Once upon a time, fame was the boogeyman… a personality of substance. Children shriveled underneath their covers while elders spun wicked tales. Sweet dreams turned nightmarish, and all were deeply satisfied.

The boogeyman enjoyed his celebrity. He shared it even, calling upon the wide toothed smiles of Frankenstein, Nosferatu, and the incubi. Their fame was international—what child in what nation did not have their brotherhood of monsters?

Such demons demanded respect and respect was the foundation of their fame. A succubus did not need a publicist—their reputation was earned by persistent midnight presence. Sleep was their stage, fairy tales and mythology their limelight.

Fiends and devils, the antithesis of angels—time to clutch and grab at a sister or a father, time to hide in the closet. Were you good? Were you bad? Black and white, day and night, it was quite simple really. You earned a visit or you were denied a visit.

Children know the true fame. They understand that the sinister and the nefarious rule when the lights are turned low. While their parents may worship at the portals of fleeting popularity (Dancing with the Stars, American Idol), children crook their fingers and circle around campfires, whispering ghost stories.

Fame to the boogeyman and his brethren is burnished blood. It warms and energizes, pooling delightfully dark. Their reign of stardom encompasses centuries of bed times—from the Minotaur to Jack the Ripper—triumphantly enduring both the fickle and the vain.