I lay on my side, half-awake as my dreams prepare to embrace me. If only my ears weren't as good as they are. If only my mind weren't more aware, more intelligent than the average six year old. If only that soft footfall in the snow outside had been just a bit softer, I wouldn't be jarred to wakefulness.

The dog begins barking just a moment after I hear the footfall. Mom and dad wake up. I hear my father rummage around in his closet as he pulls on his robe. I hear him open his bedroom door and walk down the hallway, the dog barking madly at his heels as he tries to alert his master to whatever it is outside. I don't know what it is, but that foot sounded huge. It sounded as if it were big enough to step through my chest and crack all my bones on the way to the ground. I lay awake in bed, too scared to move, as sweat drips down my brow. My heart feels like it's going to explode; like it's trying to pound its way out of my chest.

I hear my father standing at the front door as the second footstep crunches the snow beneath it. Mom followed dad to the doorway, both of them armed. I know, because I hear them rack their shotguns amid the dog's barking. Then everything stops. Their breathing slows and their heartbeats rise. I whine softly beneath my covers as everything else turns to silence around me. Even our dog has stopped barking. Tears are rolling down my cheeks, my eyes closed tightly in hopes that I can force this nightmare to end. Then I hear it.

A hand outside grasps the door handle, turns it slowly, and opens the door. The next sounds are of my parents screaming as they open fire. The dog barks and lunges for the intruder. There is no whine or cry of any kind as it dies, only two painful thuds. My parents are backing into the living room. I hear them scream as they struggle to reload with shaking hands. I can hear the trouble they have with the loading mechanism. More footsteps like the ones outside. My father yells for my mother to get me and run. Then, there's silence, followed quickly by the sound of slowly tearing flesh. Silence again.

My eyes are wide open as I hear the sounds of my family being slaughtered. There are no death cries. Whatever has invaded my house isn't allowing that. It's strange, but I can't hear any footsteps. Minutes pass as I lay in bed, facing the wall as tears stream down my face. Nothing but silence greets my ears. If only I weren't smarter than other six year olds, I wouldn't know what comes next. But I am smarter. I do know, but I'm still six. Curiosity eventually wins over my fear and I turn to look through the open door of my room.

I see green. Something long, bulbous, and green. As the troll enters my room, I realize that I'm looking at its nose. There is a red streak going across its forehead. One of its long, sickly green index fingers is drawing something on its fat stomach. The other hand drags on the floor behind it, limp and unmoving. Both hands are covered in red. I try not to think about what it's using as paint.

"Hello," the creature says, its thick, slimy lips curled into a hideous smile. "I'm glad to see you're awake little boy. Would you like to color with me?"

I shake my head as I notice that there are no injuries on its body. Its voice was soft and smooth, as if it were trying to offer me candy. My shirt is wet from my tears, now. The troll takes notice and its smile widens.

"We could make such wonderful pictures," it says. "I have more paint in the other room. Come. Draw with me."

I shake my head again. The troll is inches from my bedside, now. Its face is so close to mine that I can feel its breathing. Suddenly, I'm feeling very self-conscious. I may be more intelligent than other children my age, but even I don't understand this situation. I'm scared, and confused, and I only want to see my parents again.

"You're parents are in the other room," the troll says, softly as it guesses my thoughts. "They've got the paint. Come. Draw with me, little boy."

I shake my head a third time, and the troll's face changes. He's still smiling, still breathing heavily. His breath smells like curdled milk and rotten eggs. He cocks his head to the side and raises an eyebrow. I can see the gears turning in his mind as he figures out his next move. When he finally speaks, my cheeks are burning. I don't know if it's the heat of his breath, or if I'm embarrassed. All I know is that my face feels like it's on fire. I whimper a bit as he asks his final question.

"What is your name, little boy?"

He gives me time to answer. His smile never wavers, as if he's taking pleasure from my every slight response. I rub my eyes. They're burning too. So is my chest, now. And my head is suddenly filling with thoughts. It took me a moment to realize it, but I hadn't quite connected the paint he was using to color circles and symbols on his chest to the sounds I'd heard in the living room. The metallic smell fixes that. The realization terrifies me, but more than that, it plants a seed of anger in my heart. It plants a seed of hatred in my mind.

"M-my name?" I say through quivering lips. My hands ball into tiny fists, and my eyes begin to burn hotter than any stove Ma ever used, or ever dreamed of using. "My name is Clark Kent."