The day started with a call from Margo, his agent. She had asked to meet with him so they could discuss his new book. Francis Boyer, unaware he would be dead by the end of the week, agreed to meet her at six o'clock that night at Arbor's on the Dock. Being a bachelor who hated to eat alone, he always tried to set meetings around meals. In the mean time Francis decided to wander the Annapolis back streets as was his habit when in a particularly good mood. He had been raised poor, his father dying when he was yound and his mother barely able to support the two of them, so when he had the prospect of money coming his way, he tended to enjoy going out and buying something frivolous for himself, a joy he had been denied in youth.

 Halfway along Essex Street, Francis stopped in a store he had never noticed before. It was set back slightly from the road, in a house with a small cement court yard in front. He had noticed the house often, the recessed front and court yard out of place on a city street, but had never realized it was actually a store. The front window was dusty and in the bright summer glare he could not see what was displayed inside. He crossed the courtyard and shielded his eyes against the window so he could see. It was obviously a used bookstore. The display window was loaded with books of every type, some old, some not so old. Most of the covers were faded from the sun. A old yard jockey, it's face painted minstrel black, was the center piece of the display. Instead of a lantern it held a carefully hand lettered sign declaring,

The black ink of the sign had faded since it had been hung to a dull orange-brown sort of color. Intrigued, Francis decided to step inside since he had never even noticed the place before.

 The door was wood with a frosted glass upper panel. It had the name painted on the frosted glass, Wegman's Books old and New, est. 1912. As he stepped inside a string of brass bells chimed against the glass, announcing his arrival. He closed the door and again the bells chimed, though their sound seemed deadened by the somber quiet of the store.

It was dark inside, and it took a little while before Francis dared to move into the place, lest he trip over anything. He stood at the doorway , smelling the pleasant odor of old books mixed with the scent of pipe tobacco, cherry-vanilla he thought. It was the same scent his father's study had, before he had died. Even now, twenty years later the room still held that faint ghost of pipe tobacco. Whenever he visited his mother he always had to stick his nose in the room, as if saying hello to his dead father.

 While he waited for his eyes to adjust he took a deep breath. He was almost transported back to his father's study by it, except there was another odor here, hidden deep beneath the pleasant reading room scent. It was damp and rangy, like the odor of the reptile house at the zoo. It was faint, but once he had smelled it he could not help but not smell it. That unpleasant smell kept him on edge tripping some primal trigger in his mind.

Finally his eyes adjust and he looked around the store. The walls were painted institutional green, which was only visible above the top of the book shelves which covered the walls. Three more lines of shelves ran down the center to the store. A counter, stacked high with old National Geographic magazines was to his left by the door. Listening Francis could hear nothing, it was totally silent, even the sounds of the street were absent. He wondered if the store was actually open.

"Hello?" he called into the dark shop. The sound was quickly absorbed by the room. Books filled the shelves, and the tops of the shelves were stacked with more. Here and there piles of volumes were leaning against the bottom shelves. Every available surface was filled with them, stacked high and precarious. He took a step forward and bumped a stack next to the counter which he carefully steadied with his hand.

 "Hello?" he called again.

 "Hello, is there anything I can help you with?" the voice replied from right next to Francis. He jumped and the stack of books which he had just steadied toppled over. Mickey Spillane and Dashiell Hammett spilled across the floor. Francis stooped to pick up the scattered books and the owner of the voice came around from behind his counter.

He was short and bald, with a wide, splay footed gait. He squatted down and Francis could smell the salty chinese-restaurant odor of his sweat. When the books were stacked again, now in two shorter piles, the two of them stood up. The man stood five feet tall, a full head shorter than Francis and was bald with a round head. His face was bland and flaccid like a water balloon, with pale curd colored skin which was mottled with uneven patches of yellowish purple, like old faded bruises. He had wide dull eyes magnified behind a pair of frameless glasses. They were a golden with a jaundiced yellow sclera around the iris. He smiled weakly at Francis, his rubbery lips stretching in a grin which almost reached his undersized ears. The effect was predatory, with is small gapped teeth becoming exposed.

