You assume the archetype of a young Native American girl named Juanita Eagle. You pad down the carpeted stairs and around the corner to the closet where your total innocence allows you to transcend your terror. A cloud of darkness swirls and beckons in the closet. It is alive and it is real, you are not dreaming. The swirling tendrils lap your gentle fingers. Your hand enters its greasy substance. You are communicating by faith with a dark angel.