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."

"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.

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