THE MOST HORRIBLE STORY

                           By John W. Jakes

               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.

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."

"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._