Eric McCormack - Cloud

On the other hand, there is yet another, simpler reason for my fear. That Griffin has no baby, but is searching for me because she craves me as her lover, one more time. And that afterwards, she will tear me to pieces.

AT THIS POINT, the sensible part of my mind again tries to assert itself.

“Harry Steen,” it says. “All of this is just speculation based on nothing more than an overripe imagination and a bad dream. You torment yourself for nothing.”

If only that were so.

For there is something more, something tangible. The fact is, when I eventually got up this morning, I saw that the curator’s letter wasn’t on the bedside table. Instead, the pages were lying on the floor beside the bed. Now it’s possible that I myself scattered them with all my paranoid exertions, but I can’t assume that.

So, though I fully intended to take the chopping axe back out to the garage today, I’ve decided now to leave it beside my bed, at least for the next few nights — just in case a situation arises. Wouldn’t any rational person do the same thing? Certainly, in view of what happened to him, I think Macbane would agree with my decision.

Not that I’ll be asking anyone for advice. Some things, I always feel, you’re better off keeping to yourself.

End