"Come to my room." And when we were on the stairs, his hollow voice added: "Try to keep a grip on yourself, Clay, when you know. And pray to God that no other demon may ever be born into this accursed house!" * * * * * The bare and ancient rafters were low upon his locked attic room. It was cold, and his two lamps could not dispel its sinister gloom. There were chairs, and an antique writing-desk. The shelves were heavy with dark and massive volumes in age-discolored bindings, whose titles, a glance told me, had all to do with the history of witchcraft, occultism, lycanthropy, demonology, and darker lore. A tall glass cabinet held crystal globes, grotesque little idols and figurines of wood and wax, parcels of dried herbs, and a few stained and rusted weapons. "My study and museum," Doctor Kyle boomed, as I shivered from the musty chill. "Here I have carried on my research into the evil practises that have festered in the hills of Creston. Knowing these people, I have gained access to precious material. Clay, even now there are hideous forbidden rites of demon-worship being----" "Doctor," I broke in, "if you really have anything to say, say it." "Sit down, Clay," he said. But I was too much concerned to sit. I stood behind a chair, gripping the back of it with my hands. Doctor Kyle paced up and down before me, two or three times, running his lank fingers nervously across his bare yellow scalp, as if to flatten invisible hair. "I suppose you don't remember your mother, Clay?" he asked at length, as if seeking an easy way into a difficult subject. "No," I told him. "She died, and you brought me here, before I was two years old." "We told you that she died," his voice rumbled, suddenly hoarse and low. "And you never knew of your twin?" "You told me I was the last one of my family." His flaming eyes stared at me, and his voice pealed solemnly: "Your mother died only a few months ago, Clay. And your twin brother is still living." Questions thronged my mind. But the stinging dust of horror had suddenly filled my throat. I could only listen, as that hollow voice went on, like a booming chant of doom. "I shall begin, Clay, with the early history of your family." His lean hand gestured at the dark, heavy volumes on the shelves. "I have here the library of your grandfather, Eliakim Coe. From his private papers I have learned a great deal of the secret history of Creston--and of your people. "The first Coe in America came with a cloud upon his name--the Church had almost obtained his conviction on charges of demonolatry. The Henry Coe who founded Creston was a fugitive from the witchcraft trials of Salem, and in this inaccessible wilderness he carried on the evil worship that had roused the Puritan ire.