Prologue-
It was a quarter past 9 when I felt it; a deep sinking feeling that shook me to the core. I looked at the man next to me, a homeless fellow named Peter. Every day I sat with him in silence on this bench, not knowing why it was that I continuously returned. He looked like he always did- slightly ruffled, yet relaxed. He did not seem to notice anything different. When I looked at him, he returned my gaze blankly with one good eye. The other still seemed to be focused on the empty road ahead. He soon turned away from me, and within seconds was lost inside of his own thoughts once again. I was not comforted by his mental distance. I reached for my belt, hands searching for a knife. I pulled one out and flicked it open without thinking. Something wasn't right. My feeling of dread was confirmed when I looked out into the pitch night. I may not be a genius, but I am absolutely positive that shadows do not move.
