"Must like horror stories, to set up a place like this." "They do," the old man assured him. "Well, I hope you like the book." He walked out and closed the door. Thompson said, "Well," a couple of times, saw that no one was listening, laughed foolishly and sat down on the chair. He picked up the book, feeling the tingle on his spine once more. He opened the book. He began to read. It was a very short story. He finished it almost immediately. And it certainly was horrible. Almost too horrible. He closed the book and got up. His face felt very pale. He went to the door. He tried to open it. It would not open. "Old man," he yelled. "Old man, old man." He was so insistent in his yelling that he did not stop to think about the other screaming out in the hall. He expected the old man to come, and he did. The old man's voice said through the door, "Yes?" "I don't like this book," Thompson said. The old man said nothing. "And the door's locked. I want to leave." "You can't." "What do you mean I can't? What kind of a place is this anyway?" His tone was threatening, belligerent. And weak. "You're a member now." It was very final. * * * * * Thompson felt that the old man was gone. He shouted, "Old man, old man." There was no answer. He went back to the table. His stomach seemed to be gone. He opened the book. He read the story again. He couldn't help reading it. It had a kind of fascination. He began to see the true horror in the tale. When he had re-read it for the fifth time, he started to scream. Everybody else screamed, why shouldn't he? After all, he was in the mood, his stomach felt icy. The candle kept on burning, but it stayed the same size. [Illustration: His eyes showed a glazed expression of madness as the full import of what he had just read registered on his mind. And then he screamed--and screamed....] He alternated between periods of screaming and reading. And each time he read the book, it became more horrible. The infinity of horrible horror was something too vast to contemplate. He felt no need for food or water or sleep, the story was so horrible. Thompson stopped screaming again and opened the book, perhaps for the thousandth time. He anticipated it now, anticipated the screaming it would cause. The candle kept on burning. Thompson read the story from the book of skin with his name on it. He read it rapidly. It was a very short story: _You're dead._