“On November 1st of 1933 I was hunting at the World’s Fair in Chicago, scanning the crowd for my next kill, when I heard a little girl cry out for her mother. She ran past me and her hand brushed mine, my icy touch causing her to stop and turn around. It was an exact copy of Rosalyn, I swear to you! She had Elizabeth's golden hair and my hazel eyes, and she studied me with a curious expression. The shock of it almost stopped my heart in my chest. Here before me was the image of my precious daughter, dead of Bubonic plague since 1563, and only when her mother rushed up from behind and scolded her for running off did her steady gaze leave me. She reluctantly took her mother's hand, giving me one last backward glance as they made their...

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