Do you think a story could ever make you
shudder with a horror too great to bear? There
is one like that—and you will have to read it!
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy
January 1952
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The room was a very plain room. It had four walls, a ceiling, a floor.But it was new to Thompson because he had never seen it before. Hestood in a relaxed fashion, studying it. There was a desk in the centerof the room. It was gray, but Thompson could not identify the materialfrom which it was made. A very old man with a clipped beard sat behindthe desk. A candle flickered in a brass holder on top of the desk.
"Pardon me," said Thompson.
The old man looked at him. He had been looking at Thompson for a longtime. In fact, Thompson could not remember a time when the old man hadnot been looking at him.
"You like horror stories, I take it," the old man said. "That's whyyou're here. Everybody in the world likes a good horror story, at leastonce in their lives."
"Yes," said Thompson, filled with vague relief, "I guess that's why I'mhere."
"Fine," said the old man. He reached into the desk. Where, Thompsoncouldn't tell. Just out of sight. No drawers slid. But his hands cameout, and they held a white card. Again they vanished. This time theyheld a metal-pointed pen. There was ink in the pen. It shone with anight-blue luster in the candle flame.
"Name," said the old man.
"James Thompson."
"Born."
Thompson thought a minute. "March third, nineteen oh two. Is all thisnecessary?"
The old man seemed annoyed. "Of course. We must have all the records,in order that you may become a full-time member."
"Full-time member of what?" Thompson asked. He noticed that the penseemed always full of ink.
"The Horror Book Club, of course," the old man replied. He scratchedon the card, writing down the information Thompson had given him. Thenhe put both card and pen out of sight under the desk. His hands cameback up, empty.
"Everything has been taken care of," he said, smiling. "You've beenadmitted."
"Is that right," Thompson said aloud. He had begun to wonder whethermembership in this club was exclusive. The candle kept on burning, butit stayed the same size.
"Er ... what kind of books do you have? I mean, could you let me havean idea of some of your titles? Dracula, Frankenstein, The Turn ofthe Screw, things like that?"
The old man laughed again, this time like he was chiding a small andextremely foolish child. "Oh no, Mr. Thompson. We deal in actual, starkhorror. We never use second-rate products."
The hands dipped down again. Thompson wondered if it was some kind ofgame. They came back up. They put a book on the desk. It was a thinbook, roughly a foot square. It had a whitish cover. The old man'sfingers rasped on the cover when he put it down on the desk.
"Human skin," the old man said cheerfully. "Very good binding."
"Um ... yes," said Thompson. He glanced at the cover. In square lettersthe cover said, The Most Horrible Story In The World. Smaller type,down near the lower right hand corner, said, James Thompson, January3, 1953.
"Why, that's today," Thompson said.
The old man waved. "A formality. We always record on the books when anew member enters the club. Keeps the records straight."
"Oh," Thompson said. "Do I ... just start reading?"
The old man shook his head and got up. He took the book in