Some weeks before he had donated and shipped his entire private book
collection to the library. Mr. Twais had been ecstatic, but Newling
considered the whole business a bother. Reaching the far end of the corridor, he stopped before the massive
locked door of the vault, twirled the shiny dials until he heard the
familiar faint click, and then pushed ajar the heavy metal door. Frowning, he rolled the truck inside. The atmosphere of the vault this
morning seemed even more oppressive than usual. It seemed far colder
than it ordinarily was. Newling shivered as he brought the truck to a
stop and scanned the shelves for a suitable spot for the books. Most of them were vellum-bound incunabula, written in Latin and
embellished with archaic designs. Remembering Preston Haver's
yellow-toothed smile and bony hands, Newling lifted the books with
distaste. He began placing them on shelves as rapidly as he could, occasionally
glancing behind him into the deeper shadows of the vault. The lighting
was far from adequate, and although Mr. Twais had promised that
something would be done, somehow nothing ever was. Newling filled one shelf and started another. He was cold in spite of
his hurried movements. He glanced toward the vault door, to make sure
that it was still open. More than once he had had nightmares about
being shut up in the vault. The book truck was nearly empty, and he was beginning to feel somewhat
relieved, when he suddenly froze with his arm half outstretched toward
a shelf. He had heard nothing and seen nothing, but he knew, even before he
turned, that he was no longer alone in the vault. His heart was hammering and he could feel the cold sweat break out on
his forehead. Mustering his last shred of will power, he forced himself
to turn around. Weakly, he leaned back against the book shelves. Preston Haver stood
inside the vault door, half in shadow. He looked yellower and bonier
than ever and his gaunt mirthless grin seemed more grotesque. Nodding and still grinning, he shuffled forward. "I see you're shelving
my books!" His voice was cracked and thin. It sounded to Newling as if
it came from the far end of the corridor. Newling stammered. "You, you have a fine collection, Mr. Haver. We're
putting the--the best ones--here in the vault." Preston Haver's ghastly grin widened. His long yellow eye-teeth looked
like fangs, Newling thought. He peered at the librarian with his reddish eyes. "There's just
one"--his eyes roved the shelves--"one that I sent by mistake. I want
it back." Newling nodded. "Of course. Could you--ah--describe it, sir?" The visitor stared at him, with a kind of enigmatic smirk. "A small
book, with a soft cover. I'm sure you'd have it here. It's rare--oh,
very rare!" He threw back his head and laughed, while Newling listened in horrified
fascination. He had never heard Preston Haver laugh before. He hoped he
never did again. Regaining some measure of composure, Newling turned to the shelves
and began a systematic scrutiny. He felt thoroughly chilled, chilled
to the very marrow. Of course it was imagination, but Preston Haver's
presence seemed to have immeasurably intensified the oppressive clammy
atmosphere of the vault. Newling sighed with relief when he spotted the book. His unwelcome visitor literally snatched it out of his hand, a quick
gleam of triumph in his glowing eyes. He chuckled with glee. Newling
recoiled from his evil grin. Preston Haver peered up at him with an air of confidence which he found
utterly repellent. "This cover," he said, stroking it fondly with his bony hand. "Human
skin!" Newling stared at it, horrified. It was a pale, grey-yellow, mottled
looking. "Human skin!" his visitor hissed again. Newling wiped the perspiration from his face. He felt weak and he
suddenly realized that he was actually trembling. "I'm sure it's--quite a treasure," he managed. Preston Haver nodded. "Quite a treasure! You see," he went on, again
with that odd air of confidence which Newling found revolting, "I'm
starting on a trip--a long trip--and I couldn't leave without this
book!" Newling's voice was scarcely a whisper. "I'm glad you, we, found it." His visitor moved toward the vault door. Just before reaching it, he
turned, and his red eyes sought out the librarian's. His face contorted
into one last, lingering malignant grin and then he was gone. Newling leaned against the shelves for a full five minutes before he
summoned up enough strength to finish emptying the book truck. Still shaking, he rolled it out of the vault, slammed the great door,
automatically twirled the dials and started back down the corridor. He was cold and weak. He had scarcely strength enough to slide open the
elevator doors. He stepped out of the elevator into the large open-shelf room of the
library with a feeling of indescribable relief. He felt as if he had
ascended from a tomb. Mr. Twais, the head librarian, was coming down the aisle. He stopped
when he came abreast of Newling. He was about to say something, but at
the sight of Newling's face, his mouth fell open. "What is it, man?" he exclaimed. "You look positively shaken!" "Oh--nothing," Newling whispered. "I'll be all right. Just--the air--in
the vault. I guess I felt a trifle faint." Mr. Twais seemed satisfied. He nodded. "You'd better go in the lounge
and rest for a few minutes. Oh, by the way, have you heard the news?" Newling shook his head. Mr. Twais' expression became properly sober. "Preston Haver, our
generous benefactor, died during the night." IN THE VERY STONES


"It is inconceivable to me," wrote my psychic-investigator friend,
Lucius Leffing, "that any person of reasonable perception and
sensitivity could pass a long period of his life in a specific
habitation without leaving something of himself, impregnated as it
were, in the very stones, wood and mortar of the place." How vividly I recalled this statement later on! But let me start at the
beginning. I had been away from New Haven for many years and I returned in a
rather weary mood of reminiscence and regret. My health was not good. The rheumatic fever of my childhood had finally damaged my heart. In
addition, I was having eye trouble. The optic nerves were unaccountably
inflamed; strong light was painful to me. In dim or subdued light,
however, I could see remarkably well, so well in fact that I began to
feel that my vision was becoming abnormal. After engaging a room in one of the few remaining residential areas
of the city which had not been engulfed in the spreading contagion of
human and social degeneration, I began to take long, rambling walks
about the town. I usually waited for a day when the sun was hidden;
when the sky was overcast and the light was grey rather than gold, my
eyes stopped throbbing and I could stroll in relative peace. The city had changed remarkably. At times I scarcely knew where I was. Acres of familiar buildings had been swept away. Remembered streets had
vanished.