 "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you. I was behind the counter there and I guess you didn't see me. My name is Urnst, Urnst Wegman. I own the store." The little man stuck out his hand and Francis took it.

 "My, uh," he started. The hand he held was soft, much like the mans face looked, and cold. It was like holding a fish. "My name's Francis. Sorry about the books, I just didn't really see them." The man's eyes held him but the odd appearance of his face made him want to look away. Then he realized, the man had no eye brows. Whatever had caused the man's baldness had taken those too. The over all effect was ichthyoid.

 "Welcome to my store, feel free to look around. I have work to get back to, but feel free to ask if you need anything." Francis tried to let go of the man's hand, but he held on for a moment longer, "Anything at all. Just give me a quick call." Then he let go.

 Francis was grateful when he was released. Unconsciously he wiped his hand on his shorts and walked down the first aisle of books. The shelves were filled with the standard fodder of used books stores, self-help books and the biographies of whichever celebrity happened to want to make a quick buck.

After a few minutes browsing he realized the store was no different from the others in the town and he made his way to the front again. Urnst Wegman was still behind his counter. He came from behind it at Francis' approach. "Did you find anything of interest?" he asked, rubbing his fat hands together.

"No, not really. I was just stopping in for a quick look around."

"I understand, but i would have thought a writer would have found something of interest in here. Did you not see my rarer books, in the back?"

 "No I didn't. How did you know I was a writer?" he asked.

 "Just a knack really. Actually I recognized you when you walked in," the old man held up a copy of Aztec Winter, his first book and flipped it over to reveal the author's photograph on the back. Francis had to admit that while he looked much younger in the photo he had not changed much over the years.

 "Well, I am surprised. I didn't think anyone remembered that dog of a book."

 "I remember lots of things. Now come, let me show you my rarer books." The man ambled down the center aisle of the store, his broad feet sort of slapping against the dusty wood floor as he walked. Francis tried not to breath as he followed, the fishy scent of the man mildly nauseating. The little man lead Francis to a small curtained alcove off of the back of the main room. Francis had not even noticed it, wedged between two book shelves. In fact he could have sworn there had been a shelf here, holding religion and philosophy. He shrugged and ducked through the curtain.

 The back room was lit by a single bulb hanging from a ceiling fixture. It was only about ten feet across, though at times, if you looked at it in a certain way it seemed much larger. The light of the bulb did not seem to always reach the walls and the angles of the corners sometimes seemed off, as if the room should have six walls, though it only had four.

 Where the store front was quite full of books the back was absolutely packed. Books were lined in the shelves two and three deep in places and piles filled the middle of the room so that you had to squeeze carefully along the edges. The little man squeezed back past Francis, to his chagrin, and stopped in the door way.

"Just take a few minutes to look around. I am positive you will find something of interest to you." His moon face split into his wide grin and he was gone.

Francis stood in the middle of the room, slowly turning around and looking at all of the books and folios which filled the place. Where to start, where indeed. At random he picked up a heavy black book on the top of the central stack of books. He began flipping through the volumes he found randomly, the room was in no order he could discern. He found books of erotic poetry and a mildewed stack of old Playboy magazines from the fifties. He dug further and found a first printing of Mark Twain and a pair of heavy leather Charles Dickens books published in 1891. After a short while he came to the conclusion that there was nothing he would find to peek his interest and was about to leave. He turned to head out the door when something caught his eye, wedged behind one of the shelves, the battered corner sticking out. He paused to pull it out, if for no other reason than to keep it from becoming damaged. It was a leather folder, about eighteen inches on the long side and a foot across. The cover was coated in a fine grey powdering of mold which he wiped off the top. He gasped at whet he had uncovered, Le Roi dans Jaune, The King in Yellow. His french was rusty but functional wit a little thought and he was sure of his translation.

