The Diary of a Madman

Richard Conrad threw the best parties. He never hired bands or orchestras for entertainment—hewasthe entertainment. He now sat in front of his baby grand piano and played lively tunes, singing along in a clear and beautiful tenor. The guests were full of smiles and just a little too drunk. The party was in full swing, sounds of amiable chatter and laughter wafting through the air like the strong scent of cigars and cocktail drinks that were passed around. Everything was great, everyone was happy.

So why was Richard's wife so disconcerted?

Maggie stood in a corner of the grand ballroom, frowning. She'd thought she knew her husband, thought he was a loving, decent, wonderful man. She wasn't so sure anymore. Richard was hiding something. How often had she caught him in strange telephone conversations and acting secretive? He sounded cryptic on the phone—as if concealing something. Then there were the times when she caught him rummaging in his wooden trunk. He always closed the lid and locked it up just moments before she entered his study.

And that was another thing: the trunk. His secrets were in there, locked away with a key—a key that she gained possession of tonight. She removed it from his trouser pocket as he prepared for the party. She had replaced it with a similar-looking key so that he wouldn't notice it was gone. He wouldn't worry about his trunk though, not tonight. He was too distracted for that. This was the chance to do some serious snooping. Time for the great reveal.

Slowly, she glided among the guests as they demanded an encore to whatever tunes Richard had just played. She ascended the stairs, leaving behind a blur of satin and sequins. Finally, she would be able to enter his domain uninterrupted. A mixture of eagerness and dread twisted her stomach in knots. But she had to be strong. She had come this far; she might as well take the plunge. It was now or never.

Richard's study was a bibliophile's dream. Cherry wood shelves lined the walls, reaching from the ceiling almost to the floor. It covered every corner of the square-shaped room. Categorized and alphabetized leather volumes filled the shelves. You'd find anything from William Blake to F. Scott Fitzgerald. There were classics as well as contemporaries, even silly romance novels and penny dreadfuls. Richard had no preference. He just loved to read. He taught literature at one of the most prestigious preparatory school for boys in Boston. The written word was in his bones.

The office area of the study was a little more subdued. A Persian carpet lay on the floor. Two lamps sat on a large oak desk, providing sufficient lighting for the entire room. On the desk sat a small pile of corrected homework and test papers. Opposite the papers stood a tall vase filled with sharpened pencils. She had given him that vase full of blue roses on their first wedding anniversary. She was glad he still used it, even if it was just for storing pencils. A leather-bound collection of short stories was also there, with Henry James'sThe Turn of the Screwbookmarked with a ruler. Maggie smiled. Whatever Richard had inside his trunk, she was almost certain it would involve a great deal of reading.

Slowly she made her way to the center of the room, breathing the scent of books. She would love nothing more than to grab a copy ofJane Eyre(her favorite book) and enjoy some leisure reading. Richard never allowed her to spend time alone in the study. The study was his place, his sanctuary, and she was not allowed anywhere near it, at least not without his consent. Richard was selfless with everythingexceptfor his study and the contents thereof.

Laughter filtered in from downstairs, and Maggie knew she had to hurry if she stood any chance of uncovering the contents in the trunk. She rushed to the corner of the room, opposite a Queen Anne chair, where the small wooden trunk sat by the wall. Hands shaking, she entered the key and turned. Then she took a deep breath. The time had come. What was Richard hiding from her? Did he have a mistress? Was he involved in some illegal activity? Had he lived a scandalous life before he married the daughter of a well-respected city judge? Out of all those possibilities, she knew the last one would be the worst one, for her father would never forgive Richard some indiscretion or other.

Her hand hovered over the trunk's lid. Her mind whirled with indecision. Maybe she should have left well enough alone. Richard was entitled to his quirks. He didn't have to share every single detail of his life to her. He was a good husband, most of the time, the times when his strange behavior—his other self—did not emerge and put a damper on their marital bliss...

Notebooks were neatly stacked in one corner of the trunk. The notebooks had dates on the covers. Sheets of paper with notes scribbled messily were scattered on the opposite side. Some rubber bands, a pair of scissors, an ink well and various pens were also found.

