Prologue i

"Little Schicklgruber!", the macabre face’s shrill voice screamed as it floated above a massive oak bed. Below, a twisting, tortured body–arms flailing in the air–fought to escape sleep and the nightmare. The voice and the ethereal face were disjointed yet somehow belonged together, but it was the look on the face that terrified and enraged the sleeping man. Suddenly, he bolted upright–instantly awake. Now he remembered!

It had been a year ago! A man had yelled "Little Schicklgruber" at him! He crawled to the furniture’s edge and sat, his body covered in cold sweat beneath his long, white nightgown. For seven nights now he had been tormented by this same specter. This one was new among the many that haunted the dark recesses of his mind. It was from his recent life and more evolved and menacing than the others that came back from his past. Although grossly distorted, they seemed to be distinctly familiar faces, but faces he somehow could not quite recognize. Unable to drive them away, he could feel himself being driven to the edge of madness. In his dreams he used all his strength, beating at them in an insane rage, but his blows were ineffectual. Part of his mind threw his punches with all his might, yet another part drained his fists of the power he knew he possessed and a great impotence overwhelmed him.

He wiped his hand across his brow and looked down at it in the light from the small desk lamp that had been left on. His hand was trembling and wet with sweat, but at least he was awake and back in the saving sanity of consciousness. He was awake–and this time he remembered; he would do something about this dream. He held his hand out level in front of him and stared at it. It took a full minute, but he willed it to stop shaking. His heart was pounding in his chest and, just as he had stilled his hand, he slowed the organ’s beat.