That was, if he hadn't lost it already, over the last few months. Since his life had fallen to pieces. He was standing outside, on the corner of his street, just trying to get some perspective on what had happened over the last few days, during which he'd seen some unusual sights: a malevolent presence had murdered his pick-up, consumed the blood of a rent boy, and then stepped blithely through a mirror and into Trevor's room. Things like this were not normal; they didn't usually happen, not to people like him. Men like him did not usually hide skinned bones and drained bodies under their beds and converse with fallen angels. People like him… and what, exactly, did he mean by that? Ex-stage show psychics with a penchant for little boys? An ageing queen so repressed, so held hostage by his own desires that he could barely even function like a proper human being? A rapist who was responsible for the tragic death of his own brother?
