III

von Robert W. Chambers · 2026-04-19

One early May morning, I stood in my bedroom, gazing at the steel safe while trying on a golden, jeweled crown. The diamonds sparkled brilliantly as I turned to the mirror, and the heavy gold felt like a halo resting on my head. I couldn’t shake the memory of Camilla’s anguished scream and the haunting words that echoed through the dim streets of Carcosa. Those were the final lines of the first act, and I dared not dwell on what came next—not even in the bright spring sunshine, surrounded by familiar objects, comforted by the sounds of the bustling street and the servants chatting in the hallway.

Those toxic words had seeped into my heart, like sweat soaking into a bed sheet. Trembling, I removed the crown and wiped my forehead, but thoughts of Hastur and my own ambitions crept back in. I recalled Mr. Wilde as I had last seen him, his face torn and bloody from that monstrous creature’s claws, and the chilling words he had spoken—oh, those words.

Suddenly, the alarm in the safe began to whir harshly, signaling that my time was running out. I ignored it, defiantly placing the crown back on my head and turning to the mirror once more. I stood there for what felt like an eternity, captivated by the shifting expressions in my own eyes. The reflection showed a face that resembled mine but was paler, so gaunt that I could hardly recognize it.

All the while, I repeated between clenched teeth, “The day has come! The day has come!” The alarm continued to blare, and the diamonds sparkled fiercely above me. I heard a door open but paid it no mind. It wasn’t until I saw two faces in the mirror—another face looming over my shoulder, two eyes meeting mine—that I snapped around.

I grabbed a long knife from my dressing table, and my cousin recoiled, looking very pale. “Hildred! For God’s sake!” he exclaimed. As my hand dropped, he added, “It’s me, Louis. Don’t you recognize me?” I stood there in silence, unable to speak. He approached me and gently took the knife from my hand.

“What’s going on?” he asked softly. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“No,” I replied, though I doubted he heard me.

“Come on, old friend,” he urged, “take off that brass crown and come into the study. Are you going to a masquerade? What’s with all this theatrical nonsense?”

I was relieved he thought the crown was made of brass and fake jewels, but it didn’t make me like him any more. I let him take it from my hand, knowing it was best to humor him. He tossed the magnificent diadem into the air, caught it, and turned to me with a smile.

“It’s not worth more than fifty cents,” he joked. “What’s it for?”

I didn’t answer but took the crown back from him and placed it in the safe, shutting the heavy steel door. The alarm stopped its relentless noise immediately. He watched me with curiosity but didn’t seem to notice the sudden silence. Instead, he referred to the safe as a biscuit box. Worried he might pry into the combination, I led him into my study.

Louis flopped onto the sofa and began swatting at flies with his ever-present riding whip. He was dressed in his riding uniform, complete with a braided jacket and jaunty cap, and I noticed his riding boots were splattered with red mud.

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“Jumping mud creeks in Jersey,” he replied. “I haven’t had time to change; I was in a hurry to see you. Don’t you have a drink? I’m dead tired; I’ve been in the saddle for twenty-four hours.”

I poured him some brandy from my medicinal stash, which he drank with a grimace.

“Terrible stuff,” he remarked. “I’ll give you an address where they sell real brandy.”

“It’s good enough for me,” I said indifferently. “I use it to rub my chest.” He stared at me, flicking at another fly.

“Listen, old friend,” he began, “I have a suggestion for you. It’s been four years since you’ve locked yourself away like an owl, never going out, never getting any exercise, just buried in those books on the mantel.”

He glanced at the row of shelves. “Napoleon, Napoleon, Napoleon!” he read aloud. “For heaven’s sake, do you have anything but Napoleons?”

“I wish they were bound in gold,” I replied. “But wait, there is another book—_The King in Yellow_.” I looked him straight in the eye.

“Have you never read it?” I asked.

“Me? No, thank God! I don’t want to go crazy.”

I saw the regret in his eyes as soon as he said it. There’s only one word I despise more than “lunatic,” and that’s “crazy.” But I held my tongue and asked him why he thought _The King in Yellow_ was dangerous.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he said hastily. “I just remember the uproar it caused and the condemnations from pulpits and newspapers. I think the author shot himself after writing that monstrosity, didn’t he?”

“I’ve heard he’s still alive,” I replied.

“That’s probably true,” he muttered. “Bullets couldn’t kill a fiend like that.”

“It’s a book of great truths,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied, “there are ‘truths’ that drive people mad and ruin their lives. I don’t care if it’s considered the pinnacle of art. It’s a crime to have written it, and I, for one, will never open its pages.”

