They met in a little antique shop. She’d just picked up and started examining a brass stamp box when he came up behind her and said, “Best to be careful; things aren’t always what they seem.” She turned slowly, to see who the masculine voice with the slow, sultry drawl belonged to; her heart tripping in her chest as her eyes met his and held. He smiled and reached for the box, “They sold three just like it last week,” took it from her and set it back on the table.

“If you want to hunt for some real treasures there’s a few not to be missed shoppes out along Route 9; plus the drive is a scenic knockout this time of year.” As she was considering him and his bit of advice, he took her by the hand and led her outside; she followed without a word, or a moment’s hesitation.

They spent three days and two nights meandering through the countryside, forests and mountain villages of Vermont, with no cares, no constraints of time and no plan; just digging the countryside and each other. He was unlike anyone she’d ever met. His ideals and philosophies sparked her thoughts and imagination like nothing or no one had done before; obviously having mingled within the upper echelon of intelligentsia, yet down to earth, genuine and real; a combination not often found.

His energy was infectious; his touch therapeutic and healing; and his uncanny knowledge of past events and talk of a certain future made her wonder if he weren’t perhaps a wandering mystic Sage from one of the villages they’d passed along the way, as he was well familiar with the area and many secret places contained therein. Just as she was gathering the courage to ask, his demeanor changed, as if someone had flipped a switch and he told her it was time to return.

He was suddenly very silent, but for giving directions that led back to Route 9, until they passed the sign that read, “Welcome to Brattleboro,” and that’s when his dark side emerged. He began talking of death, suicide and the shithole of life, of which no one escapes unscathed. On and on he droned; nothing whatsoever like the man she believed she was coming to know.

He warned her of the sharp bend up ahead and that there would be a large wrought iron gate on the right, just past the strand of oaks. She slowed her speed and pulled into the hidden drive; an elaborately scrolled sign above the gate read, Brattleboro Retreat. She wondered if perhaps he’d changed his mind and decided to stay with her a while longer; as her mind imagined them enjoying a few languid days at what appeared to be an exclusive Vermont Inn.

Such was not the case, as they approached the small building where the guards were posted and she was escorted to a parking area off to the side by one of the guards, as he was physically removed from the car and restrained by the other. “There’s no need to question her, she knows nothing,” she heard him say to the guard, as she demanded to know from the other just what the hell was going on.

She was quickly informed that the gentleman whose company she was in was in fact an escapee. She shot the guard a look of confusion as she shook her head, “You mean a prisoner?” she demanded. “No ma’am; not a prisoner, a resident of the retreat.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she replied. The guard looked at her sympathetically and said, “This is Brattleboro Retreat, ma’am; the Vermont Asylum for the Insane.”

Her heart sank in her chest and a chill crept up her spine as he called out her name and she slowly turned and met his eyes one last time. “I warned you to be careful,” he said with a cynical grin, “Things aren’t always what they seem…..”