He remembered hearing about The King in Yellow when he was in college. It had never come up in classes or anything, but quite often in private discussions at night in his dorm room, over a few bottles of red wine and the occasional joint. Carefully Francis wiped the rest of the mold off of the cover and again paused. There, in the lower half of the cover, was embossed an odd rune or glyph. It was painted a faded yellow, chipped and peeling here and there from the moisture which had helped the mold to grow. Francis rubbed his eyes when he looked at the glyph. It seemed to crawl and squirm under his gaze, never actually moving but having the potential of movement. Somewhere in the back of his mind an alarm went off. He had read or been told about the glyph, the Yellow Sign as it had been called, though he could not remember what it was.

Carefully Francis untied the leather thongs which held the folio closed. Inside were eight scripts, brown and brittle, which were marred by dark patches of mold. He took a moment to study the top one. It was in french and was covered with comments scrawled in the margins as if it had been used by an actor, with notes jotted for reference on stage direction. He tried to translate some of the notes and giggled at a few. After only a few moments he decided to buy it, almost regardless of the cost. He pulled his wallet out and checked to see if he had his credit card. He did. He retied the folder closed and ducked out of the back room. He held his discovery under his arm as he went to the front of the store.

Mr. Wegman, the little moon faced owner was still at the front of the store, singing quietly to himself. Francis walked up and carefully moved a stack of the National Geographics to the floor so he could see the man. The man looked up and that predatory smile spread across his mask like face. "Ah, so you did find something then. Let's see what you've got," he said, adjusting his thick glasses on his tiny nose.

 He took the folder from Francis, and flipped it over, examining it. Francis had the irrational fear that the man was going to keep it and not let him take the folio home.

 "This is quite old actually, eighteen-sixties, France. It is a set of scripts for The King in Yellow. Do you know anything about it?"

 "I only have heard rumors, but I thought all the french copies were destroyed by the government when it was published. That's what I had heard at least." Francis fidgeted, waiting to see if he would get the scripts back.

 "Yes, so they were. This however was printed before it was commercially published. This was the original set of scripts by Jean Decomte. He wrote it and was going to put the show on at the Theatre sur l'Seine. The story goes he committed suicide in his office the opening night, drank an overdose. Anyway, the script disappeared for a while and resurfaced when someone tried to publish about ten years later. The french government confiscated the entire print run and burned them as pornography. Anyway this set of scripts somehow made it to England where it was published in 1895 by Marlowe Bros. out of London. I bought the original scripts from Jacob Marlowe just after the Great War," Urnst Wegman said as he ran his hands over the battered leather surface of the folio.

"Well, it's been back there since I bought it. I doubt anyone is going to want it now anyway, being so damaged and all. Let's call it one-seventy five." He smiled again and Francis avoided it, looking at the floor while pulling his wallet out. He gave Urnst Wegman his credit card and the man simply handed it back again. "I'm sorry, I don't accept credit cards. I just don't believe in them."

 Anxiously Francis returned his card to his wallet and counted what money he had. He normally did not carry much cash, but he was in luck tonight, expecting to go out to dinner with his agent. He handed the man a hundred and seventy-five dollars and quickly took the scuffed folder containing the play off the counter before the moon faced man decided to change his mind. Instead he simply winked at Francis. "You have a good night, Mr. Boyer. I hope to see you again soon." Francis saw the beginning of Wegman's shark grin and quickly ducked out of the store into the street. It was dark.

 "Ah, hell." He checked his watch, quickly working his way back up Essex Street until he could cut over towards the City Docks. It was a little before nine and he had said he would meet Margo at six. How the hell had he lost so much time? It had only felt as if he had been in the store for a little while, an hour at most. He hurried, hoping she might have decided to still have dinner at Arbor's, though he doubted he could be that lucky. He began to jog, not looking terribly out of place in his shorts and t-shirt. He made it to Arbor's ten minutes later, and Margo, as expected, was gone. A pissed off agent was not the best thing for a writer's career. He began the walk home, hoping Margo was not too angry of at him.

 He found a note tucked into his mail box when he got to the house, it was from Margo. He read it and crumpled it up in his pocket. It said she would call him tomorrow during the day, if he had the time in his busy schedule for his agent. He hated her sarcastic tone. She used it whenever she was peeved at him.

