ABSTRACT
To this day, at the stroke of midnight a nameless terror grips me. The moment the clock strikes the hour, fear starts wriggling soundlessly like a centipede in my mind. Why? Because midnight is not an hour fit for us humans. It is the hour when spirits and ghosts roam. Mine is a fear born of the conviction, deeply embedded in my mind since the age of four or five, that midnight is the witching hour. (Why these disembodied spirits choose to start their activities precisely at midnight is a mystery to me to this very day.)
