"Er ... what kind of books do you have? I mean, could you let me have an idea of some of your titles? Dracula, Frankenstein, The Turn of the Screw, things like that?"
The old man laughed again, this time like he was chiding a small and extremely foolish child. "Oh no, Mr. Thompson. We deal in actual, stark horror. We never use second-rate products."
The hands dipped down again. Thompson wondered if it was some kind of game. They came back up. They put a book on the desk. It was a thin book, roughly a foot square. It had a whitish cover. The old man's fingers rasped on the cover when he put it down on the desk.
"Human skin," the old man said cheerfully. "Very good binding."
"Um ... yes," said Thompson. He glanced at the cover. In square letters the cover said, The Most Horrible Story In The World. Smaller type, down near the lower right hand corner, said, James Thompson, January 3, 1953.
"Why, that's today," Thompson said.
The old man waved. "A formality. We always record on the books when a new member enters the club. Keeps the records straight."
"Oh," Thompson said. "Do I ... just start reading?"
The old man shook his head and got up. He took the book in one hand, the candle in the other. "I'll conduct you to one of our reading rooms. We provide special reading rooms for the use of members."