" Behind the stone walls of Briarcliff, time had no meaning. The days themselves seemed to exist in a kind of perpetual twilight. Life there was just a series of numbing cruelties and humiliations, all masquerading as something else.
I was in the third week of my confinement, and a storm was coming. The nor’easter of ‘64 that brought so much devastation with it, and for me, something else, something far more savage even than nature. Oliver Thredson was, to all appearances, a kindly figure, fatherly in his manner. This face he showed the world, this face of sanity and benevolence, that was his real mask. Underneath lurked the real Oliver Thredson, an unspeakable monster. “