I was different from my kind.

I was abnormal with something they could not understand, and the telling of which would cause only misunderstanding.

When the stories of ghosts and goblins went around, I kept quiet.

I smiled grimly to myself.

I thought of my nights of fear, and knew that mine were the real things--real as life itself, not attenuated vapors and surmised shadows.
For me no terrors resided in the thought of bugaboos and wicked ogres.
The fall through leafy branches and the dizzy heights; the snakes that struck at me as I dodged and leaped away in chattering flight; the wild dogs that hunted me across the open spaces to the timber--these were terrors concrete and actual, happenings and not imaginings, things of the living flesh and of sweat and blood.