“Is that what you came to tell me?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “I came to tell you that I’m getting married.”

For a moment, I felt my heart stop, but I kept my gaze fixed on his face.

“Yes,” he continued, smiling broadly, “married to the sweetest girl in the world.”

“Constance Hawberk,” I said, almost mechanically.

“How did you know?” he exclaimed, surprised. “I didn’t even know it myself until that evening last April when we walked down to the embankment before dinner.”

“When’s the wedding?” I asked.

“It was supposed to be next September, but just an hour ago, we received a dispatch ordering our regiment to the Presidio in San Francisco. We leave at noon tomorrow. Tomorrow,” he repeated. “Can you believe it, Hildred? Tomorrow, I’ll be the happiest guy who ever lived, because Constance will be with me.”

I extended my hand to congratulate him, and he grabbed it, shaking it enthusiastically like the good-natured fool he was—or pretended to be.

“I’m getting my squadron as a wedding present,” he rambled on. “Captain and Mrs. Louis Castaigne, right, Hildred?”

Then he told me where the wedding would take place and who would be there, insisting that I promise to be his best man. I clenched my teeth and listened to his youthful excitement without revealing my feelings, but—

I was reaching the limit of my patience, and when he jumped up, jangling his spurs, and said he had to go, I didn’t stop him.

“There’s one thing I want to ask you,” I said quietly.

“Go ahead, it’s promised,” he laughed.

“I want you to meet me for a quick chat tonight.”

“Sure, if that’s what you want,” he said, looking puzzled. “Where?”

“Anywhere, in the park.”

“What time, Hildred?”

“Midnight.”

“What in the world—” he started, but then he caught himself and laughed, agreeing to it. I watched him hurry down the stairs, his sabre clanging with each step. He turned onto Bleecker Street, and I knew he was off to see Constance. I gave him ten minutes to disappear before I followed, bringing with me the jeweled crown and the silken robe embroidered with the Yellow Sign.

As I turned onto Bleecker Street and entered the shop with the sign—

MR. WILDE, REPAIRER OF REPUTATIONS. Third Bell.

I saw old Hawberk moving around inside, and I thought I heard Constance’s voice in the parlor. But I avoided them both and rushed up the shaky stairs to Mr. Wilde’s apartment. I knocked and entered without waiting. Mr. Wilde lay groaning on the floor, his face smeared with blood, his clothes in tatters. Drops of blood dotted the carpet, which was also ripped and frayed from what must have been a recent struggle.

“It’s that cursed cat,” he said, stopping his groans and turning his pale eyes toward me. “She attacked me while I was asleep. I think she might actually kill me.”

This was too much, so I went into the kitchen, grabbed a hatchet from the pantry, and set out to find that infernal beast and deal with her once and for all. My search was fruitless, and after a while, I gave up and returned to find Mr. Wilde perched on a high chair by the table. He had washed his face and changed his clothes. The deep scratches the cat had left on his face were now filled with collodion, and a rag covered the wound on his throat. I told him I would kill the cat when I found her, but he just shook his head and turned to the open ledger in front of him. He read off the names of people who had come to him about their reputations, and the amounts he had collected were shocking.

“I tighten the screws now and then,” he explained.

“One day, someone’s going to assassinate you,” I insisted.

“Do you really think so?” he asked, rubbing his mangled ears.

It was pointless to argue with him, so I took down the manuscript titled *Imperial Dynasty of America*, knowing it would be the last time I ever did so in Mr. Wilde’s study. I read it through, thrilling and trembling with excitement. When I finished, Mr. Wilde took the manuscript and, turning toward the dark passage that led from his study to his bedroom, called out loudly, “Vance.” That was when I first noticed a man crouching in the shadows. How I had missed him during my search for the cat, I couldn’t fathom.

“Vance, come in,” Mr. Wilde called.

The figure rose and crept toward us, and I will never forget the face that he lifted to mine as the light from the window illuminated it.

“Vance, this is Mr. Castaigne,” Mr. Wilde introduced, but before he could finish, Vance collapsed to the floor, crying out, “Oh, God! Please! Help me! Forgive me! Mr. Castaigne, keep him away! You can’t mean it! You’re different—save me! I’m broken—I was in a madhouse, and now—just when everything was getting better—when I had forgotten the King—the King in Yellow—and now I’ll go mad again—I’ll go mad—”

His voice faded into a desperate gasp as Mr. Wilde lunged at him, his hand tightening around Vance’s throat. When Vance crumpled to the floor, Mr. Wilde quickly returned to his chair, rubbing his injured ears with the stump of his hand. He turned to me and asked for the ledger. I retrieved it from the shelf, and he opened it, scanning the neatly written pages. After a moment, he cleared his throat and pointed to a name.

