III

by Robert W. Chambers

The next day turned out to be a complete disaster for me. While I was trying to move a framed canvas from one easel to another, my foot slipped on the polished floor, and I fell hard, landing on both wrists. They were so badly sprained that I couldn’t even hold a brush. I ended up wandering around the studio, glaring at unfinished drawings and sketches, until despair took over. I sat down, lit a cigarette, and fumed in frustration.

The rain pounded against the windows and rattled on the church roof, driving me into a fit of nerves with its relentless rhythm. Tessie was sitting by the window, sewing, and every so often, she would look up at me with such innocent compassion that I started to feel ashamed of my irritation. I needed something to occupy my mind. I had already read all the newspapers and every book in the library, so I went over to the bookcases and shoved them open with my elbow. I recognized every volume by its color and examined them all, slowly making my way around the library while whistling to lift my spirits.

Just as I was about to head into the dining room, my eye caught a glimpse of a book bound in serpent skin, sitting on the top shelf of the last bookcase. I didn’t remember it being there, and from the floor, I couldn’t make out the pale lettering on the spine. So, I went to the smoking room and called for Tessie. She came in from the studio and climbed up to reach the book.

“What is it?” I asked.

“The King in Yellow,” she replied.

I was stunned. Who had put it there? How did it end up in my rooms? I had long ago decided that I would never open that book, and nothing could have convinced me to buy it. Afraid that curiosity might get the better of me, I had never even glanced at it in bookstores. The tragic story of young Castaigne, whom I knew, had completely deterred me from exploring its dark pages. I had always refused to listen to any descriptions of it, and honestly, no one ever dared to discuss the second part out loud, so I had no idea what those pages might reveal. I stared at the poisonous, mottled binding as if it were a snake.

“Don’t touch it, Tessie,” I warned. “Come down.”

Naturally, my warning only piqued her curiosity. Before I could stop her, she grabbed the book and, laughing, danced off into the studio with it. I called after her, but she slipped away, a teasing smile on her face, and I followed her, feeling increasingly impatient.

“Tessie!” I shouted as I entered the library. “Listen, I’m serious. Put that book away. I don’t want you to open it!” The library was empty. I searched both drawing rooms, the bedrooms, the laundry, and the kitchen, before finally returning to the library and starting a systematic search. She had hidden herself so well that it took me half an hour to find her crouched silently by the latticed window in the storeroom above. At first glance, I could tell she had been punished for her foolishness. The King in Yellow lay at her feet, open to the second part. I looked at Tessie and realized it was too late. She had opened The King in Yellow.

I took her by the hand and led her back into the studio. She seemed dazed, and when I told her to lie down on the sofa, she obeyed without a word. After a while, she closed her eyes, her breathing becoming regular and deep, but I couldn’t tell if she was actually asleep. I sat quietly beside her for a long time, but she didn’t stir or speak. Eventually, I got up and went into the unused storeroom, taking the book in my least injured hand. It felt heavy as lead, but I carried it back into the studio, sitting down on the rug beside the sofa. I opened it and read through it from start to finish.

When I finally dropped the book, exhausted from the weight of my emotions, and leaned back against the sofa, Tessie opened her eyes and looked at me.

* * * * *

We had been talking for a while in a dull, monotonous tone before I realized we were discussing The King in Yellow. Oh, the sin of writing such words—words that are as clear as crystal, as limpid and musical as bubbling springs, words that sparkle and glow like the poisoned diamonds of the Medicis! Oh, the wickedness, the hopeless damnation of a soul who could captivate and paralyze human beings with such words—words understood by both the ignorant and the wise, words that are more precious than jewels, more soothing than music, and more terrifying than death!

We talked on, oblivious to the shadows creeping in around us, and Tessie was pleading with me to get rid of the black onyx clasp, intricately inlaid with what we now understood to be the Yellow Sign. Even now, as I sit in my bedroom writing this confession, I can’t quite grasp why I refused. I wish I could understand what held me back from tearing the Yellow Sign from my chest and throwing it into the fire. I certainly wanted to, yet Tessie’s pleas fell on deaf ears. Night descended, and the hours dragged on, but we continued to whisper about the King and the Pallid Mask, while the midnight bells chimed from the misty spires of the fog-shrouded city. We spoke of Hastur and Cassilda, while outside, the fog rolled against the blank window panes like waves crashing on the shores of Hali.

The house was silent now, with no sounds rising from the misty streets. Tessie lay among the cushions, her face a grey smudge in the dim light, but her hands were clasped in mine. I knew she understood my thoughts as well as I understood hers; we had unraveled the mystery of the Hyades, and the Phantom of Truth was laid bare. As we exchanged thoughts, quickly and silently, the shadows stirred around us, and from the distant streets, we heard a sound. It grew closer—the dull crunch of wheels on the cobblestones, approaching nearer and nearer, until it stopped right outside our door. I dragged myself to the window and saw a black-plumed hearse. The gate below creaked open and shut, and I stumbled, trembling, to my door and bolted it. But deep down, I knew that no bolts or locks could keep out the creature that was coming for the Yellow Sign.

I heard him moving softly down the hall. He was at the door now, and the bolts crumbled at his touch. Then he entered. With my heart racing, I peered into the darkness, but I couldn’t see him. It was only when I felt his cold, soft grip enveloping me that I cried out and fought back with all my strength. But my hands were powerless against him as he ripped the onyx clasp from my coat and struck me hard in the face. As I fell, I heard Tessie’s soft cry, and her spirit slipped away. Even as I fell, I longed to follow her, for I knew the King in Yellow had opened his tattered cloak, and there was only God to cry out to now.

I could share more, but I don’t see how it would help anyone. As for me, I’m beyond human help or hope. As I lie here writing, indifferent to whether I finish before I die, I can see the doctor gathering his powders and vials, making a vague gesture to the priest beside me, which I understand all too well.

They will be curious about the tragedy—those in the outside world who write books and print millions of newspapers—but I won’t write any more. The father confessor will seal my last words with his holy office when he’s done. Those in the outside world may send their reporters into shattered homes and grieving families, and their newspapers will feast on blood and tears, but with me, their spies must stop at the confessional. They know Tessie is dead and that I am dying. They know how the people in the house, awakened by a terrible scream, rushed into my room and found one alive and two dead, but they don’t know what I’m about to tell them now. They don’t know that the doctor pointed to a horrible, decayed heap on the floor—the lifeless body of the church watchman—and said, “I have no theory, no explanation. That man must have been dead for months!”

* * * * *

I think I’m dying. I wish the priest would—

THE DEMOISELLE D’YS

“But I believe I have descended into the dark depths where Heraclitus said the truth is hidden.”

“There are three things that are too wonderful for me, yes, four that I cannot understand:

The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent on a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid.”