“You’re trying to convince yourself,” Leigh said calmly. “In your heart you know—you must know—the truth. You’ve become a tool in the hands of tremendous and terrible forces, Carson. For three centuries Abbie Prinn has lain in her grave—_undead_—waiting for someone to fall into her trap—the Witch Room. Perhaps she foresaw the future when she built it, foresaw that some day someone would blunder into that hellish chamber and be caught by the trap of the mosaic pattern. It caught you, Carson—and enabled that undead horror to bridge the gulf between consciousness and matter, to get _en rapport_ with you. Hypnotism is child’s play to a being with Abigail Prinn’s frightful powers. She could very easily force you to go to her grave and uproot the stake that held her captive, and then erase the memory of that act from your mind so that you could not remember it even as a dream!” Carson was on his feet, his eyes burning with a strange light. “In God’s name, man, do you know what you’re saying?” Leigh laughed harshly. “God’s name! The devil’s name, rather—the devil that menaces Salem at this moment; for Salem is in danger, terrible danger. The men and women and children of the town Abbie Prinn cursed when they bound her to the stake—and found they couldn’t burn her! I’ve been going through certain secret archives this morning, and I’ve come to ask you, for the last time, to leave this house.” “Are you through?” Carson asked coldly. “Very well. I shall stay here. You’re either insane or drunk, but you can’t impress me with your poppycock.” “Would you leave if I offered you a thousand dollars?” Leigh asked. “Or more, then—ten thousand? I have a considerable sum at my command.” “No, damn it!” Carson snapped in a sudden blaze of anger. “All I want is to be left alone to finish my novel. I can’t work anywhere else—I don’t want to, I won’t——” “I expected this,” Leigh said, his voice suddenly quiet, and with a strange note of sympathy. “Man, you can’t get away! You’re caught in the trap, and it’s too late for you to extricate yourself so long as Abbie Prinn’s brain controls you through the Witch Room. And the worst part of it is that she can only manifest herself with your aid—she drains your life forces, Carson, feeds on you like a vampire.” “You’re mad,” Carson said dully. “I’m afraid. That iron disk in the Witch Room—I’m afraid of that, and what’s under it. Abbie Prinn served strange gods, Carson—and I read something on the wall of that alcove that gave me a hint. Have you ever heard of Nyogtha?” Carson shook his head impatiently. Leigh fumbled in a pocket, drew out a scrap of paper. “I copied this from a book in the Kester Library,” he said, “a book called the _Necronomicon_, written by a man who delved so deeply into forbidden secrets that men called him mad. Read this.” * * * * * Carson’s brows drew together as he read the excerpt: