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: