Madness, by Bobby Warner

I recall my grandfather well. He was a tall, thin man who took great pride in his appearance but who was insane mad. He would sit stiffly in his chair when I visited, and glare at me. His eyes were yellowish, like a cat's, and it seemed as though he could look straight through me.


When he died I went to his funeral to see him one last time. He lay stiffly in his casket, eyes closed; but I could imagine his eyes behind closed lids, staring up at me--and blazing with madness which not even death could extinguish.