RMatheson - Mad House (1953) Read Online Free Page B

with Ramsay?”
    Chris shrugged. Morton looked over at the large clock on the face of the Mental Sciences Building.
    “Say, look,” he said. “Why are we standing here? Your class isn’t for a half hour yet, is it?”
    Chris didn’t answer. He’s going to invite me for coffee, he thought. He’s going to regale me with more of his inane theories. He’s going to use me as whipping boy for his mental merry-go-round.
    “Let’s get some coffee,” Morton said, taking Chris’s arm. They walked along in silence for a few steps.
    “How’s Sally?” Morton asked then.
    “She’s fine,” he answered in an even voice.
    “Good. Oh, incidentally. I’ll probably drop by tomorrow or the next day for that book I left there last Thursday night.”
    “All right.”
    “What were you saying about Ramsay now?”
    “I wasn’t.”
    Morton skipped that. “Been thinking anymore about what I told you?” he asked.
    “If you’re referring to your fairy tale about my house—no. I haven’t been giving it any more thought than it deserves—which is none.”
    They turned the corner of the building and walked toward Ninth Street.
    “Chris, that’s an indefensible attitude,” Morton said. “You have no right to doubt when you don’t know.”
    Chris felt like pulling his arm away, turning and leaving Morton standing there. He was sick of words and words and words. He wanted to be alone. He almost felt as if he could put a pistol to his head now, get it over with. Yes, I could—he thought. If someone handed it to me now it would be done in a moment.
    They went up the stone steps to the sidewalk and crossed over to the Campus Café. Morton opened the door and ushered Chris in. Chris went in back and slid into a wooden booth.
    Morton brought two coffees and sat across from him.
    “Now listen,” he said, stirring in sugar, “I’m your best friend. At least I regard myself as such. And I’m damned if I’ll sit by like a mute and watch you kill yourself.”
    Chris felt his heart jump. He swallowed. He got rid of the thoughts as though they were visible to Morton.
    “Forget it,” he said. “I don’t care what proofs you have. I don’t believe any of it.”
    “What’ll it take to convince you, damn it?” Morton said. “Do you have to lose your life first?”
    “Look,” Chris said pettishly. “I don’t believe it. That’s
it.
Forget it now, let it go.”
    “Listen, Chris, I can show you…”
    “You can show me nothing!” Chris cut in.
    Morton was patient. “It’s a recognized phenomenon,” he said.
    Chris looked at him in disgust and shook his head.
    “What dreams you white-frocked kiddies have in the sanctified cloister of your laboratories. You can make yourself believe anything after a while. As long as you can make up a measurement for it.”
    “Will you listen to me, Chris? How many times have you complained to me about splinters, about closet doors flying open, about rugs slipping? How many times?”
    “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t start
that
again. I’ll get up and walk out of here. I’m in no mood for your lectures. Save them for those poor idiots who pay tuition to hear them.”
    Morton looked at him with a shake of his head.
    “I wish I could get to you,” he said.
    “Forget it.”
    “Forget it?” Morton squirmed. “Can’t you see that you’re in danger because of your temper?”
    “I’m telling you, John…”
    “Where do you think that temper of yours goes? Do you think it disappears? No. It doesn’t. It goes into your rooms and into your furniture and into the air. It goes into Sally. It makes everything sick; including you. It crowds you out. It welds a link between animate and inanimate.
Psychobolie.
Oh, don’t look so petulant; like a child who can’t stand to hear the word
spinach.
Sit down, for God’s sake. You’re an adult; listen like one.”
    Chris lit a cigarette. He let Morton’s voice drift into a non-intelligent hum. He glanced at the wall clock. Quarter to