Page:Weird Tales volume 38 number 03 CAN.djvu/47

 in anything as unpleasant as murder, could I?

Five hours across the state and out at Belfast, a dozing little village considerably smaller than Northville. We climbed off the railroad coach and I stood on the platform watching the train puff away into the soft summer evening, leaving behind a plume of lightish brown smoke that dispersed slowly in the heavy air. Simpson had engaged a cab and we and my luggage distributed ourselves around the interior.

I remember that drive with crystal clearness. The country in this part of the state is flatter, but in spite of it, the land is beautiful. I looked around with greater interest than I had shown in anything for weeks and Simpson seemed pleased with my remarks about the beautiful trees and flowers.

YERLY HOME was a scant fifteen-minute ride from the depot, and as we wound up its dirt driveway, the thought came to me that after all life such as the one I had embarked on since that fateful night had its advantages. There were no responsibilities, no decisions to make, no personal crises, just a regular schedule, care, relaxation.

As though to second my unspoken thoughts, when we drew up at the whiteboard main building, we were met by two people, a man and woman, the woman dressed in ordinary clothes and the man having about him no hint of the medical except for the peeping end of a stethoscope in his coat pocket.

Simpson got out first with my luggage, and the woman, who was introduced to me as Miss Meadows, took me by the arm very kindly and led me up onto the porch and inside.

"You must be tired," she said in a soothing voice.

My room, I found, was at the extreme end of the house on the second floor and over the deep porch that spread three quarters of the way around the wooden building.

I remember that first night at Byerly Home, I'd had supper down in the main dining room, and as far as I could see, it was much like the dining room of any country inn or hotel. To be sure, a woman at one of the tables in the corner had started to cry. Convulsive sobs that were not pretty to hear, but Miss Meadows and another woman had gone over and helped her out of the room. Nobody else seemed to pay much attention.

I remember my dominant thought that night. Here I was, perfectly safe. The others there might be worried about how they could get out. I patted myself on the back for being at a place where nobody, nothing, could get in—nosy police officers, or anything else.

I had several sessions with Dr. Blake. I told him what had happened that night back at Northville, the night Big Mike stampeded after us, killed Ed, and tried to get me too, and I could see the same thinly veiled look of incredulity on Blake's face that I had seen on the physician's face back at Northville.

The patients didn't mingle very much, but I took long walks in the surrounding country with Miss Meadows and I had what they called an occupational therapy class where I did some kind of silly weaving.

I remember my third session with Blake. I was trying to tell him about Big Mike, persisting against questions which seemed to me to have nothing to do with that night. The physician was asking me