The Most Horrible Story

Do you think a story could ever make you shudder with a horror too great to bear? There is one like that--and you will have to read it!

[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from Imagination Stories of Science and Fantasy January 1952 Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]

The room was a very plain room. It had four walls, a ceiling, a floor. But it was new to Thompson because he had never seen it before. He stood in a relaxed fashion, studying it. There was a desk in the center of the room. It was gray, but Thompson could not identify the material from which it was made. A very old man with a clipped beard sat behind the desk. A candle flickered in a brass holder on top of the desk.

"Pardon me," said Thompson.

The old man looked at him. He had been looking at Thompson for a long time. In fact, Thompson could not remember a time when the old man had not been looking at him.

"You like horror stories, I take it," the old man said. "That's why you're here. Everybody in the world likes a good horror story, at least once in their lives."

"Yes," said Thompson, filled with vague relief, "I guess that's why I'm here."

"Fine," said the old man. He reached into the desk. Where, Thompson couldn't tell. Just out of sight. No drawers slid. But his hands came out, and they held a white card. Again they vanished. This time they held a metal-pointed pen. There was ink in the pen. It shone with a night-blue luster in the candle flame.

"Name," said the old man.

"James Thompson."

"Born."

Thompson thought a minute. "March third, nineteen oh two. Is all this necessary?"

The old man seemed annoyed. "Of course. We must have all the records, in order that you may become a full-time member."

"Full-time member of what?" Thompson asked. He noticed that the pen seemed always full of ink.

"The Horror Book Club, of course," the old man replied. He scratched on the card, writing down the information Thompson had given him. Then he put both card and pen out of sight under the desk. His hands came back up, empty.

"Everything has been taken care of," he said, smiling. "You've been admitted."

"Is that right," Thompson said aloud. He had begun to wonder whether membership in this club was exclusive. The candle kept on burning, but it stayed the same size.

"Er ... what kind of books do you have? I mean, could you let me have an idea of some of your titles? Dracula, Frankenstein, The Turn of the Screw, things like that?"

* * * * *

The old man laughed again, this time like he was chiding a small and extremely foolish child. "Oh no, Mr. Thompson. We deal in actual, stark horror. We never use second-rate products."

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.