Looking back, I have to admit I never saw it coming. Not that it was a complete surprise—I'd been stalked a thousand times before. All I'm saying is it caught me off guard. It always works out like that. Just when I think I've got things figured out, life moves in with a swift uppercut to the jaw and drops me to the mat before I even know what's hit me. Like two years ago when I left quiet little Coventry, Vermont, to start my freshman year of college at Geneseo State.

Geneseo, New York, seemed a thousand miles away from Coventry at first, but the homesickness wore off fast. It didn't take long to figure out that college was a haven. I mean, seriously. Two to three classes each day, beautiful girls everywhere I looked, and no one to answer to other than myself. What wasn't to like about that setup?

My biggest challenge was getting to class on time, and that horrible Monday morning in late October was no exception. After three hits to the snooze button, I sprinted through Erie Hall in yet another last-minute effort to make my eight o'clock class. Something didn't feel right, though.

"What the hell happened to you?" Vince Weegan asked as I flew past, leaving a vapor trail behind.

My stomach had been flip-flopping since I rolled out of bed, but I thought I could keep my inner turmoil hidden from everyone else. Apparently not. I never did have much of a poker face.

I glanced across a busy campus full of heavy-lidded students downing their morning coffee and marching off to class. I tried to convince myself I could will the feeling away and blend in with the crowd. My sweat-drenched forehead suggested otherwise. Then the dreaded voices kicked in—hushed whispers at first. In no time, a multitude of voices swirled around in my head, shouting over each other in a booming chorus of obnoxious noise. I picked up the pace, hoping to outrun them. It didn't work. They only got louder as I made my way up the path toward the College Union.

"Holden," a voice boomed, as if it were right behind me. "Danny Boy!"

I turned to see Rog Dubell flagging me down. What a relief—a voice with a real person attached. "Party at 30 Court Street tonight. You in?" he asked, walking backward in his trademark baggy pants and tilted Yankees cap.

My stomach went sour. "I'll think about it," I said, trying to downplay being seconds away from unloading last night's dinner on anyone or anything that crossed my path.

He rolled his eyes. "What's there to think about? There's gonna be, like, fifty hot girls there, minimum. You don't wanna miss this one."

"All right, all right. I'll let you know."

"It's a no-brainer, dude," he said, taking off toward Newton Hall. I continued on toward the academic buildings when something sharp jabbed the back of my head. A mild burning sensation followed, and within seconds, it was as if someone had twisted a giant corkscrew into the back of my skull and was cranking up the pressure one-quarter turn at a time. I made it to the stairwell leading up to the main quad, but I had to grip the bottom rail for support. My brain was about to split down the middle, and my once churning stomach growled like an angry demon. I dropped onto the bottom steps, holding my head in my hands. What was I going to do? I didn't want to have a total meltdown in front of half the campus, and I sure as hell didn't want to stagger into class in this condition either.

A blurry figure streaked past and disappeared behind Jones Hall. Oh God. My worst fear had come true. They were here. The shadow people had followed me all the way to New York. I'd spent eighteen years looking over my shoulder. Now they were on my trail again. I had to get to class—away from them.

I scurried off to Sturgess Hall on sheer willpower and made it to the classroom, only two minutes late. Everyone's eyes were on me as I walked casually toward the back of the room. I knew I looked like crap, my face pale, covered in sweat. But at least the voices were fading away. Eventually, they went silent. I was safe. For now.

That morning was just the beginning. The voices and the head-splitting pain continued for weeks, intensifying with each episode. The throbbing was so excruciating, I begged for death, shutting myself in my room with the shades down, skipping class, and praying for the voices to go away. I'd been down this road before, but it had never been like this. My tormentors had taken things to a whole new level.

Then there was the stalking. The shadow people were everywhere. Things became so bad I couldn't leave my room for more than a few minutes without sensing them, feeling them. They lurked behind corners and ducked behind trees as I turned to see them. Why wouldn't they just leave me alone and let me live a normal life for once? What was so fascinating about me anyway?

I kept wondering ... could others read my mind? Could they see the fear in my face? Did they know how completely insane I was becoming? I carried on as best I could, but I wondered how much longer it would be until I reached the breaking point.

The answer arrived one miserable, overcast morning in early November. My morning shower came courtesy of an ominous gray sky that decided to open up and unload while I was on the way to my least favorite class—introduction to psychology. Alison, my foster mom, had always ragged on me for never carrying an umbrella. But c'mon. What kind of guy carries an umbrella? I thought this over as I took my seat near the back of the classroom, drip-drying all over Professor Urban's floor. The old prof droned on and on about the significance of Abraham Maslow's "hierarchy of needs" in his typical dead-man-talking monotone. While the rest of the class clung to his every word, the only sound registering in my brain was that of my own fingertips galloping mindlessly across the desktop.

"Daniel," a soft voice called out from behind me. I turned around and found myself face-to-face with the hottest girl in the class. She stared back with this dumb-struck expression that screamed, What the hell are you looking at? Spinning back around, I slithered down in my seat.

"Daniel." There it was again. A horrible high-pitched shriek pierced my eardrums. Professor Urban's lips moved, but I couldn't hear a thing he said. I only heard garbled voices and that horrendous ringing sound bouncing back and forth inside my head like a rubber ball.

I saw something through the window. Someone ducked behind the sagging pine tree in front of Frasier Library. The throbbing returned. Sweat beaded on my forehead as the room spun faster ... faster ... everything blurring past as if I was looking out the window of a speeding train. My chest heaved like I'd just run a quarter mile at full sprint. People had to be staring at me. I could picture the stunned looks on their faces as they wondered what my next move would be. I wiped my sweaty brow and pushed back dripping hair in a pathetic attempt to be casual. My vision cleared.

Then an intense wave of nausea kicked in. "Ouugh," I blurted out.

Professor Urban's lips stopped moving. Now I had everyone's attention.

I tried to cover up my outburst with a few fake coughs. "Sorry," I apologized. "I'll be all right."

I was pretty damn far from all right, and anyone with a working set of eyeballs could see that. The muscles in my stomach tensed. The last thing I wanted was to lose my breakfast in the middle of psych class, but I didn't know how much longer I could hold back. I was on...