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THE MOST HORRIBLE STORY
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?"
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