In various positions were the madmen populating the ward. Three of them took counsel round an incomplete puzzle. Their conversations were inane and political, talk of revolution, of blood, of great things. A neurotic sort, something little more than a bunch of bones huddling in the corner of the room, clutched her soft teddy bear. She’d at times steal a glance through her long bangs to see if anyone was looking at her. Mike was unsure if she wanted someone to see her or if she was terrified someone did; it was probably a little of both. He hoped his friend would be brought in soon.
Something of a library, a shelf full of children’s books, provided study to another lean figure. He was tall, balding, and wearing thin spectacles bound together in a golden rim which glinted now and then, casting shimmering splotches of light around the room. He didn’t seem to read the books, or read anything more than their covers, but was constantly arranging and rearranging them. The tall man looked at Mike, nodded; then he returned to his Sisyphean task.
An old man, fat and tired, slouched in a sterile armchair—there was nothing about it that an armchair should have, no comfort or dignity. The man sat in it all hunched up as if the chair were molding him into that contorted shape. The old man gazed forward, motionless, peering deeply into the far wall. To stand up and turn the chair a few inches was all he wanted to cast his long sight out through a garden window—the old man never moved the chair.
“The dreamers’ ward,” his friend’s voice intoned.
Turning, he saw his friend in the lifeless clothes all the patients wore, the grey, scrub-like shirt and pants issued to the madmen. His friend was smiling, his voice hearty and warm. Mike glanced into the room again: all the death that was there, the lifeless life these people lived, how could his friend be here?
Taking his arm, Mike’s friend led him into the room, and coming to the three men round the puzzle, he spoke, “Generals, might we use this table?”
Like frightened children, the three men scampered off and joined the tall man at the bookshelf. They each took up a book, hiding their faces behind the pictorial pages. Smiling, his friend pulled out a chair, gesturing with a dramatic wave of his arm for him to take a seat. They sat across the table from each other, the soup of disconnected jigsaw pieces between them. The girl glanced at them, and pulled her teddy bear into her chest.
“I’m done,” he finally said, his smile fading. “The dreams won’t go away, and I’m talking in my sleep. They know I’m dreaming; they want my dreams; and when I give them up. . .” He waved his hand at the sorry creatures about them, “I’m done for.” Glancing at the door, he lowered his voice, leaning over the table. Mike leaned in too, “The whisperer is awaking. The more of us there are, we’re all around the world, and we’re waking up; he’s waking up.”
Sitting back he laughed, his smiled returned, “Anyway, if you could talk the warden into letting me out into the garden, I know it’s a small little garden, I’d love to go for a walk, a long walk. Maybe around five o’ clock?” Mike and his friend synchronized their watches.
Mike stood up to go, and turning, found the girl before him, her long black bangs hiding her face. He heard her faint voice rasp a strange series of syllables which put a weakness, like a led weight, deep into his stomach. And once she was finished, she was silent. The girl then slowly walked back into her corner, clutching the teddy bear tightly. Mike turned to his friend, and saw the pale face of horror, the widening eyes of dread. His lips quivered, and the madman repeated the phrase, his knuckles turning white as they clutched the back of the chair, “Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn.”
Tale Told 
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