I don’t expect you to believe what I am going to tell you, but hopefully you will understand. I’m not sure I believe or understand it myself. I’m not mad, and this is not a dream—it is stranger and more horrible than any dream I have ever had. But maybe a clever reader will see my story, and find an answer to the madness. That is all I can hope for.
A dark cloud descended upon the lake late that afternoon. Quentin and the others had breakfasted on the terrace, enjoying the spring sunshine, and gone for a walk along the winding paths that spotted the hillsides, and by the time they got back, the cloud was hanging there, spitting rain threateningly.