“Vance,” he read aloud, “Osgood Oswald Vance.” At the sound of his name, Vance lifted his head, his face twisted in anguish. His eyes were bloodshot, and his lips swollen. “Called April 28th,” Mr. Wilde continued. “Occupation: cashier at the Seaforth National Bank; previously served time for forgery at Sing Sing, then transferred to the Asylum for the Criminally Insane. Pardoned by the Governor of New York and released from the Asylum on January 19, 1918. Reputation damaged at Sheepshead Bay. Rumors suggest he lives beyond his means. Reputation needs immediate repair. Retainer: $1,500.

“Note: Has embezzled $30,000 since March 20, 1919. Comes from a good family and secured his current position through his uncle’s influence. His father is the President of the Seaforth Bank.”

I glanced at the man on the floor.

“Get up, Vance,” Mr. Wilde said gently. Vance stood as if in a trance. “He’ll comply with our requests now,” Mr. Wilde remarked, and began reading from the manuscript, detailing the history of the Imperial Dynasty of America. He patiently highlighted the key points for Vance, who stood there, dazed. His eyes were so vacant that I wondered if he had lost his mind, and I mentioned this to Mr. Wilde, who dismissed it as unimportant.

We carefully explained to Vance what his role would be, and after some time, he appeared to grasp it. Mr. Wilde elaborated on the manuscript, referencing several volumes on Heraldry to support his findings. He spoke of the Dynasty’s origins in Carcosa, the lakes connecting Hastur, Aldebaran, and the mysteries of the Hyades. He mentioned Cassilda and Camilla, exploring the depths of Demhe and the Lake of Hali. “The tattered remnants of the King in Yellow must conceal Yhtill forever,” he murmured, but I doubted Vance heard him. Gradually, Mr. Wilde guided Vance through the branches of the Imperial family, from Uoht and Thale to Naotalba and the Phantom of Truth, to Aldones. Then, casting aside his notes, he began the captivating tale of the Last King.

I watched, entranced. Mr. Wilde’s head tilted back, his arms stretched out in a grand gesture of pride and power, his eyes shining like emeralds. Vance listened, mesmerized. When Mr. Wilde finally finished and pointed at me, exclaiming, “The cousin of the King!” my heart raced with excitement.

With a tremendous effort, I composed myself and explained to Vance why I was the rightful heir to the crown and why my cousin had to be exiled or eliminated. I made it clear that my cousin could never marry, even after renouncing his claims, especially not to the daughter of the Marquis of Avonshire, as that would complicate matters with England. I showed him a list of thousands of names Mr. Wilde had compiled; every person on that list had received the Yellow Sign, a mark no one dared ignore. The city, the state, the entire country was poised to tremble before the Pallid Mask.

The moment had arrived; the people needed to know the son of Hastur, and the world must bow to the black stars hanging over Carcosa.

Vance leaned against the table, his head buried in his hands. Mr. Wilde sketched a rough layout of Hawberk’s rooms in the margin of yesterday’s _Herald_ with a pencil. He wrote out the order and sealed it, and with trembling hands, I signed my first writ of execution, writing my name: Hildred-Rex.

Mr. Wilde stood up and unlocked the cabinet, retrieving a long, square box from the top shelf. He brought it to the table and opened it, revealing a new knife wrapped in tissue paper. I picked it up and handed it to Vance, along with the order and the layout of Hawberk’s apartment. Then Mr. Wilde told Vance he was free to go, and he left, shuffling away like a lost soul from the streets.

I sat for a while, watching the daylight slip away behind the square tower of the Judson Memorial Church. Finally, I gathered my manuscript and notes, put on my hat, and headed for the door.

Mr. Wilde observed me in silence. As I stepped into the hall, I glanced back. His small eyes were still fixed on me, and shadows crept in around him as the light faded. I closed the door behind me and stepped out into the darkening streets.

I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but hunger didn’t gnaw at me. A pitiful, half-starved man stood across the street, staring at the Lethal Chamber, and he approached me to share his tale of misery. I handed him some money, though I couldn’t say why, and he walked away without a word of thanks. An hour later, another outcast came up, whining about his plight. I had a blank piece of paper in my pocket, marked with the Yellow Sign, and I gave it to him. He stared at it for a moment, then glanced at me uncertainly before carefully folding it and tucking it into his coat.

