to retire for the night, I glimpsed myself in the hall mirror and recoiled in horror. I broke out in a cold sweat; it was difficult to breathe. Trembling, I found my bed and slept, but fitfully, my slumber punctuated by nightmares of demons pursuing me along twisting corridors.