The Diary of a Madman

She should have remained at the party and waited things out. She knew that now, yet she couldn't fathom staying another second in that house, with a murderer under her roof.

She caught hold of a thorn branch and held on to it to steady herself to her feet, then lurched to her intended destination. Pressing her knees to her chest, she lay in between two bushes. Had she really heard Richard's voice, and did it matter? At that moment—amid the pain, exhaustion and despair—she didn't care. The sound of the breeze hitting the trees was pleasant, the bushes oddly comforting; the lonely and dark forest with its sinister surroundings now gave an illusion of safety as Maggie slowly drifted to sleep.

****

The woman in the mirror had never been beautiful, but she was tonight.

Her thin eyebrows were penciled into two flawless arches, and her chin-length hair was a mass of chestnut brown curls. The wedding dress was classically tailored, an off-the-shoulder white silk number with small pearl buttons down the back. The skirt reached her ankles and the neckline plunged down in a daring way. Maggie wondered if her father and his cronies had thought the dress too vulgar for the occasion. Not that she cared what her father thought. She was a married woman now.

The day had been magical. Her parents went out of their way to make sure it would exceed her expectations. Just because she was marrying the wrong man did not mean they wouldn't throw a lavish party. Her father had also supplied a generous dowry in addition to the house as a wedding present.

"You may have married beneath you, but that doesn't mean you can't still live like a queen," he father had whispered in her ear.

The wedding reception was wonderful. Roses and lilies adorned the large foyer of the Betancouth estate; the French doors hung wide open, a summer breeze drifted into the warm room. A jazz orchestra was perched on the far corner of the room, a saxophone providing the melody to the catchy tune. (This was the only time that Richard was not part of the musical entertainment.) Pealing laughter and animated chatter rang from all places; Judge Betancouth's voice was the loudest as he boasted about being one of the few lucky people whose investments survived the big market crash.

None of it mattered to Maggie. She was happy, the happiest she had ever been, as she and Richard moved among the guests, holding hands as if they were still courting. Their eyes met on various occasions, gentle smiles were exchanged. No words were needed. They were in love.

Yes, the party had been wonderful. Now she hoped that the wedding night would be just as memorable.

Richard appeared from behind and held her close, wrapping his arms around her waist. They stared at their reflection in the mirror in silence—his face smiling, hers frowning.

"A penny for your thoughts," he said.

"Why did you marry me?"

He gave her a quizzical look, then grinned unexpectedly. "What are you on about now, sweetheart?"

She leaned against him and smiled a small smile. "I mean, really, why did you? I am hideous compared to you. I'm not interesting or worldly. My father is a well-respected judge, but that is hardly reflected well on me. I'm not strikingly intelligent or witty or even pretty. All I have to offer is money and comfort, but you've told me many times that money is not important to you. You're too good for me, Richard. You know that, don't you?"

He kissed the back of her head. "Silly girl."

"No," she countered, turning to him, "I'm serious. I'm thirty years old, you know. I was resigned to a life of spinsterhood when you came along. You could have married a sassy twenty-year-old with a giddy disposition and a large bosom."

"That's nonsense and you know it."

"No, it isn't. At least not to me."

Richard looked pained. "Look, I've never told you this story before—in fact, I don't think I've ever told this to anyone—but I'm not as perfect as you make me out to be." He retreated a few steps, sighed, ran his hand through his dark hair, sighed again. "My family was poor, but we were happy. Then my father died—consumption—and everything changed. My mother never recovered from his death. She drank, slept, then drank some more. I think she forgot that she had a nine-year-old son who needed her. She forgot about everything. She only saw her own grief, not realizing that I, too, was suffering. It came as no surprise when I found her hanging from my tree house two months after my father died."

Blood drained from Maggie's face when she heard the last sentence. She reached out and held his hand, and he squeezed it back.

"Books became an escape for me," he said in a small voice. "The stories and their characters were my only solace during my time of grief. My mother had no idea how much pain she had caused me. She was selfish. She only cared about her own feelings, her own needs. Everything was right with the world as long as she had what she wanted. She didn't miss my father—she missed my father's love and devotion to her. He never meant anything to her, and I sure as hell didn't mean a damn thing to her."