 Across the street the Ram's Head was doing it's usual heavy business, with noisy people sitting out front at the wrought iron tables. Francis hardly ever went there anymore, it was too busy for his tastes. He quickly stepped inside with his prize and closed the door.

 He went directly to his study where he did all of his writing and pulled down the French/English Dictionary. He could read french with difficulty, but figured he would probably need it before the night was out. He eased into the heavy leather chair he wrote in, took his shoes off and propped his feet up on the desk. Comfortably situated he untied the battered folder, pausing before he opened it. He gazed for a long while at the yellow symbol emblazoned on the front. His eyes ached looking at it, but he continued to, as if entranced. Finally he opened the folio and began the slow task of translating the play.

 He finished the first act and got up to get something to drink from the kitchen. On his way back he looked out the window and realized that the bar across the street was dark and silent. They had turned off all the lights and gone home. He was troubled by how late it had gotten, like at the store. Time seemed to just slip by.

 He was not sure but he thought that someone was still there, standing under the awning which stretched out over the sidewalk. He watched the figure for a moment and saw him move. Francis checked his watch, it was just after three in the morning. He guessed it might have been one of the employees, the shape of the person, though indistinct was familiar. He shrugged and went back to his studio.

The next time he stopped, when he had finished the play, he realized how light the sky had gotten. He took a sip of his untouched soda and walked downstairs to get the morning paper which would have been delivered by then. He had the feeling he was being watched. He looked up and down the street, but saw no one. Quickly he ducked back inside.

He finished his Coke and read the morning paper, all the while the feeling of being watched never left him. He walked from room to room but saw no one. Of course not, how could anyone have gotten in while you were here? Of course, how could the whole night have slipped by so quickly with out his noticing. He did a final walk through of the house and decided it was time to sleep.

He had been awake for twenty-four hours and was pooped. He got undressed and brushed his teeth, then as an after thought went into his study and locked the folder containing the play in his bottom drawer. He had found that play and he would be damned if anyone was going to take it from him. He stopped and laughed at his paranoia. He definitely needed to sleep. Returning to his bedroom he quickly fell asleep.

 Francis awoke to the ringing of the phone. He rolled over and reached out for it, knocking it off the receiver and onto the floor before finally getting it to his ear. It was his agent Margo.

"'Ello," he said, his voice slurred with sleep.

 "Hello Francis, this is Margo, your agent. How are you doing to today?" she said, her voice monotone and cool.

 "So so. I'm sick as a dog to be honest. Got sick yesterday afternoon and have been in bed since. What time is it?" he replied, trying to cover for himself.

 "After three. I've been trying to call all day, didn't you hear the phone?"

 "Nah, sorry. Listen, I'm not feeling to good right now. Do you mind if i meet you later this week? Maybe Thursday?" Francis asked, not wanting to talk to her while he was half asleep. He sat up in bed and ran his hands through his greasy hair. He actually did not feel too good.

 "Gimme a call when you feel better, but don't let it slide too long. I might have a job for you."

 "Alright I gotta go, see ya." Francis hung up the phone on her, as if he had to run for the bathroom. He sat on the edge of his bed holding his head. It had been a few months since he had last suffered a migraine, but this one was a doozy. He could barely open his eyes because the room was too bright. Stumbling, he went to the window to close the curtains and took a quick glance outside, and stopped.

Across the street, sitting at one of the Ram's Head's tables was the man from the bookstore, Francis was almost positive. In the light, the sun reflected of his

 pallid mask

 bald head. He was dressed in a pale yellow shirt and a pair of white trousers. Francis watched for a second, squinting his eyes against the bright sun light. The people passing by seemed to avoid the man, unconsciously stepping away from him, crossing the street in a few cases as they approached the front of the bar. Despite it being late in the afternoon, when most of the tables were starting to fill up, those around the man were empty. It was odd.

The sun was too much for Francis to handle and he finally closed the curtain despite wishing to spy on the man. What was he doing there? Was he watching Francis? Standing in the gloom of the curtained room Francis pondered these things.

