later his telephone rang and Nicholson said: “The story’s okay. When can you come for an editorial conference? We want to plan a whole series of yarns at one go—today if you can manage that”
Gentry jumped at the chance. After a hurried cafeteria lunch, he traveled out to the House of Horror.
Nicholson beamed as they shook hands. “You’re in, Gentry, just the man we need. Come on down and meet the gang.”
Gentry assumed he meant the editors of individual books, perhaps other writers. Nicholson led him along the passage to a metal door and used a key he kept on a chain. They stepped into the cage of a lift. Weight fell away from him as they plummeted down, a long way down. A basement?
Nicholson was studying him so he was careful to keep the surprise off his face.
When the cage stopped, Nicholson used a second key and they stepped directly into an oblong room. It was windowless, the lighting concealed, empty except for a long table with chairs grouped about it. There were scribble pads and ballpoints on the table.
At the far end of the room, Gentry saw another metal door, larger than the one through which they had entered. There was a hum of air-conditioning—and another sound, hinting of hidden electronics.
Nicholson glanced at his wristwatch. “We’re early—grab a seat, make yourself comfortable. We shan’t have long to wait.” His voice was flat, without echo, indicating that the room had been soundproofed. “You wouldn’t hear a scream down here.”
It seemed an odd thing to say—and then the far door slid open and Gentry saw, with a start, bright sunlight and grassland extending to the edge of a forest. He blinked, and then the gang came through and he refused to believe his eyes. Actors, of course—they had to be. Nicholson must have one hell of an outré sense of humor.
First came an old crone, dressed in black with a pointed hat, so obviously a witch. She was closely followed by a pallid-skinned man with projecting teeth; vampire. From a third figure came a strong canine smell. Werewolf?
Nicholson’s gaze remained steady on Gentry as he asked softly: “You didn’t think we invented them, did you?”
One by one, they took their places at the conference table; a patchwork-man smelling of the grave, a half-man half-beast, a hooded figure with fleshless skull and empty eye sockets.
“Meet our new writer,” Nicholson said. “Jerome Gentry, he’s done all right on his first.”
The witch—how could she suddenly look so young and desirable?—murmured: “Delighted, Jerome, we must become better acquainted.”
Gentry sat as if in a trance, unable to speak. His mind screamed impossible.…
“Look, Gentry,” Nicholson said. “I’d best put you in the picture—and you’ll keep your mouth shut for a rather obvious reason. Talk, and you’ll be locked away in a madhouse. Through that gateway—” He pointed to the second door—“is another world, a world coexisting with and almost identical to Earth.
“Not quite identical, however; life has taken a somewhat different path as you can see. In the past there must have been some leakage across the boundary from this other world to ours. It’s where our myths and legends stem from, so stop disbelieving and accept reality.
“This other world exists, the people are real and trade goes on between us. The math boys came up with coordinates for a more permanent link, a computer takes care of the detail, and everything is under control. Now let’s get down to story ideas.” He turned to the nightmare figures round the table. “What’s been happening since our last meeting?’
“On the night of the full moon, by the tower in the forest.…”
One by one the figures from legend spoke, and Gentry scribbled notes, his mind automatically building raw material into story form. Stories? But these events had actually happened, they were real in the other world.…
Perhaps two hours had passed when Nicholson said: “Enough. He’s new, remember—give him time to adjust to the situation. Let him get this stuff written up and we’ll meet again next week.”
As in a dream, Gentry watched the strange figures pass through the gateway to their own world. (The werewolf seemed to have difficulty maintaining its shape.) The door closed silently behind them.
Nicholson took his arm, led him back to the lift. They sped upwards. In his office, Nicholson poured two whiskies while Gentry stared from the window, down at the street, the humdrum traffic-jams, suburban shoppers.
“I’m used to them,” Nicholson said, “but they get me sometimes.”
Gentry tossed his drink down so quickly he choked. “I was dreaming, wasn’t I? They couldn’t have been real—”
“Better forget that part of it. Just think of them as a perfect story source. It works out okay—there’s money in it.’
A dark thought crossed Gentry’s mind, but he dismissed it. He was earning!
He traveled home, clutching his briefcase full of notes, and started in on the first story. It went well, a natural, until he began thinking about the reality behind it. He put that firmly from his mind.
He had difficulty sleeping that night, and took a sleeping pill. And then the nightmare started, a nightmare in which he stood alone before that second door and, slowly, it opened.…
All week he worked doggedly, getting the outlines written up. He received prompt payment for his first job and that encouraged him to go on. Needn’t do this for long, he told himself, just get enough money in the bank and then back to the novel. But his nightmare continued, night after night.
Nicholson okayed the series of stories and invited him out for another conference. Gentry thought twice about going: but the reality seemed too incredible to take seriously. He went.
Nicholson looked pleased to see him. “You’ve got the hang of our stuff now—just remember to cool it a bit for the readers. Shall we go down?”
It was after the second conference that Gentry started serious drinking. He was making money, but his nerves suffered. And the nightmare got worse…he had to drink to forget.
There were other meetings, with Nicholson watching him anxiously. He was churning the stuff out now; it came easier all the time. But he couldn’t go on forever; too little sleep and too much drink wore him down. In the end, he phoned Nicholson:
“I’m getting out. I’ve a novel—”
“I understand, Gentry, I know it’s a strain. But don’t let me down before I get a new writer. Just one more time, okay?”
“Okay.” he answered, hesitating.
When Gentry arrived at the House of Horror for the last time, Nicholson seemed relieved. He handed him a glass of whisky before going down in the lift to that locked room. At the bottom, Nicholson unlocked the metal door and nodded for Gentry to go first.
Jerome Gentry stepped from the lift cage into the conference room. He heard the door close behind him, realized the editor wasn’t with him. He turned, calling, “Nicholson—!”
He was alone, the metal door locked. He beat on it, turned again as he heard shuffling steps behind him. The second door had opened.
They were coming for him, and now he knew what form the other side of the bargain took. They caught him, dragged him the length of the room—screaming—and pushed him through into their own world.
The second door slid shut behind them.
Gentry licked dry lips, feeling faint.
The hag mocked: “Shall I cast a love spell, Jerome?”
And the werewolf snarled: “Run fool, run—I feel like hunting!”
Gentry looked round, wild-eyed. The forest seemed reassuringly thick. If he could make it to the tree, hide, maybe sneak back to