The next day was a disaster.
While moving a framed painting from one easel to another, my foot slipped on the polished floor, and I came down hard on both wrists.
The sprains were so bad that I could not hold a brush at all.
I wandered around the studio, staring helplessly at unfinished paintings and sketches until despair finally overwhelmed me. I dropped into a chair, lit a cigarette, and angrily twiddled my useless thumbs.
Rain lashed the windows and drummed endlessly against the church roof. The monotonous sound soon drove me into a state of nervous irritation.
Tessie sat by the window, quietly sewing.
Every so often she looked up at me with such innocent sympathy that I began to feel ashamed of my temper.
I searched for something—anything—to occupy myself.
I had already read every newspaper and every book in the library, but I went to the bookcases anyway and forced the doors open with my elbow.
I knew every book by the color of its binding.
Slowly, I examined them all, walking around the library and whistling to keep myself from going mad.
I was about to enter the dining room when something caught my eye.
On the top shelf of the last bookcase, tucked away in a corner, stood a book bound in mottled serpent skin.
I had never seen it before.
From the floor, I could not make out the faded title on its spine.
I went into the smoking room and called for Tessie.
She came in from the studio.
“Could you get that book for me?”
She climbed up and reached for it.
“What is it?” I asked.
She looked at the cover.
“The King in Yellow.”
I was stunned.
Who had put it there?
How had it gotten into my rooms?
Long ago, I had made up my mind that I would never open that book. Nothing in the world could have persuaded me to buy it.
I had been afraid that curiosity might overcome me, so I had never even dared look at it in a bookstore.
And if I had ever felt the slightest desire to read it, the terrible fate of young Castaigne, whom I knew personally, had been enough to stop me.
I had always refused to hear anyone describe the book.
No one ever dared discuss the second part aloud.
So I knew absolutely nothing about what those pages contained.
I stared at the poisonous-looking binding as though I were looking at a snake.
“Don’t touch it, Tessie.”
She looked at me.
“Come down.”
Naturally, my warning only made her more curious.
Before I could stop her, she grabbed the book and laughingly ran into the studio with it.
“Tessie!”
She slipped away with a mischievous smile, waving the book at me as if to mock my useless hands.
I followed her, growing increasingly impatient.
“Tessie!”
I entered the library.
“Listen to me. I’m serious. Put that book away. I don’t want you to open it!”
There was no one there.
I searched both drawing rooms.
Then the bedrooms.
The laundry.
The kitchen.
Finally, I returned to the library and began searching the house systematically.
She had hidden herself so well that it took me half an hour to find her.
She was crouched silently beside the latticed window in the storage room above the house.
One glance told me everything.
She had paid dearly for her foolish curiosity.
The King in Yellow lay at her feet.
The book was open to the second part.
I looked at Tessie.
It was too late.
She had opened The King in Yellow.
I took her hand and led her back to the studio.
She seemed completely dazed.
“Lie down on the sofa,” I told her.
She obeyed without a word.
After a while, she closed her eyes.
Her breathing became slow and deep.
I could not tell whether she was asleep.
For a long time, I sat beside her in silence.
She did not move.
She did not speak.
At last I got up and went into the unused storage room.
I picked up the book with my less injured hand.
It felt as heavy as lead.
I carried it back into the studio, sat down on the rug beside the sofa, opened it, and read it from beginning to end.
When I finally dropped the book, overwhelmed by what I had read, I leaned weakly against the sofa.
Tessie opened her eyes.
She looked at me.
We had been talking for some time before I realized what we were discussing.
The King in Yellow.
Oh, what a terrible sin it was to write such words!
Words so clear and pure, so beautiful and musical, yet poisonous.
They glittered like the cursed diamonds of the Medici.
What kind of wicked soul could create words that could fascinate and paralyze human beings?
Words understood by both the ignorant and the learned.
Words more precious than jewels.
More soothing than music.
And more terrifying than death.
We continued talking as the room slowly darkened.
Tessie begged me to throw away the black onyx clasp I wore.
We now knew what had been carved into it.
The Yellow Sign.
To this day, I do not understand why I refused.
Even now, as I lie here writing this confession, I wish I knew what stopped me from tearing the Yellow Sign from my chest and throwing it into the fire.
I am certain I wanted to destroy it.
Yet Tessie pleaded with me again and again.
I still refused.
Night came.
The hours passed.
We continued whispering about the King and the Pallid Mask.
At midnight, the sound of bells drifted through the fog from the distant church spires.
We spoke of Hastur.
We spoke of Cassilda.
Outside, the fog pressed against the dark windows, rolling and breaking like waves upon the shores of Hali.
The house had become completely silent.
Not a sound came from the streets below.
Tessie lay among the cushions.
Her face had become nothing more than a pale gray shape in the darkness.
But her hands were clasped in mine.
I knew that she understood my thoughts.
Just as I understood hers.
We had discovered the mystery of the Hyades.
The Phantom of Truth had finally been revealed.
We no longer needed words.
Thought answered thought.
Silently.
Instantly.
Then something moved in the darkness around us.
Far away in the streets, we heard a sound.
It came closer.
And closer.
The slow, heavy crunch of wheels.
Closer still.
Then the sound stopped directly outside our door.
I dragged myself to the window.
A black-plumed hearse stood below.
The gate opened.
Then closed.
I stumbled back to my door and locked it.
I was shaking.
But I knew the locks would not save me.
Nothing could keep out the creature that had come for the Yellow Sign.
Then I heard him.
He was moving softly along the hallway.
Closer.
Closer.
Now he stood outside my door.
The bolts began to rot beneath his touch.
Then he entered.
I stared into the darkness, my eyes wide with terror.
Yet when he came into the room, I could not see him.
I only felt him.
His cold, soft grip closed around me.
I screamed and fought with all the strength I had.
But my hands were useless.
He tore the onyx clasp from my coat.
Then he struck me directly in the face.
I fell.
As I fell, I heard Tessie give a soft cry.
Her spirit fled.
Even then, I wanted to follow her.
I knew the King in Yellow had opened his torn and filthy mantle.
And I knew there was no one left to whom I could cry except God.
I could tell more.
But I do not see how it would help the world.
As for me, I am beyond human help.
Beyond hope.
I lie here now, writing this account without even caring whether I live long enough to finish it.
I can see the doctor gathering his powders and bottles.
He makes a vague gesture toward the good priest sitting beside me.
I understand what he means.
People outside will be desperately curious about this tragedy.
They will want to know what happened.
They are the people who write books and print millions of newspapers.
They will want the whole story.
But I shall write no more.
When the priest has finished his holy office, he will seal my final words with the seal of the confessional.
The outside world may send its reporters into ruined homes and grieving families.
Their newspapers may feast upon blood and tears.
But here they must stop.
They cannot pass beyond the confessional.
They already know Tessie is dead.
They know I am dying.
They know that, after hearing an awful scream, the people in the house rushed into my room and found one person alive and two dead.
But they do not know what I am about to reveal.
They do not know what the doctor said when he pointed to the horrible, decomposing body lying on the floor.
The corpse of the church watchman.
He stared at it in horror.
Then he said:
“I have no theory. No explanation.”
He looked at the dead man.
“That man must have been dead for months.”