added something new.
It was an ancient ledger, which he’d come upon in one of the basement storerooms. Covered in faded red leather, it was like the ones used in years gone by, in which were recorded all the minutiae of the Asylum’s busy life. Taking the book to the shelf-lined, square room, he stroked its cover with all the sensual gentleness with which a man might stroke the skin of a beautiful woman. Hoping it might jog delicious memories even his brilliant mind might have mislaid, he finally opened its cover, only to feel a pang of bitter disappointment: despite its age, its yellowed leaves proved blank. Then disappointmentgave way to a tingling excitement. There would be a new use for the book, an important use.
An album!
An album containing accounts of the madness unleashed upon the town that had spurned him.
Now, hunched over the album in the dim moonlight, he opened its cover and read once more the familiar words of the two articles he had painstakingly clipped and carefully pasted to the brittle pages within.
The first described the suicide of Elizabeth Conger McGuire, despondent over the premature birth—and death—of her son.
Nowhere had the newspaper account mentioned the beautiful doll that arrived at the McGuires’ a few short days before Elizabeth’s death, returning at last to the house from which it had been carried so many years ago in the arms of a child who had entered this very building, never to leave it again.
The second article, lovingly pasted into the album, had appeared three days later, noting the burial of Elizabeth McGuire and listing all the people who had gone to the cemetery to mourn her.
People who, soon enough, would be mourned themselves.
Closing the album, the dark figure caressed its cover once again, shivering with anticipation as he imagined the stories it soon would contain.
Then, as the moon began to drop in the sky and dark shadows edged up the walls, he touched again the object he had decided to deliver next.
The beautiful heart-shaped locket, in which was contained a lock of hair …
Prologue
“L
orena.”
It wasn’t her real name, but it was a name she decided she liked. For today at least, it would be hers
.
Perhaps she would use it again tomorrow, but perhaps not
.
And no last name. Never a last name
.
Not even a made-up one
.
Too easy to make a mistake if you used a last name. You could accidentally use your real initials, and give yourself away. Not that Lorena would ever make such a mistake, since she hadn’t even risked using a first name that started with her real initial since she’d come here
.
They’d told her it was a hospital, but the moment she saw the stone walls, she knew they were lying. It was a prison—and dressing the guards as doctors and nurses hadn’t fooled Lorena for a minute. It hadn’t fooled the people who were watching her either. They were already there, waiting for her. She’d felt their eyes on her from the moment she came through the huge oak door and heard it slam shut behind her—imprisoning her
.
Over the months she’d been here, though, Lorena developed a few tricks of her own. She’d never spoken her real name out loud; trained herself even to keep from thinking it, since some of her enemies had learned to read her mind. She’d learned to make herself inconspicuous, doing nothing that would draw attention to herself, barely moving, never speaking
.
She spent most of her time simply sitting in the chair. It was an ugly chair, a horrible chair, covered with a hideous green material that felt sticky when she touched it, which she tried not to do: that sticky stuff might be some kind of poison with which her enemies were trying to kill her. She thought about finding another chair to sit in, but that would only let them know she’d caught on to what they were trying to do, and inspire them to try something else
.
Lorena sat perfectly still. The slightest movement, even the blink of an eye, could give her
It was an ancient ledger, which he’d come upon in one of the basement storerooms. Covered in faded red leather, it was like the ones used in years gone by, in which were recorded all the minutiae of the Asylum’s busy life. Taking the book to the shelf-lined, square room, he stroked its cover with all the sensual gentleness with which a man might stroke the skin of a beautiful woman. Hoping it might jog delicious memories even his brilliant mind might have mislaid, he finally opened its cover, only to feel a pang of bitter disappointment: despite its age, its yellowed leaves proved blank. Then disappointmentgave way to a tingling excitement. There would be a new use for the book, an important use.
An album!
An album containing accounts of the madness unleashed upon the town that had spurned him.
Now, hunched over the album in the dim moonlight, he opened its cover and read once more the familiar words of the two articles he had painstakingly clipped and carefully pasted to the brittle pages within.
The first described the suicide of Elizabeth Conger McGuire, despondent over the premature birth—and death—of her son.
Nowhere had the newspaper account mentioned the beautiful doll that arrived at the McGuires’ a few short days before Elizabeth’s death, returning at last to the house from which it had been carried so many years ago in the arms of a child who had entered this very building, never to leave it again.
The second article, lovingly pasted into the album, had appeared three days later, noting the burial of Elizabeth McGuire and listing all the people who had gone to the cemetery to mourn her.
People who, soon enough, would be mourned themselves.
Closing the album, the dark figure caressed its cover once again, shivering with anticipation as he imagined the stories it soon would contain.
Then, as the moon began to drop in the sky and dark shadows edged up the walls, he touched again the object he had decided to deliver next.
The beautiful heart-shaped locket, in which was contained a lock of hair …
Prologue
“L
orena.”
It wasn’t her real name, but it was a name she decided she liked. For today at least, it would be hers
.
Perhaps she would use it again tomorrow, but perhaps not
.
And no last name. Never a last name
.
Not even a made-up one
.
Too easy to make a mistake if you used a last name. You could accidentally use your real initials, and give yourself away. Not that Lorena would ever make such a mistake, since she hadn’t even risked using a first name that started with her real initial since she’d come here
.
They’d told her it was a hospital, but the moment she saw the stone walls, she knew they were lying. It was a prison—and dressing the guards as doctors and nurses hadn’t fooled Lorena for a minute. It hadn’t fooled the people who were watching her either. They were already there, waiting for her. She’d felt their eyes on her from the moment she came through the huge oak door and heard it slam shut behind her—imprisoning her
.
Over the months she’d been here, though, Lorena developed a few tricks of her own. She’d never spoken her real name out loud; trained herself even to keep from thinking it, since some of her enemies had learned to read her mind. She’d learned to make herself inconspicuous, doing nothing that would draw attention to herself, barely moving, never speaking
.
She spent most of her time simply sitting in the chair. It was an ugly chair, a horrible chair, covered with a hideous green material that felt sticky when she touched it, which she tried not to do: that sticky stuff might be some kind of poison with which her enemies were trying to kill her. She thought about finding another chair to sit in, but that would only let them know she’d caught on to what they were trying to do, and inspire them to try something else
.
Lorena sat perfectly still. The slightest movement, even the blink of an eye, could give her
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