My sense of sight was subjected to many weird and uncanny effects.  Phantasmagoric visions made their visitations throughout the night, for a time with such regularity that I used to await their coming with a certain restrained curiosity.  I was not entirely unaware that something was ailing with my mind.  Yet these illusions of sight I took for the work of detectives, who sat up nights racking their brains in order to rack and utterly wreck my own with a cruel and unfair Third Degree.

Handwriting on the wall has ever struck terror to the hearts of even sane men.  I remember as one of my most unpleasant experiences that I began to see handwriting on the sheets of my bed staring me in the face, and not me alone, but also the spurious relatives who often stood or sat near me.  On each fresh sheet placed over me I would soon begin to see words, sentences, and signatures, all in my own handwriting.  Yet I could not decipher any of the words, and this fact dismayed me, for I firmly believed that those who stood about could read them all and found them to be incriminating evidence.

I imagined that these visionlike effects, with few exceptions, were produced by a magic lantern controlled by some of my myriad persecutors.  The lantern was rather a cinematographic contrivance.  Moving pictures, often brilliantly colored, were thrown on the ceiling of my room and sometimes on the sheets of my bed.  Human bodies, dismembered and gory, were one of the most common of these.  All this may have been due to the fact that, as a boy, I had fed my imagination on the sensational news of the day as presented in the public press.  Despite the heavy penalty which I now paid for thus loading my mind, I believe this unwise indulgence gave a breadth and variety to my peculiar psychological experience which it otherwise would have lacked.  For with an insane ingenuity I managed to connect myself with almost every crime of importance of which I had ever read.

Dismembered human bodies were not alone my bedfellows at this time.  I remember one vision of vivid beauty.  Swarms of butterflies and large and gorgeous moths appeared on the sheets.  I wished that the usually unkind operator would continue to show these pretty creatures.  Another pleasing vision appeared about twilight several days in succession.  I can trace it directly to impressions gained in early childhood.  The quaint pictures by Kate Greenaway—­little children in attractive dress, playing in old-fashioned gardens—­would float through space just outside my windows.  The pictures were always accompanied by the gleeful shouts of real children in the neighborhood, who, before being sent to bed by watchful parents, devoted the last hour of the day to play.  It doubtless was their shouts that stirred my memories of childhood and brought forth these pictures.

In my chamber of intermittent horrors and momentary delights, uncanny occurrences were frequent.  I believed there was some one who at fall of night secreted himself under my bed.  That in itself was not peculiar, as sane persons at one time or another are troubled by that same notion.  But my bed-fellow—­under the bed—­was a detective; and he spent most of his time during the night pressing pieces of ice against my injured heels, to precipitate, as I thought, my overdue confession.