Maggie frowned. Was that what Richard was hiding? Was he a writer? Or was he aspiring to be a writer? Well, why not, thought Maggie. This was Richard, after all: the eternal academic, the quirky man who one moment was an urbane party entertainer and a brooding loner the next. She had often found him at his desk, pen poised over paper, frowning with concentration. It wouldn't surprise Maggie if he had in fact dabbled with the written word. But why on earth would he hide it from her? Was he afraid that he was no good? Didn't he want to expose his writing talent, if any, to his wife and to the rest of the world?

She grinned, delighted with this prospect. Richard was a writer. How wonderful! Then doubt set in. He wouldn't be pleased to know that she had read his work. She saw it now, laid out before her, his anger and disappointment with her. No, no, no. She wouldn't think about the consequences, not now.

Maggie kneeled in front of the trunk and opened a notebook that dated from October 1932 to September 1933. Inside the pages were filled with Richard's familiar scrawl. He'd written notes, lots of notes that made no sense. Names and locations were mentioned in a careless fashion, most of which seemed to have been added randomly. This was Richard's big secret, a series of unintelligible notes. Frustrated, Maggie continued to leaf through the notebook until she found a journal entry with today's date on top of the page. It was the last entry in the book.

This is what she read.

I am your worst nightmare. You don't know what you got yourself into when you married me. You sold your soul to the devil—and now the devil has come to collect.

I have looked forward to this night ever since the first time we met, two years ago. Do you remember that? You went to a cocktail party at my school, and our eyes met as if Fate had brought us together. Fate brought us together all right. It brought me to you, so that I may show you love, help you host the best parties, and help you be more than just the plain-faced, clean-cut daughter of an anal retentive judge.

We will host a party this evening. It will be wonderful, as all our parties are. Everyone will see what a perfect husband I am, what a charming fellow I am—and what an entertainer! The life of the party. A real people person. In a way, this personality—this character I have created for the world to see—will be my alibi. There is no way that someone like me would be capable of committing such a heinous crime. And so what if they do? I'll be long gone by the time your body is found.

But don't worry, darling, it won't occur during the party. I will wait until our guests shuffle out of our grand home, our wedding present from your father, and then I will make sweet love to you as my fingers dig slowly into your small neck, taking your breath away. I will watch your eyes as you die, and my love for you will die as you die. Then I will move on—on to the next victim. I will move to some other town, some other state, perhaps even a different country. A madman can never be too careful. I will find another teaching job; I have never had problems in that regard. Should I teach English literature again, or should I seek out other academic pursuits? Perhaps I'll teach music. As you know, I am an avid musician, a maestro with the piano. I'll keep my options open. Life is full of options, don't you think? At least it is for the living.

Once I find the perfect job, I shall endeavor to meet my future wife. She's out there somewhere. She, like you and the others, won't recognize me for the madman that I am. She won't suspect a thing because I am a handsome chap who is well read and speaks romantic words. She, like you, will be flattered by my words and my good looks. And I will love her, until her death do us part.

Blood drained from Maggie's face, perspiration breaking across her brow. Then numbness took over her.

What the hell was this?

The other books produced nothing more than random notes, so she pulled out a sheaf of about a dozen pages, all with different dates on them. Some of the entries dated as far back as 1919—fourteen years ago!

Taking a deep breath, she skimmed through all of them.

The best part about falling in love with one of my students is that I get to teach her not just about literature, but about life. I also get to take away that very life...

I have no idea how to go about killing you, darling. Should I do it while I make love to you, watch your eyes as they turn from desire to confusion and then to fear?

Wine is an aphrodisiac. It is also a potent killer. Or at least it will be tonight, for I will poison your drink and watch as you die once you've had your glassful of the liquid...

I shall relish the image of my wife as she lies lifeless upon the bed. Happy Anniversary, my love.

She dropped the books and papers and moved away from the trunk, pressing her hands against her stomach to fight a wave of nausea. She didn't want to read anymore. She didn't have to. She had found out more than she wanted to know about her husband.

