My father's life was haunted by his past adventures. Haunted by the things he had saved us from.
 As a child I used to ask why he could never sleep peacefully. What would he dream about? What caused him to scream out in his sleep? What type of detective work haunts a man so badly?
 He would just reply. "Edward, there is no need to worry.  I have the nightmares so you don't have to.. I will always protect you from the bad guys. Son, I promise."
And that would ease my worries because my pops always kept his promises.
  He always told me a lot of stories. Wonderful locations. Beautiful women. Evil villains. Monstrous creatures. He'd been shot at and stabbed. He'd lost great and valued friends. He told me he had been killed a few times. I asked how he was still with us and he'd say "the secret is in the pyramids".
 And the true fight gave him the belief to continue.
 But of all the adventures, what gave him the worst nightmares?
 "Egypt. 1925. The Goddamned Brits."
 And he would quickly finish his slug of bourbon. I didn't know whether it was the alcohol or the memories that would cause him to shudder.
  We all moved from city to city to keep ahead of  the authorities, journalists and fruit-cakes. They all wanted a story or information from a case my father had worked on.
After my mom took ill and died, my father signed himself into Arkham Asylum. I think everyone left him alone then, convinced his cases were stuff of madness. The ravings of a mad man. Nobody wanted to be connected to him or his cases after he declared himself insane. Everyone left him alone.