 Get a grip Francis, your acting silly. If that was the guy from the store, then he was just grabbing a quick lunch. You don't live that far from the store and the Ram's Head does serve a good meal. Get a grip.

Deciding he was being silly Francis took a final glance out the window, the light send a bolt of pain through his eye, but he did see one thing, the man was gone.

 Francis debated going back to sleep, he would not get much writing done with his head feeling like an over ripe melon. He scratched his head and sniffed his arm pit, then decided instead to take a shower.

He collected a pair of boxers and a t-shirt and took them in the bathroom where he turned on the water. The hiss of the shower sounded thunderous to Francis' head. He climbed under the hot water and washed, the tension in his shoulders from a night of reading quickly fading. He climbed out and quickly dressed. His head felt better, though still not great. He walked into the bedroom and tossed his towel on the bed. He pulled on a pair of jeans and some socks then stopped dead, one sock on the other still in his hand.

 The King of Rags and Tatters, The Yellow King

 The words came unbidden to his mind as he looked at the golden shredded cloth lying on the floor next to the bed. He slowly stood and walked around the bed, laughing at himself. It was the edge of his towel.

Time to cut back on the coffee Francis, your getting a little freaky, thank you. Also time for some new towels. He picked the towel up and threw it into the wicker hamper next to his bedroom door.

 He finished dressing and stepped into the hallway. His head began to pound again, the ache starting at his eyes.

Woe, unto he who denies the King, for he shall suffer like the tormented souls of Hell.

 He could not remember where the words were from, but guessed they were from the play. That damned play had plagued his dreams all night. He had looked out over mirror surface Hali and the ghostly spires of Carcosa had risen with the rising of the Hyades. He had heard those words in his dream. Francis walked into his study and slumped into the chair behind his desk. He was tempted to get out the play, but his head hurt too much. Instead he simply unlocked the desk and checked it was still there. As he gazed at the yellow symbol on the cover, threatening to crawl off the cover , he thought he heard something down stairs.

 Quickly he closed the drawer and relocked it. It had probably been the mail man, it was about the right time of the day, but not worth the risk. He walked down the stairs to the kitchen and then through the living room, looking for any sign of intruder. Finally he opened the front door and found his mail sticking out of the mailbox. He took it and shuffled through the envelopes as he walked back up to his studio.

Relax, before you give yourself a hemorrhage. Jeeze, boy. You are jumpy, must be the head ache. He finally tossed the envelopes on the desk and unlocked the drawer again, not able to restrain himself. He took the folder into the bedroom with him and closed the door. The french/English dictionary he had pulled down remained on the desk where he has set it the night before. He had never even opened it.

 Thursday

 Margo was pissed. She had given Francis the benefit of doubt that he had been sick and the little shit had not bothered to even call her. She had tried three times and gotten his answer machine each time. He had probably gone out of town and not bothered to tell her, despite the fact she had told him she had a job for him. She was dressed for business, in a mustard colored suit with her favorite white silk blouse. She always wore this when she was readying herself for a confrontation. She kiddingly called it her power suit, since she did not wear power ties. She pulled her car up in front of the colonial row house where Francis Boyer lived and parked against the curb despite the red paint. She did not care if she got a ticket, she made enough for it not to really be a problem.

 Across the street the Ram's Head was busy, all of the seating outside filled by drinkers. One table, near the front was empty though, except for a short little man with a bald head and a yellow shirt. She only gave him a passing glance, but could have sworn he smiled at her, a big wide grin.

Margo put her purse on her shoulder and straightened her jacket. She took two deep breaths and knocked on the door. She was pissed and the longer she waited for Francis to answer the door, the angrier she got. She knocked again, still no answer. Finally she pounded on the door, loud enough for the brass knocker in the center (she did not bother with it this time) to bounce against the door with each rap. Still no answer. She walked around to the side of the house and looked through the window there. She could see papers scattered all over the living room, which was odd.

She had worked with Francis a long time and knew he hardly even used the room for guests let alone himself. He was like most bachelors, owning the whole house but only really using one or two rooms. In the kitchen she could see the coffee pot was turned on and half full of coffee. The little orange light was glowing in the gloom beyond the window. He was home. Finally she checked in the garage at the back of the house. His car was there. She was getting angrier by the minute. She had not gotten to be the head editor of a major publishing house by being ducked by writers, even if he was one of their best.

