"If there is anything I can do to help you track down thesemonsters; ifthere is anything in my house to help you, you are welcome," Heepishsaid. "Though I can't imagine what kind of clue you could find by justbrowsingthrough. Still..."

He spread both hands out and then said, "But let me conduct youthrough myhouse. I always have the guided tour first for strangers. Hamlet cancome with us or look around on his own, if he wishes. Now, this, blow-up hereis of Alfred Dummel and Else Bennrich in the German film, The Blood Drinker, madein 1928. It had a rather limited distribution in this country, but I wasfortunate enough--Ihave many many friends all over the world--to get a print of thefilm. It may bethe only print now existing; I've made inquiries and never been ableto locate another, and I've had many people trying to find another for me..."

Childe restrained the impulse to tell Heepish that he wanted tosee the newspaper files at once. He did not wish to waste any time. ButJeremiah had told him how he must behave if he wanted to get maximum cooperationfrom his host.

The house was crammed with objects of many varieties, alloriginating in theworld of terror and evil shadows but designed and manufactured tomake money. The house was bright with illuminations of many shades: bile-yellow, blood-red, decay-purple, rigor mortis-grayblue, repressed-anger orange, butshadows seemed to press in everywhere. Where no shadow could be, there was shadow.

An air-conditioner was moving air slowly and icily, as if thenext glacialage were announcing itself. The air was well-filtered, because theburning ofeyes and throat and lungs was fading. (Something good to say aboutice ages.) Despite this, and the ridges of skin pinched by cold air, Childe feltas if he were suffocating with the closeness and bulk and disorder of thebooks, themasks, the heads of movie monsters, the distorted wavy menacingpaintings, theFrankenstein monsters and wolfmen dolls, the little Revolting Robottoys, theEgyptian statues of jackal-headed Anubis, the cat-headed Sekhmet.

The room beyond was smaller but also much more cluttered. Wooliegesturedvaguely--all his gestures were as vague as ectoplasm--at the leaningand sometimes collapsed piles of books and magazines.

"I got a shipment in from a collector in Utica, New York," Heepish said. "Hedied recently."

His voice deepened and richened almost to oiliness. "Very sad. Afine man. A real fan of the horror. We corresponded for years, more than I careto say, although I never actually got to meet him. But our minds met, we hadmuch in common. His widow sent me this stuff, told me to price it at whateverI thoughtwas fair. There's a complete collection of Weird Tales from 1923through 1954, a first edition of Chambers King in Yellow, a first edition of Draculawith a signature from Bram Stoker and Bela Lugosi, and, oh! there is so somuch!"

He rubbed his hands and smiled. "So much! But the prize is aletter from Doctor Polidori--he was Byron's personal physician and friend, youknow--author of an anonymous book--I have several first editions of the firstvampire novelin English--THE VAMPYRE. Doctor Polidori! A letter from him to a LadyMilbanks describing how he got the idea for his novel! It's unique! I've beenlusting--literally lusting--for it ever since I heard about it in1941! It'll occupy a prominent place--perhaps the most prominent--on the frontroom wall as soon as I can get a suitable frame!"

Childe refrained from asking where he would find a bare place onthe wall.

Heepish showed him his office, a large room constricted by manyrows of ceiling-high bookcases and by a huge old-fashioned rolltop deskengulfed bybooks, magazines, letters, maps, stills, posters, statuettes, toys, and a headsman's axe that looked genuine, even to the dried blood.

They went back to the room between the office and living room, where Heepishled Childe into the kitchen. This had a stove, a sink, and arefrigerator, butother-wise was full of books, magazines, small filing cases, and somedead insects on the edges of the open cupboards and on the floor.

"I'm having the stove taken out next week," Heepish said. "Idon't eat in, and when I give a party, I have everything brought in."

Childe raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Jeremiah had toldhim that the refrigerator was so full of microfilms that there was little room forfood. And at the rate the film was coming in, there would soon not be spaceenough for aquart of milk.

"I am thinking about building an extension to my house," Heepishsaid. "As you can see, I'm a teeny-weeny bit crowded now, and heaven knows whatit will be like five years from now. Or even one."

Woolston Heepish had been married--for over fifteen years. Hiswife had wanted children, but he had said no. Children could not be kept awayfrom his books, magazines, paintings and drawings, masks and costumes, toysand statuettes. Little children were very destructive.

After some years, his wife gave up her wish to have babies. Couldshe have a pet, a cat or a dog? Heepish said that he was indeed very sorry, butcats clawed and dogs chewed and piddled.

The collection increased; the house shrank. Furniture was removedto make room for more objects. The day came when there was no room for Mrs.

Heepish. TheBride of Frankenstein was elbowing her out. She knew better than toappeal foreven a halt to the collecting, and a diminution was unthinkable. Shemoved out and got a divorce, naming as co-respondent The Creature from theBlack Lagoon.

It was only fair to Heepish, Jeremiah had said, to let Childeknow that Heepish and his wife were the best of friends and went out togetheras much as when they had lived together. Perhaps, though, this was the ex-Mrs. Heepish'sway of getting revenge, because she certainly rode herd on him, andhe meeklysubmitted with only a few grumbles now and then.

Now Heepish himself was being forced out. One day, he would comehome after a late meeting of The Count Dracula Society and open the front door, and tons of books, magazines, documents, photographs, and bric-a-brac wouldcascade out, andthe rescuers would tunnel down to find Woolston Heepish pressed flatbetween the leaves of The Castle of Otranto.

Childe was led into an enclosed back porch, jammed with bookslike the other rooms. They stepped out the back door into a pale green light and aninstant sensation as of diluted sulfuric acid fumes scraping the eyes. Childeblinked, and his eyes began to run. He coughed. Heepish coughed.

Heepish said, "Perhaps we should pass up the grand tour of thegarage, but..."

His voice trailed off. Childe had stopped for a moment; Heepishwas a figureas dark and bulky and shapeless as a monster in the watery mists of agrade-Bmovie.

The door squeaked upward. Childe hastened to enter the garage. The door squeaked down and clanged shut. Childe wondered i€ this door, too, were connected to a recording taken from the old Inner Sanctum radioprogram. Heepishturned on the lights. More of the same except that there was dust onthe heads, masks, books, and magazines.

"I keep my duplicates, second-rate things, and stuff I just don'thave room for in the house at the moment," Heepish said. Childe felt that hewas expectedto ejaculate over at least a few items. He wanted to get out of thehot, close, and dead air into the house. He hoped that the files he wanted werenot stored here.

Childe commented on an entire bookshelf dedicated to the works of

D. NimmingRodder. Heepish said, "Oh, you noticed that he is the only living authorwith an individual placard in my collection in the house? Nim is my favorite, of course, I think he's the greatest writer of all time, in the Gothic or horror genre, even greater than Monk Lewis or H. P. Lovecraft or Bram Stoker. He is a very good friend of mine.