Please Read:
Ole Joe
There remains to me my sanity, which is more than what’s left to Ole Joe. Take some pity on him when he comes by. He wasn’t always mad. Poor Joe. He went mad, they say. I was with him. Anyone would go mad—What we saw, me and Joe—the world went mad first that such terrors exist. Anyone would go mad, I tell you, to see what we saw. It was hideous, and they all were bowing and praying to it, that thing. She screamed, that miserable woman, as it fell on her, its leathery wings encasing her, muffling her cries.
Tale Told 