John Jakes

“ There was a desk in the center of the room. It was gray, but Thompson could not identify the material from which it was made. A very old man with a clipped beard sat behind the desk. A candle flickered in a brass holder on top of the desk.
"Pardon me," said Thompson.
The old man looked at him. He had been looking at Thompson for a long time. In fact, Thompson could not remember a time when the old man had not been looking at him.
"You like horror stories, I take it," the old man said. "That's why you're here. Everybody in the world likes a good horror story, at least once in their lives." ”

“ Thompson asked, a bit puzzled. "It seems to come from behind these doors."
"That's right," the old man said over his shoulder. "This is the Horror Book Club, you know. All of our members take an active interest in their reading. They participate. They get horrified. It's really a horrible book, you know." ”

“ The old man said nothing.
"And the door's locked. I want to leave."
"You can't."
"What do you mean I can't? What kind of a place is this anyway?" His tone was threatening, belligerent. And weak.
"You're a member now." It was very final. ”