“It’s all delirium,” she whispered to herself, writhing in the darkness. “Nothing is there, nothing is there, nothing is there…” Yet every sound, every shift of the house made her start. This is it then, she thought, frantic. I’m finally going mad.

A floorboard squeaked and she recoiled under the hapless blankets.

Am I supposed to know that I’m going mad, though? Don’t people not realize their insanity?

She continued her fitful restlessness on the bed, trying in vain to find refuge from the terrifying night sounds.

No, if that’s the case, then I’m not mad at all. Not mad!