Richard Conrad was a cold-hearted murderer. He had murdered loving, unsuspecting women in the past, and she was next. He wanted to watch her eyes as she died, and then he would disappear, just like he had done before.

Frantic, she ran out of the study, a place she once saw as cozy and beautiful was now sinister and forbidden. Her heart began to race with the knowledge that she had opened a Pandora's Box and would never be able to close it again. How could she unlearn such knowledge? She couldn't. She had to do something, had to reach a telephone to notify the police.

Panic-filled seconds passed as she crept down through the servants' stairs that led to the kitchen. Her long green satin gown limited her movements, causing her to stumble in her desperate attempt to seem as inconspicuous as possible. A flurry of activity went uninterrupted as Maggie made her way into the side door, the servants' quarters. She wasn't allowed to enter the staff's rooms—Richard said it was unbecoming to someone such as herself. She often suspected that he was mocking her. His contempt for her family was no secret. The Betancouths were quite proud, especially her father, the Honorable Judge Geoffrey Betancouth, and Richard had often felt inferior to them.

She crept down a short corridor that led into the ballroom. The ballroom, normally dimly lit by lamps, was now buzzing with light. Richard was no longer on the piano. The music now came from an enormous gramophone in the sitting area. Laughter and animated chatter floated through the house. Someone called out to Richard. A man, a voice she recognized as belonging to a good friend of Richard's, a fellow English professor, thundered from somewhere amongst the crowd.

"Dick, old boy, where is that handsome wife of yours?"

"Well, I don't know," Richard answered. "Come to think of it, I haven't seen her around in quite some time."

Panic seized her. She had to figure out a way to get past the servants and the guests without rousing attention. She had to call the police before Richard found her. Gasping, she turned away from the corridor and slowly made her way back to the kitchen.

Should she somehow let him know she was on to his schemes? Could she stand before him and their guests, point an accusing finger at him and let everyone know that he was a madman, a murderer? That would teach him! How could he enter her life, make her fall in love with him, give her an equal measure of happiness and misery, only to take it all away with her very life? No, she wouldn't be like the others. She was a different kettle of fish. She was made of stronger stuff. She smiled bitterly, ready to face her tormentor and tarnish the image of the doting husband, and then watch as the police handcuffed and took him away. The evidence was in this very house, in his precious trunk. He had nowhere to go but to the slammer. The tables were turned. Vengeance would be hers.

But as she felt the warm glow of revenge seeping into her limbs, reality set in. She couldn't think of revenge right now. First things first. She needed access to the phone while Richard was otherwise engaged with the guests. Survival came first, vengeance came second.

She paused by the kitchen exit, her hand on the doorknob, and listened. Various voices poured into her ears, Richard's voice among them. Beyond the door the great house stretched beautiful and lively. The guests were certainly enjoying themselves, and the servants, too, were merry. No one would notice her as she made a telephone call. It was just Mrs. Conrad, talking on the phone. Nothing special. Best to leave her alone. She scanned the kitchen, looking for a telephone. She found none.

Horror set in when she remembered that there was only one telephone in the house, and it was perched on a lamp table in the foyer, near the ballroom, where a swarm of guests stood about, laughing and gossiping. There was no way she could make a call in that noisy room. She wouldn't be able to hear the people on the other line, and she was certain they wouldn't be able to hear her. Another problem arose: what if one of the guests overheard her conversation and notified Richard? Would he make a clean escape, or would he cause some kind of mayhem? There was no predicting his reaction. He was mad, after all. Jeopardizing the lives of innocent people was not an option. She had to escape—she had no other choice.

Careful to be as quiet possible, Maggie eased the kitchen door open, then she removed her shoes and tiptoed her way into the backdoor. She didn't look back to see if someone had spotted her leaving the premises. Once she was free she ran out of the stifling house and into the night.

****

The woods were very dark. Straining her eyes, Maggie picked her way between the trees and bushes, fast and frantic, with many stumbles and scrapes, as the distance grew between her and the house. But where was she going? Who was she going to go to for help? The nearest house was miles away, in another district, and she had no means of getting there. Both cars were in the garage. She would have taken one of them had she known how to drive. She would find an open road, catch a ride, then go to the police. Yes, that would be the plan.

