there been anything worth stealing, it was already unofficially disposed of.
"They still haven't found a body," the ward superintendent wondered, "do you suppose . . .?"
"Callous as it sounds, I rather hope not," Dr Archer confided. "This patient was a paranoid schizophrenic—and dangerous."
"Seemed quiet enough on the ward."
"Thanks to a lot of ECT—and to depot phenothiazines. Without regular therapy, the delusional system would quickly regain control, and the patient would become frankly murderous."
There were a few toiletry items and some articles of clothing, a brassiere and pantyhose. "I guess send this over to Social Services. These shouldn't be allowed on a locked ward," the psychiatrist pointed to the nylons, "nor these smut magazines."
"They always find some way to smuggle the stuff in," the ward superintendent sighed, "and I've been working here at Coastal State since back before the War. What about these other books?"
Dr Archer considered the stack of dog-eared gothic romance novels. "Just return these to the Patients' Library. What's this one?"
Beneath the paperbacks lay a small hardcover volume, bound in yellow cloth, somewhat soiled from age.
"Out of the Patients' Library too, I suppose. People have donated all sorts of books over the years, and if the patients don't tear them up, they just stay on the shelves forever."
"The King in Yellow ," Dr Archer read from the spine, opening the book. On the flyleaf a name was penned in a graceful script: Constance Castaigne.
"Perhaps the name of a patient who left it here," the superintendent suggested. "Around the turn of the century this was a private sanatorium. Somehow, though, the name seems to ring a distant bell."
"Let's just be sure this isn't vintage porno."
"I can't be sure—maybe something the old-timers talked about when I first started here. I seem to remember there was some famous scandal involving one of the wealthy families in the city. A murderess, was it? And something about a suicide, or was it an escape? I can't recall . . ."
"Harmless nineteenth-century romantic nonsense," Dr Archer concluded. "Send it on back to the library."
The psychiatrist glanced at a last few lines before closing the book:
Cassilda. I tell you, I am lost! Utterly lost!
Camilla (terrified herself). You have seen the King . . .?
Cassilda. And he has taken from me the power to direct or to escape my dreams.
"They still haven't found a body," the ward superintendent wondered, "do you suppose . . .?"
"Callous as it sounds, I rather hope not," Dr Archer confided. "This patient was a paranoid schizophrenic—and dangerous."
"Seemed quiet enough on the ward."
"Thanks to a lot of ECT—and to depot phenothiazines. Without regular therapy, the delusional system would quickly regain control, and the patient would become frankly murderous."
There were a few toiletry items and some articles of clothing, a brassiere and pantyhose. "I guess send this over to Social Services. These shouldn't be allowed on a locked ward," the psychiatrist pointed to the nylons, "nor these smut magazines."
"They always find some way to smuggle the stuff in," the ward superintendent sighed, "and I've been working here at Coastal State since back before the War. What about these other books?"
Dr Archer considered the stack of dog-eared gothic romance novels. "Just return these to the Patients' Library. What's this one?"
Beneath the paperbacks lay a small hardcover volume, bound in yellow cloth, somewhat soiled from age.
"Out of the Patients' Library too, I suppose. People have donated all sorts of books over the years, and if the patients don't tear them up, they just stay on the shelves forever."
"The King in Yellow ," Dr Archer read from the spine, opening the book. On the flyleaf a name was penned in a graceful script: Constance Castaigne.
"Perhaps the name of a patient who left it here," the superintendent suggested. "Around the turn of the century this was a private sanatorium. Somehow, though, the name seems to ring a distant bell."
"Let's just be sure this isn't vintage porno."
"I can't be sure—maybe something the old-timers talked about when I first started here. I seem to remember there was some famous scandal involving one of the wealthy families in the city. A murderess, was it? And something about a suicide, or was it an escape? I can't recall . . ."
"Harmless nineteenth-century romantic nonsense," Dr Archer concluded. "Send it on back to the library."
The psychiatrist glanced at a last few lines before closing the book:
Cassilda. I tell you, I am lost! Utterly lost!
Camilla (terrified herself). You have seen the King . . .?
Cassilda. And he has taken from me the power to direct or to escape my dreams.
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