Her first memory was a dream. Her first memory was a nightmare.

She was small, tiny, barely worth notice in her cracked wooded crib. But it was her that the shadowy intruder walked straight to. Lighting struck nearby, possibly inside the room, and for a split second she clearly saw the stranger's face. High cheek bones and a shock of black hair, it was his eyes that first taught her the true meaning of fear – or should have.

But instead, as the baby girl stared bravely into the depthless black void, she began to notice the faintest glimpse of stars in his eyes. He blinked, and they were gone, but she had seen, and she would always remember.

His thin lips twisted into a grim smile as he lifted her into the air with one hand, raising her above the protective edge of the crib and allowing her to see the horror show that surrounded her. Limp forms littered the ground like discarded clothes, dark stains spattered on the walls and the floor. The man lifted her held her over the bodies, letting her look into each and every unseeing eye.

"You should not be possible." His voice was soft and dark, like the first touch of shadow at dusk. The wind howled from some unseen corner of the room and rustled the man's dark robes, grabbing at the sparse wisps of hair on her head. He nodded as if hearing something far, far away, and lifted her higher into the air, walking over to the dark shutters and throwing the open one-handed. He held her over the empty space and silently – almost gently – he let her fall.

"You should never have been born."

The child opened her eyes and looked at the nursery ceiling, a hideous monstrosity painted orange and pink and lime. She remembered the dream and did not cry, and instead of crying from the shadows and the night she laughed. Instead of sleeping, she watched. And she waited and she listened. But she didn't notice the portion of living shadow that stood in the corner of the room, watching and waiting and listening to her.

And as the child finally drifted back into the restless world of sleep it stepped closer and gave her another dream that was not quite so awful. But the little girl wouldn't remember this, because she was – almost – human, and we humans have a habit of remembering only the darkest of things.

***

When the nursemaid came in the morning the child was already awake, happily playing in her mahogany crib. The fat old lady sniffed in distain, "Why can't you sleep in like a proper infant?" She leaned over the crib to check on the baby, and nearly dropped her load of laundry in horror. The child's limbs had detached, her tiny head grinning up from the tangle of body parts displaying a neat cross-section of flesh, bone, and baby fat. "Prongs!" The maid screeched, bolting for the door.

It was then that she saw the Torivor.

It stood nearly seven feet high, a featureless figure the size and shape of a very tall man. It had a head and four appendages, but its fingers lacked nails and its feet lacked toes, making it seem more like the basic idea of a man – or his shadow given form.

The woman froze, her eyes rolling back into her head, and fainted, landing with a thump muffled by layers of fat. The torivor simply stood, watching – though it had no eyes – and listening – though it lacked visible ears – and waiting. Its shoulders seemed to minutely sag, but they straightened.

And so the Torivor went back to waiting. . .

And watching.

And waiting.