A flash of anger flickered in Richard's eyes so intense yet so swift that Maggie wondered if she had imagined it. A heavy silence fell. She wanted to hold him, tell him she loved him and that he would never lose her, that her love for him was unconditional. It wouldn't have mattered if he didn't love her—she'd love him just the same. She opened her mouth to tell him those things but quickly closed it. Something stopped her, but she didn't know what.

Richard smiled, caressed her cheek and said, "So, you see, darling,Idon't deserveyou. Not if you think I'm perfect. You have no idea what you've gotten yourself into when you chose me to be your husband. I am your worst nightmare."

She froze. Had she imagined it, or did his voice have a ring of menace to it? She looked into his dark eyes, trying to read their expression. He observed her with an odd glint in his eyes.

He laughed and said, "I'm an absolute nightmare when it comes to my privacy. Certain rooms will be mine and mine alone. I am not to be disturbed when I'm in my study, and I certainly don't want to be disturbed when I am reading my books or correcting school papers." He kissed her forehead. "I'm afraid you will have to abide by those rules, my love. Otherwise—" He made a cutting hand motion over his neck. Then he smiled, and laughed, and told her he loved her very much, and pushed her onto the bed and became passionate.

Their wedding night was unforgettable. He doted on her the entire time. There was never an instance in which she felt unsatisfied. Yet something—a nagging sensation—coursed through her whenever she thought of his alarming remark.

I am your worst nightmare.

Warning flags waved in her head, and she tried hard to ignore them. It was a harmless comment. He meant nothing by it. He laughed afterwards, after all.

Little did she know at the time that it would be the first of numerous disturbing remarks involving subtle but unsettling threats. Still, she made excuses for him. He was an eccentric. He meant no harm. The man was an academic, a deep thinker, simply too solemn and intense for his own good...

****

She came awake the instant she heard voices.

"Where on earth could she have gone? There's no one around for miles." It was Richard.

A voice she'd never heard before responded. "Then the chances of finding her are quite good. It shouldn't take much longer."

"She's been missing all night!"

"And you said she didn't drive away?"

"Both cars are in the garage. All the guests' cars were there when they eventually left. She can't drive anyway."

"Do any of last night's guests know she's missing?"

"Of course not. One of the kitchen maids saw her running alone into the woods and came straight to me. Did you know I had to tell the guests that Maggie was feeling unwell and had gone to bed? It took forever to get them all to leave. It was a nightmare." He said nothing for a few seconds. "What on earth possessed her to run to the woods in the middle of the night? We were hosting a party, for crying out loud."

A momentary silence followed. Then, "Have there been any marital difficulties lately, Mr. Conrad?"

Richard laughed a derisive sort of laugh. "That's just the thing, sir, our marriage is perfect."

"Is there a chance that she might have found you in a... compromising position with another lady during this party?"

Richard snorted. "No, not at all. Although..."

A pause. "Yes?"

Richard sighed. "Nothing. I—I'm sure there's some sort of misunderstanding."

"Quite common in a marriage, Mr. Conrad. Always a misunderstanding or other. Are you all right? You've gone quite pale, sir. Here. Have a cigarette."

A lighter snapped open and flared. The strong smell of tobacco filtered through the bushes where Maggie remained, motionless. She craned her neck and cast a glance at the two men, careful not to groan with pain and discomfort as she moved. Her entire body ached, and her dress, face and hair were covered in dirt and mud from the morning dew. Her dress was now in shreds, and one of her shoes was missing a heel. Her mouth tasted of blood. She hadn't realized just how badly hurt she was until now.

The stranger took a drag on his cigarette and frowned. "You do realize that if her body is found—"

"Ifher body is found?" Richard cut in, voice harsh. "There is noifhere. We'll find her. And what do you mean by 'her body'? Maggie's alive, I know she is."

She could see the two men as plainly as water on glass, their faces lit by the morning sun. The stranger wore a brown coat with a matching hat, looked sort of serious and official, like a policeman, maybe an inspector—

Oh my God, Maggie thought. The police! Richard had called the police! The fool had made things easy for her by calling the police. She was safe! Now she could tell them what happened.

