I was eleven, and the house was so quiet it felt like it had stopped breathing. Downstairs, my family was watching some dumb show - Dad in his easy chair, Skipper curled on his lap, my mother probably knitting, my brother and sister laughing at canned jokes from the set. I had my own show, upstairs, in the dim hum of my bedroom, the black and white TV I bought at a rummage sale for five bucks. The picture was small, but it worked if you hit the side just right. That night, The Wolf Man came on. Lon Chaney Jr. - big, sad eyes, that fog-soaked…