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I moved to push the call button—there was seldom any love
lost between the insane and their keepers.
As I awaited the arrival of a staff member, I chatted
casually with the lunatic, who informed me they were rather
slow to respond to summons. The man, Cecil Barnes, was
pleasant enough, and even possessed a delicate sort of sanity,
whereby a single thought out of place could send it crashing
to the ground. I decided to inform Cecil’s swaying mind with
tales of my exploits. My goal was to fill his dreams with
some measure of my own. Joined in the collective sleep of
over a thousand lunatics, I could only wonder at the shapes
they might make. Would they do as fine a job with them as
had the New Victorians? I wondered.
The orderly was not pleased to see me, much less the
stinging smiles of my sisters. I handled him a bit rougher
than was necessary, for Cecil’s sake. “Where is Joshua
Link?” I asked.
The man swallowed deeply, his eyes bulging. “Room
349.”
I rarely if ever actively deny myself the pleasure of my
art, but I’d never set myself against a deity from antiquity—
so, to pause for art’s sake would not be helpful. I had little
choice but to leave the orderly unconscious in the half-
lunatic’s bathroom. I also loosened Cecil’s straps. I always
rooted for art of some kind.
When I stepped into the hall, it became immediately
apparent all was not well with the darkness—it seemed too
rich, like the soil of a nightmare. It seemed as if the insanity
of the patients was somehow being pumped into the darkness
of the hallway, whipping it into a frenzy, shaping it. There
could only be one reason for the disturbance—Tom Hush
had discovered me.
What most failed to understand was that some lunatics are
like artists—they court dreams just as surely. Regrettably,
their refusal to accept defeat for their efforts leads them to
become entirely absorbed in their work, and like art, they
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