She lay there quietly, savoring the safety and the stillness the bushes provided as she waited for either Richard or the stranger to move away. She was still wary of Richard. What if the man wasn't a policeman? What if he was some sort of killer friend or something? Judging by their conversation, it seemed that they were not hunting her down to kill her, yet some instinct warned her not to move, not to call out to the officer, if that's what he was, but to just lie there and wait it out. She wondered why she felt this way. After all, didn't the fact that Richard had called out for help absolve him from his alleged crimes? Still, she did not move. She decided to trust her instincts for once.

"Well," the official-looking man spoke, "let's get going. We'll walk a little more, see if she's hiding in a cave or something. The sun's out, so the search will come easier now. My men have spread out. The town sheriff's here too. We'll meet near the house in about an hour. But don't worry, sir. Won't be long till we hear something, I assure you."

Feet shuffled through the leaves on the ground, moving away from the area. Maggie smiled a little, thinking with a surge of relief that, had the man not been there to distract him, Richard must surely have spotted her. The stranger had mentioned the sheriff. So, he was a policeman, after all. Now was the time to move. Policemen were out searching for her. She was bound to run into one of them. Ignoring her aching limbs, she staggered to her feet, swaying a little, her heart going wild in her chest.

Her movements were slow, too slow, as she limped her way through the forest. Daylight hadn't made the surroundings any less gloomy or ominous. If anything, it was more terrifying. Now she wouldn't be able to hide quite as well as she had done the night before. If only she could find a policeman...

She spotted a man about a hundred feet away. He was wearing plain clothes, but he had to be an officer. She ran, or at least tried to run, as fast as she could. She kicked off her shoes and ripped out the bottom half of her dress, affording her the freedom to move at a faster pace. She opened her mouth to call out to the officer when she was suddenly tackled from behind and dragged to some trees on her hands and knees. A hand pressed against the small of her back, pinning her to the ground. Another hand covered her mouth.

"Donotscream," a menacing voice said. Richard's voice.

She could scarcely move, couldn't even breathe. She grunted loudly, but it came out muffled, his hand still covering her mouth.

"Shut up!" he hissed. "Please, Margaret, just—I know why you did this. I know you opened the trunk and read my journals. Just let me explain."

Margaret. He only addressed her by her real name when he was either angry or flustered. Slowly, he released her and moved her gently to her feet, steadying her with his hands. He winced when he saw the state she was in, but he stood his ground, his jaw clenching in irritation.

"So," he said, taking half a step toward Maggie, "you broke into my trunk."

Maggie heaved out a sigh with a kind of controlled desperation. "Yes, and I know what you did to those women, and the things you were going to do to me!"

"Margaret—"

"You're mad! You seduce women, marry them, and then kill them! It's all there in your journals! I'm glad you called the police—you've saved me the trouble of doing so myself."

Anger flickered in Richard's eyes. "The police wouldn't even be here if it weren't for your father. Most people have to be missing for twenty-four hours to garner alarm, but not the daughter of an honorable judge."

Maggie stared in stunned silence. Richard spat out the words "honorable judge" as if they were something ugly. His contempt for her father was now more obvious than ever.

"Does Father know about this?"

"No, but the police know who you are."

He took another step closer, but she stopped him with one hand. "You come any closer and I will scream, I swear it."

Richard mumbled something under his breath and reached inside his jacket pocket, pulling out a small stack of magazines. He thrust the magazines into her hands and retreated a few steps. Maggie's hands shook as she gazed down at the thin journals with colorful and macabre covers—pulp magazines.

"Go to page fifty-eight in that first one there," he said, indicating the magazines.

She looked up at him with a quizzical air, then she leafed through the publication until she found page fifty-eight. It featured a short story with some small illustrations on the left page; the story was titled "The Diary of a Madman." The byline read, "Anonymous."