A strange sort of exhilaration took over Maggie as she thought of her escape. It was as if her life with Richard—the comfort and contentment of it all—had been closing in on her, stifling her with a false sense of security. Had she been as happy as she thought, or had she sensed all along that Richard wasn't what he appeared to be? There was always something a little off about him, but she had waved it off as mere eccentricity. Eccentricity was an essential part of his personality—it was what Maggie loved most about him. He was interesting and unique; dark and brooding in a romantic, nineteenth-century gothic novel sort of way, kind of like Mr. Rochester inJane Eyre. But more importantly, he was nothing like her family. Propriety didn't interest him, and he thought politics were a bore. Her father disliked Richard—all the more reason to marry him. In short, he was perfect.

That he wasn't perfect hit her like a ton of bricks. He had warned her once that he wasn't perfect, but she refused to listen. She ignored the warning signs until she could no longer do so. She had no idea what to expect from that trunk, but she definitely hadn't expected the disturbing confessions of a psychopath. Why wasn't his secret something banal, like adultery?

A soft breeze drifted through the trees, creating a gentle rustle among the leaves. Her vision was almost impaired due to the darkness around her, but her hearing was alert. Every small sound was intensified, though no actual sound came to her except for her own breathing. Fearfully, she cast a quick over-the-shoulder glance at the distant light that came from her house. A momentary panic took over her. Had Richard realized that she was missing? Were he and that professor friend of his searching for her now? Or—even worse—had he gone to his study and discovered his opened trunk with his incriminating papers and journals scattered all over the floor? Was he out in the woods, searching for her? A chill slid over her. She had to find an open road, but where?

She ran and ran, with no idea how far she'd gone, or where she had gone. Was she heading north or south? And did it matter? She noticed with some alarm how black and sinister the trees looked and how the branches crouched and crowded over each other. Shadows streamed back and forth as if from nowhere. She jumped in fright several times, only to realize that it was her own shadow. She marveled at the fact that she could see her own shadow in such darkness. How was that even possible? The moonlight, she thought. The faint light came from the moonlight.

Then she stopped, her ears picking up a faint sound, her heart beating out of her chest. What was that? Was that a... a voice? Had she heard feet moving upon the leaves on the ground? Was she being followed?

A minute went by, two minutes. Maggie was frozen into place, trying to still the terror that was twisting her insides. In a moment it would be over; it was just an animal or a rodent—maybe a squirrel or a raccoon, possibly a deer. No big deal.

The woods were quiet. The air shifted a little, sending cold shivers down Maggie's spine. One minute, two minutes, three. No sound. Nothing but the rustle of leaves on the trees. She was safe.

"Maggie? Maggie, darling, where are you?"

Her nerves jumped and tingled to the faint and distant sound of Richard's voice. He sounded far away, very far away, but to Maggie he might as well have whispered in her ear.

She could do nothing else but run like she'd never run before, her mind whirling with sheer apprehension. Adrenaline rushed to her system, enabling her to run faster. Weariness was slowly coursing through her, but her survival instincts were winning this battle. Richard would not find her. She would not become one of his victims. She would go to the police, and he would be taken away, out of her life forever. One thing was certain: she would live. She hadn't survived an overbearing father, a passive mother, and a lonely childhood lying down. She went against all odds and married the man she chose, not the one her father had carefully selected for her. She would survive this new bump in the road. She had to.

Leaves shifted with a passing breeze. Owls hooted, crickets shrilled.

Blindly, Maggie stumbled on some rocks and fell with a loudthump. Her breath came out in a gasp, pain enveloping her limbs as she dragged herself into some bushes. Halfway there, she spit out the blood that was oozing out of her cut lip. There were rocks and pebbles on the ground, as well as clumps of ivy and earth. She retched violently, tears of despair and helplessness running down her cheeks. She lay there for an indefinite amount of time, sobbing. Why am I running away, Maggie thought. It's stupid and useless. It would only be a matter of time before Richard found me. And even if he didn't find me, I was alone in the woods, right smack in the middle of nowhere. I'm as good as dead. Face it, fool, you're dead.