My family members used to think something was wrong with me, but they aren't here anymore. I haven't fully recovered from the accident, but I am fully aware of what happened. I'm writing this in prison; I have no other way to pass the dreaded weeks before my final breath in front of the firing squad. Many people think I deserve worst, but they don't know what actually happened.

It started when I was three. I lived in a small town in Indiana. I lived a normal life that a three year-old does: playing with trucks, going to church, and drawing. Drawing was my favorite pastime; I would draw whenever I got bored of moving my toy cars back and forth and making plastic food. Looking back I now realize that I was exceptional. If I would have kept with it, I would no doubt have become a famous artist. My favorite thing to draw was portraits. Normally people I know, but I would also draw people I saw in my dreams. I had an abnormal amount of dreams; at least 4 a week. They were normally average things, such as characters from cartoons or with my friends. But when I turned 8, it happened.

I was sitting in church doodling, trying to pass the time. They didn't have any kid classes, so I had to sit with my family in the service where the preacher talks about stuff like loving your neighbor, stuff like that. I hated going to church. I was working on a certain doodle for a few days. I was putting a lot of time in it; I was determined to make it a masterpiece. It was a certain thing I saw in my dreams. The English language doesn't have the words to describe it. The best I can get is a tall and dark figure, without a face.  After church got out, we drove home. I was almost done with my drawing, I just needed to add a few more final touches and some color. I say color, but I could've completed it with just a black crayon.

That night I had the most twisted and perverse dream I had ever had. I still remember it distinctly. I was in my room. Watching myself sleep as if my spirit had came out of my body. It was a chilling experience. Our breathing patterns were the exact same and we were wearing the same pajamas. Then it hit me. I was staring at myself as I was having this dream. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a shadow move. I tried looking, but I couldn't move my body or eyes. The shadow finally came into my eyesight. It was the same figure i had drawn. I don't know how, but it saw me watching my body. It slowly came up to me and said in a raspy but deep voice, "Thank you for creating me." Then it turned around and went to my sleeping body. It started stroking my cheek, but then I felt a sharp pain and saw the figure made a nick in my cheek, causing me to bleed. The figure turned towards me; the room went black.

I woke up in a cold sweat. I felt my cheek and felt dried blood covering most of my face. I ran to the bathroom to try to clean up as much as I could before breakfast. I got as much as I could before my mom yelled at me to wake up and come downstairs. The cut was the first thing she noticed about me. I explained how I had cut myself trying to shave. The next seven years were pretty normal. I say normal but I had similar dreams to this, but I didn't get cut anymore. Eventually, staring at my own body became almost comforting, in a way.

At this point I had just turned 15, and had my birthday that day. I went to sleep full of cake and ice cream. I knew I was going to have one of those dreams, but I had no idea how different and twisted it was going to be. It started normally, me staring at my body from that night. But this time, the room started shifting; I was staring at my father. He looked peaceful, laying in his bed with his sheets and covers. The shadow came over to him and stared at him for a few minutes then turned to me. "It's time." He turned back and started strangling my father. I tried screaming but nothing came out. Once he was done, he went made a short cut in his neck, ripped of a piece of his red shirt, and then went back into the shadows. I stared at my dead dad looking as peaceful as before, but without his chest moving from his breathing. I woke up to police sirens and then I instantly remembered my dream.

I ran into my parents room to see my mom sobbing as my dead dad was laying in bed, with a blue blanket draped over him. I started sobbing and ran to my mother. She hugged me. The police had told me that there were other murders from all around Indiana that happened the same. Strangled, cut, and a little shirt ripped off. Whenever they found the murderer they all described a dream of a black figure. I ran back into my room and as I went to change, I felt something in my pajama pocket. I pulled it out, and noticed dried blood on my finger, and saw what was in my pocket.

It was the red cloth from my fathers shirt.

Now I'm 18 and writing in prison waiting to be killed. There have been more reports of family members killing each other; all describing the same black figure in their dreams, with dreams similar to mine. The black figure can get into anyone's dreams, and once that happens, it's too late. Your family member could already be dreaming about this. Or who knows? You might dream about this same exact figure tonight.