The electric lights twinkled among the trees, and the new moon hung in the sky above the Lethal Chamber. Waiting in the square was becoming tiresome, so I wandered from the Marble Arch to the artillery stables and back to the lotus fountain. The flowers and grass released a fragrance that unsettled me. The fountain’s jet danced in the moonlight, and the musical splash of falling drops reminded me of the sound of chained mail in Hawberk’s shop. But it wasn’t as captivating, and the dull shimmer of moonlight on the water didn’t evoke the exquisite pleasure I felt when sunlight glinted off the polished steel of a corselet on Hawberk’s knee. I watched bats darting above the water plants in the fountain basin, but their erratic flight made my nerves fray, so I wandered aimlessly among the trees.

The artillery stables were dark, but the cavalry barracks glowed with bright lights. Troopers in fatigue uniforms moved in and out of the sally port, carrying straw, harnesses, and baskets filled with tin dishes.

Twice, the mounted sentry at the gates was replaced while I paced along the asphalt path. I checked my watch. It was almost time. The lights in the barracks flickered out one by one, the barred gate closed, and every minute or so, an officer passed through the side wicket, the sound of rattling gear and jingling spurs breaking the night’s silence. The square had grown very quiet. The last homeless loiterer had been shooed away by a gray-coated park policeman, the car tracks along Wooster Street lay empty, and the only sounds were the stamping of the sentry’s horse and the clink of his sabre against the saddle pommel. The officers’ quarters in the barracks still glowed, with military servants moving back and forth in front of the bay windows.

Twelve o’clock chimed from the new spire of St. Francis Xavier, and as the last stroke of the somber bell faded, a figure emerged from the wicket beside the portcullis. He returned the sentry’s salute, crossed the street, and entered the square, heading toward the Benedick apartment house.

“Louis,” I called.

He turned on his spurred heels and came straight toward me.

“Is that you, Hildred?”

“Yes, you’re right on time.”

I took his outstretched hand, and we walked toward the Lethal Chamber.

He chattered about his wedding, praising Constance and their future together, pointing out his captain’s shoulder straps and the triple gold arabesque on his sleeve and fatigue cap. I found myself listening as much to the music of his spurs and sabre as to his boyish chatter. Eventually, we stood under the elms at the Fourth Street corner of the square, directly across from the Lethal Chamber. He laughed and asked what I needed from him. I gestured for him to sit on a bench beneath the electric light and settled down beside him. He looked at me with that same probing gaze that I both hated and feared in doctors. I felt the sting of his scrutiny, but I hid my feelings carefully.

“Well, old chap,” he asked, “what can I do for you?”

I pulled the manuscript and notes of the Imperial Dynasty of America from my pocket and met his gaze.

“I’ll tell you. On your word as a soldier, promise me you’ll read this manuscript from start to finish without asking me any questions. Promise me you’ll do the same with these notes, and promise to listen to what I have to say later.”

“I promise, if that’s what you want,” he replied cheerfully. “Just give me the paper, Hildred.”

He began to read, his eyebrows rising in a puzzled, whimsical expression that made me tremble with suppressed anger. As he continued, his brows furrowed, and his lips seemed to form the word “rubbish.”

He looked a bit bored, but for my sake, he tried to read with some interest. Eventually, that effort faded. When he came across his own name in the densely written pages, he jumped slightly. Then, upon reaching mine, he lowered the paper and shot me a sharp look for just a moment. But he kept his promise and went back to reading, while I let the half-formed question die unspoken.

When he finished and saw Mr. Wilde’s signature, he folded the paper carefully and handed it back to me. I gave him the notes, and he settled back, pushing his fatigue cap up to his forehead in a boyish gesture that took me back to our school days. I watched his face as he read, and once he was done, I took the notes and the manuscript and tucked them into my pocket. Then I unfolded a scroll marked with the Yellow Sign. He noticed it but didn’t seem to recognize it, so I pointed it out sharply.

“Well,” he said, “I see it. What is it?”

“It’s the Yellow Sign,” I replied, a bit angrily.

“Oh, that’s what it is?” Louis said, using that flattering tone Doctor Archer used to have with me, which he probably would have used again if I hadn’t settled things for him.

I kept my anger in check and replied as calmly as I could, “Listen, you’ve given your word.”

“I’m listening, old chap,” he said soothingly.

I began to speak very steadily.

“Dr. Archer, having somehow gotten hold of the secret of the Imperial Succession, tried to strip me of my rights. He claimed that because of a fall from my horse four years ago, I had become mentally unfit. He had the audacity to confine me in his own house, hoping to either drive me insane or poison me. I haven’t forgotten that. I visited him last night, and that meeting was final.”

