The hands dipped down again. Thompson wondered if it was some kind of game. They came back up. They put a book on the desk. It was a thin book, roughly a foot square. It had a whitish cover. The old man's fingers 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 letters the cover said, _The Most Horrible Story In The World_. Smaller type, down near the lower right hand corner, said, _James Thompson, January 3, 1953_. "Why, that's today," Thompson said. The old man waved. "A formality. We always record on the books when a new 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 one hand, the candle in the other. "I'll conduct you to one of our reading rooms. We provide special reading rooms for the use of members." Thompson did not comment. He followed the old man. They went through an opening in the wall that he had not seen before. But it was in a dim corner, difficult to see clearly. They walked down a long hall. On each side of the hall were closed doors. The candle made shapes move on the walls. "What's that screaming?" Thompson asked, a bit puzzled. "It seems to come from behind these doors." "That's right," the old man said over his shoulder. "This is the Horror Book Club, you know. All of our members take an active interest in their reading. They participate. They get horrified. It's really a horrible book, you know." "Is it?" Thompson felt a slight tingle of expectancy run along his back. He felt somewhat masochistic at the moment. A new thought struck him. "Is that the only book you carry?" "Yes," said the old man. "We've had many editions made. It's the _most_ horrible story in the world, you understand. The most horrible one ever conceived. That's why all our members read it." * * * * * The hall seemed to stretch on endlessly. Doors marched by. Screams faded, new screams took their place. "How late are you open?" Thompson asked. "I stay here all the time," the old man said. "Members are always coming in. They usually stay for a long time. The book is irresistible." "Must be," Thompson said. Finally they came to a door. The old man stopped. He seemed to pull at the door and it opened, although there was no handle on it. He motioned Thompson inside. The reading room had one chair and one table. An unlit candle stood on the table. The old man applied flame from his candle. "Severe," he said, indicating the room, "but functional. All you really need to enjoy a good horror story." "Well, thanks," Thompson stammered. The old man put the book down on the table. "Do ... er ... is it customary to pay, or tip?" Thompson said awkwardly. "Oh no. The Founders take care of that." "Um. Founders. Still alive, eh?" "Oh, certainly."