That glorious taste, the tranquilizing warmth and rapture
that it produced. And then, nothing. Sleep. Dreams.
There was, likewise, a bizarre quality to the dreams
and something oddly ethereal. I remember bells or chimes
clearly sounding in the background, distinctly audible
between the sounds of low moans and fierce howls in a
thick fog. The wind blew in my dreams. Was it the same
wind that rushed through the window of my prison?
I struggled against the bindings but found that I
was somewhat weakened in strength as well as in spirit.
Yet, despite this lack of energy, my head was clear and
unafflicted, albeit fuzzy on the details of my immediate
conscious past. Why was I a prisoner? What had laid me so
low? Was it the whiskey? Dr. Wertenberg, I recalled, had
not tasted it in my presence. Or was it the dreams? Or a
combination of the two? I tried to recall the fantastic
visions that had filled my sleep.
It was vital that I focus my mind. I shut my eyes
and tried to recall what I could of the previous evening.
They hadn't been closed for more than a minute when I
became conscious of a stillness in the room. The breeze
that had been blowing so strenuously through the open
window ceased. The tattered curtains no longer fluttered.
When I opened my eyes, Dr. Wertenberg was standing
before me.
It being night, the light was exceedingly dim. The
only illumination in the room came from the stub of a
candle mounted in a brass candle holder that Wertenberg
held at chest level. He wore a long, plum colored dressing
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