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Sydney heard the floorboards groan, felt the room change. He lay his novel aside, rose from his chair, called softly, "Jarod? Jarod, is that you?"
 
It wasn't.
 
The man standing in Sydney's foyer was markedly emaciated and several inches taller than the Pretender. His copper hair had been shaved close, his blue eyes were vacant, emotionless.
 
Perhaps more disconcerting, a rusted crowbar dangled haplessly from his left hand much like an atrophied appendage. 
 
"Can I help you," said Sydney politely.
 
"You could have," the stranger answered. "You only made it worse.  You made it worse," he repeated, advancing.
 
"Let me help you now," offered Sydney diplomatically, his voice revealing neither panic nor disdain for the intruder. He gestured kindly, said, "Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea?"
 
"Tea," the man repeated, his brows knitted in perplexity.
 
"Yes, tea," answered Sydney softly, "and perhaps some scones."
 
He's stalling, you moron. He's going to call for help. You must really love electroshock treatment. Treatments ha-ha. Some treatment. Bzzz.

 
"No," said the stranger.
 
"Then please, let's sit," Sydney said.
 
Bzzz.
Bzzz.

 
"No, no. Stop."
 
Sydney acquiesced, studied the man.
 
"I said stop," shouted the stranger. "They don't do that anymore. They can't do it now. Stop making that dreadful sound. Please," he cried, "stop making that sound."
 
"I can stop them," Sydney vowed sharply, cutting for a brief moment through the tangle of madness. "If you will allow me, I will silence the voices. We can restore the peace."
 
"Peace. Yes. Please, please," whispered the stranger. "Yes- o- oh, no," came the mournful howl, "Oh, god, no. Look out!"
 
Sydney did, indeed, look; in fact, his gaze never strayed from the stranger.
 
He observed as the man launched himself forward with appalling alacrity, and comprehended the futility of dissuading or countering the fellow.

The crowbar sliced the air and Sydney reacted instinctively to defend himself from the impending blow, lifting both hands to his face. He grunted when his fingers were smashed brutally against his nose and again when his temple was struck.
 
The darkness swallowed Sydney at once; he was unconscious before his body plunged to the Persian rug.










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