The room was simple, the bedspread was yellow and white with dainty flowers. The curtains were a sunny light yellow to match the bed. The young girl who belonged in the room had covered her bed nearly every inch with stuffed animals of all kinds. On the wall were pictures and posters, some handmade and crocheted. But the room was not nearly so cheery at night. This was the time the girl hated the most.

She was snug in her bed, covers pulled up to her chin. On the wall was a particular frame her Grandmother had made for her. It bore the phrase: "Now I lay me down to sleep; I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake; I pray the Lord my soul to take."

Like every night before, the little girl quietly recited this prayer, not kneeling by her bedside, but tucked tightly under her covers. Although she had barely started school, she knew this prayer by heart.

Her parents were not necessarily religious- yet she had been baptized Catholic as a baby. She had attended Catechism classes, and whenever she spent a Sunday with her grandparents she attended Sunday Mass. But this prayer had more meaning to this little girl than just a simple regular nighttime routine with God.

She recited it to herself, to God, to whomever may be listening. Twice, maybe three times she repeated it every night. Then the shadow in the door changed. She laid completely still, not breathing. The light that always shone through from the hallway darkened, more and more with every slowly passing second. The girl stayed still, eyes blurred from trying not to blink. She prayed that the figure in the doorway would think that if she just stayed still long enough, she would look like one of the dozens of stuffed animals on her bed. The teddy bears and unicorns would keep her safe tonight.

But the door opened wider.

"Now I lay me down to sleep; I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake; I pray the Lord my soul to take."

So many times that prayer did no good. Eventually she simply stopped praying.