Finally Margo checked the back door. It was open and she slipped inside. The kitchen was a wreck, with coffee cups and glasses all over the place. Papers were scattered all over the kitchen table and she took a moment to read one.

The sun, buttercups, yield signs, the yellow signs are everywhere. Rags and tatters and tater tots. Yellow lights and yellow leather, corn on the cob, corn in a can, corn in my shit, gone to shit and trash and rags and tatters and signs.

 Signs, signs , everywhere there's signs, signs that say yield and children at play and yellow grass in the summer under he yellow sun.

She tossed the paper on the table and retrieved another, also filled, top to bottom in more of the gibberish. It was a yellow legal pad. At random as she walked through the house she would pick up sheets and glance at them. Yellow this and yellow that. What the hell was he up to.

 "Francis!" she called up the stairs, scared to go any further. There was no response, though she heard a noise up there.

"Francis, it's Margo. I'm coming up. Are you decent?" Margo started up the steps. When she got to the top she looked around her. The entire floor was covered in the pages from what must have been a hundred legal pads, all filled with scribbled writing. "Francis! It's Margo! Are you alive?" She heard the noise again, from the office where he worked. She knocked on the door and heard something beyond, it sounded like a whimper. Cautiously she opened the door and stuck her head in. The room was almost buried in the papers, all filled with the same scribbled writing about yellow this and that. She stepped into the room and saw him.

Francis was lying on the floor, naked except for a pair of dirty boxers and a pair of socks. He was curled up in a ball, rocking backwards and forwards.

 "Francis? Are you okay?" she asked. Slowly he turned, his eyes sad and frightened. He clutched something to his chest. It looked like a thin leather book of some sort. She stepped closer so she could see him behind the desk.

As he saw her move forward he saw her suit, the mustard colored suit she had worn for her preemptive meeting with him. His eyes grew wide and terrified. "King, the King doth come for those who do not bow to him." Francis screamed. "Art thou most traitorous for though were the jubilant color of the King of lost Carcosa." he pointed at her.

She stepped forward again, and she watched as he huddled against the wall, clutching the leather book to his chest. :Francis, what is the matter? What are you talking about? Listen I'm going to call a doctor." She turned away for a moment trying to find the phone under the clutter of paper.

Then he was on her.

 The police arrived as rush hour was under full swing. By the time they got to the house there was a thick knot of people gathered around the front of the house. They had come from the bar across the street. Lying in the doorway was a woman. She had been wearing a gold colored suit, but now the upper half was stained a dark maroon. She would have been lying face down had there been any face left, but that was gone. From the odor in the air someone had vomited, probably whoever had first found the body. Then it moved. It was still alive!

 The police man bent down to her. She was trying to talk, but blood kept filling her mouth as she opened it. Drawing his gun he went into the house but did not go far. There, on the stairs just inside the door was another victim. The officer was not sure if it was a body yet. Blood was pooled in the entry way at the base of the stairs, and one of those heavy carpet knives, with the retractable blade was lying in the middle of the pool.

 The body on the stairs was pale and lifeless, it wrists were slit, from hand to elbow, both of them and the blood started just below them except for a spurt along the wall. The officer looked around him, just to make sure no one else was evidently around. He shook his head as he saw all of the paper scattered around everywhere he looked. Outside he heard his partner trying to move the audience back from the house.

 The officer inside wondered what to do next, this was literally a bloody mess.

 As the crowd dispersed one man, bald and smiling walked away, heading toward a little shop on Essex Street. He was wearing a pale yellow shirt and his skin was sickly pale with jaundiced patches. He carried a leather folder under his arm and a small wrapped package under his arm. Once in his shop he unwrapped the small package. It was a mask, of sorts. It was the mask of a woman, he decided to try it on for size. It peeled off the old mask he had been wearing and tried the new one on, paying no attention to the clotted blood around the edges. It fit perfectly.