Jack tossed all night in bed. His mind was being tormented by images of his past. Images he wished were forgotten all together. But it was there, the thing he hated.

It was a year ago. Jack’s father, Mr. Tilton, had been waiting on the old sofa for his son. The sofa reeked but he wasn’t about to let it go. It was the only thing left of his dead wife and it was the only thing that made him happy.

Suddenly, Jack had walked in. “Do you know what time it is!?â€? His father’s voice rose, echoing off the walls.

Jack had cowered in fear at the stairs. “Um only after eleven, it’s not that late—“

His dad had cut him off, gripping his shirt and dragging him in close. He hissed, “When I tell you to be somewhere, you are to be there. Understood?â€? Jack had looked away. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!â€? Mr. Tilton reached out and hit Jack across the temple.

That was Jack’s worse fear. That was the thing that charged the negative energy toward Kit everyday.

And too bad … it wasn’t even his fault to begin with.