Louis turned pale but didn’t move. I continued with triumph, “There are still three people left to interview for the sake of Mr. Wilde and myself: my cousin Louis, Mr. Hawberk, and his daughter Constance.”

Louis jumped to his feet, and I stood up too, throwing the paper marked with the Yellow Sign to the ground.

“Oh, I don’t need that to tell you what I have to say,” I exclaimed, laughing triumphantly. “You must renounce the crown to me, do you hear? To _me_.”

Louis looked at me, startled, but quickly regained his composure and said kindly, “Of course I renounce the—what is it I must renounce?”

“The crown,” I said, my anger flaring.

“Of course,” he replied, “I renounce it. Come on, old chap, I’ll walk back to your place with you.”

“Don’t try any of your doctor’s tricks on me,” I shouted, trembling with rage. “Don’t act like you think I’m insane.”

“What nonsense,” he replied. “Come on, it’s getting late, Hildred.”

“No,” I yelled, “you have to listen. You can’t marry; I forbid it. Do you hear me? I forbid it. You will renounce the crown, and in return, I grant you exile. But if you refuse, you will die.”

He tried to calm me, but I was finally roused, and drawing my long knife, I blocked his path.

Then I told him how they would find Dr. Archer in the cellar with his throat cut, and I laughed in his face at the thought of Vance and his knife, and the order I had signed.

“Ah, you are the King,” I shouted, “but I shall be King. Who are you to keep me from ruling over all the habitable earth? I was born the cousin of a king, but I shall be King!”

Louis stood before me, pale and rigid. Suddenly, a man came sprinting up Fourth Street, dashed through the gate of the Lethal Temple, raced down the path to the bronze doors, and burst into the death chamber with a cry of madness. I laughed until tears streamed down my face, for I recognized Vance and knew that Hawberk and his daughter were no longer in my way.

“Go,” I told Louis, “you are no longer a threat. You will never marry Constance now, and if you marry anyone else during your exile, I will pay you a visit just like I did with my doctor last night. Mr. Wilde will take charge of you tomorrow.” Then I turned and bolted down South Fifth Avenue, and with a cry of terror, Louis dropped his belt and sabre and chased after me like the wind. I heard him close behind me at the corner of Bleecker Street, and I dashed into the doorway beneath Hawberk’s sign.

He shouted, “Halt, or I’ll fire!” But when he saw me racing up the stairs, leaving Hawberk’s shop behind, he stopped and I heard him banging and shouting at their door as if he could wake the dead.

Mr. Wilde’s door stood open as I rushed in, shouting, “It’s done! It’s done! Let the nations rise and see their King!” But Mr. Wilde was nowhere to be found. I moved to the cabinet and took the magnificent crown from its case. I slipped into the white silk robe, intricately embroidered with the Yellow Sign, and placed the crown on my head. Finally, I was King—King by right in Hastur, King because I had unraveled the mystery of the Hyades, and my mind had plumbed the depths of the Lake of Hali. I was King!

The first light of dawn would unleash a storm that would shake two hemispheres. As I stood there, every nerve in my body on high alert, overwhelmed with joy and the brilliance of my thoughts, I heard a groan echoing from the dark hallway.

I grabbed a candle and dashed to the door. A cat darted past me like a shadow, snuffing out the candle’s flame. But my knife was quicker than she was, and I heard her screech, knowing my blade had struck true. For a moment, I listened to her thrashing about in the darkness, and when the chaos subsided, I lit a lamp and raised it above my head.

Mr. Wilde lay on the floor, his throat slashed open. At first, I thought he was dead, but then I noticed a green glimmer in his sunken eyes. His mutilated hand twitched, and a spasm stretched his mouth into a grotesque grin. For a fleeting moment, hope flickered within me, but as I leaned closer, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he died.

Transfixed by rage and despair, I saw my crown, my empire, every hope and ambition, my very life, lying lifeless beside the dead master. Suddenly, they came from behind, seizing me and binding me until my veins stood out like cords, my voice lost to frantic screams. I fought back, bleeding and furious among them, and more than one officer felt the bite of my teeth. When I could struggle no longer, they closed in. I recognized old Hawberk, and behind him, my cousin Louis’s pale face. In the corner, I spotted a woman—Constance—softly weeping.

“Ah! I see it now!” I screamed. “You’ve taken the throne and the empire. Woe! Woe to you who wear the crown of the King in Yellow!”

---

“CAMILLA: You should take off your mask.

STRANGER: Oh, really?

CASSILDA: It’s time. We’ve all put our disguises aside except you.

STRANGER: I’m not wearing a mask.

CAMILLA: (Terrified, whispering to Cassilda.) No mask? No mask!”