"It's a series of sorts," Richard said very quietly. "I submit a five-thousand word manuscript every two years or so. It is, after all, the amount of time it takes the nameless narrator to seduce and kill his women. I've never had any personal contact with the editors or publishers. I don't know them and they don't know me. But they like my stories. They're quite popular among readers who get a kick out of that sort of thing—high society murders, serial killers, damsels in distress, and so on. The money is terrible, but I don't do it for the money. I enjoy writing those stories."

Maggie moved toward him slowly, stiffly, as if she were sleepwalking. Neither of them spoke as she skimmed through the story. It was written in diary format, the madman regaling the reader with his psychotic thoughts and murderous yearnings. The story was quite well written, too good for this sort of publication. And unlike the cloak and dagger plots typically found in pulp fiction, this story was accompanied with very few illustrations. The narrative carried the story.

Maggie finally spoke. "But—why did you hide this from me? Why didn't you just tell me you were a writer?"

Richard laughed. "And kill all delusions you had about me? The distinguished and fascinating and mysterious academic is in fact nothing but a mediocre writer of crime stories. Your father would have loved that."

Voices filtered in from somewhere in the woods. Birds chirped, crows cawed. Maggie took no notice. She was oblivious to anything but Richard. She was suddenly full of questions.

"Have you been married before?"

"No."

"But the women in your stories—"

"Are all fictional, Maggie."

Pause. And then, "But the entry I read in your journal, the one about killing me after the party—"

"You inspired me to write that story."

Indignation flared in her eyes. "You wrote about killing me!"

"It's just a story, Maggie. It's fiction."

"It's not very flattering."

"It's meant to be a compliment, you idiot," he half-shouted, so as not to be heard by the police who hovered nearby. "You're always telling me how unattractive and uninteresting you are compared to me, but has it occurred to you that your insecurities and complexities fascinate me, and that it inspired me to base my new story on you?"

She let this sink in for a moment, then shook her head as if to erase a bad memory.

"Besides," he added in haste, "you read the first draft. I was going to change most of it."

"You were so secretive, so protective of your privacy, so... peculiar at times. And those telephone calls! You hung up the phone whenever I walked into the foyer."

"I was talking with a work colleague. He's the only one who knows I'm a writer and tried to talk me into writing a novel under my real name. He said he had contacts with a famous publisher. I turned him down."

"Why?"

"The world is full of dime novels written by mediocre writers; they don't need new ones."

"But you're not a mediocre writer."

He gave her a half smile. "Why, that is the nicest thing you've said all morning."

Maggie took a deep breath and let it out slowly, her heart beating in slow, painful strokes. "I'm an idiot," she said gravely. "I should have known. I mean—I did know, but when I read those entries reason left me and I thought I was trusting my instincts. I am so terribly sorry, Richard."

A solemn silence followed. Richard was standing very still now. The morning mist swirled around them, and a sudden chill was seeping through Maggie's bones, making her teeth chatter. Was it her imagination, or did the mist build distance between them? Richard seemed far away all of a sudden—so far away that she couldn't reach him. It suddenly occurred to her that this was how she always saw Richard: as someone unreachable. But she finally began to see him as he truly was—a man with faults as well as virtues, a man with insecurities of his own. He was no longer the object of her romantic imagination, the handsome sophisticate, the dark and brooding hero of some nineteenth-century gothic novel.

She said, "Do you really think I would have rejected you if I'd known about your stories?"

He answered in a queer voice, "Maybe you wouldn't have rejected me, but our lives wouldn't have been as perfect."

"Do you remember when you told me you weren't perfect, that you were my worst nightmare?"

He grimaced. "I was hoping you wouldn't remember that speech."

She let out a hoarse laugh. "Well, now I tell you the same thing. I am not perfect, and so I don't expect you to be either. I think it's wonderful that you write." A pause, then, "I—I wish we could move on from this and start over."

He didn't move, just stared at Maggie with unreadable eyes.

She was trembling now, both from the cold air and from the apprehension that seized her. Her body felt numb, as if her long night of running had somehow paralyzed her limbs. Richard was looking at her as if he wished her gone.

"I—I mean," she stammered, "if you want to. I understand if you don't, and I promise you that—"

"Maggie?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

He suddenly pulled her to him, wrapping his coat around her shoulders.

"Mrs. Conrad? Is that you?"