I'm not sure if it can compare... but the source 
is, in some regards, the same.

The Speaker


Oh the wickedness, the hopeless damnation of a soul 
who could fascinate and paralyze human 
creatures with such words, -- words understood 
by the ignorant and wise alike, words which 
are more precious than jewels, more soothing 
than music, more awful than death!

Robert W. Chambers
The King In Yellow


The slums of the city were greasy and foul. The 
ancient buildings leaned menacingly over the 
street, and the decaying cobblestones crumbled 
underfoot. The air was thick with the stale, 
rancid smell of human apathy and anger.

Broken streetlamps and wavering moonlight did little 
to dispel the darkness. The man gritted his 
teeth into the warm, moist wind and peered 
nervously at the addresses of the looming 
buildings. Most were nearly indistinguishable.

He fingered the dog eared piece of paper in the 
pocket of his overcoat and walked on.

The streets were not empty. Lone pedestrians 
clutching packages or bags sidled past, 
darting suspicious glances at him. Lumpy, 
stinking bodies squirmed in the alleyways. 
Whores beckoned to him with sore encrusted 
fingers. Dead, inky eyes gleamed from the 
darkness, and ragged strangers slid furtively 
into shadowed alleyways at his approach.

It seemed that every third person he passed had a 
flyer or a pamphlet to thrust into his face. 
The tattered, insistent figures engaged in 
this occupation filled him with a disgust and 
loathing that the other denizens of the slum 
failed to elicit. Their fixed, manic grins and 
staring, yellowed eyes bespoke addiction or 
religious mania. He wanted no part of whatever 
it was they sought so urgently to press upon 
him.

Pausing beneath a buzzing streetlight, he fished in 
his pocket for the scrap of paper that had 
arrived in the mail yesterday morning. He 
reread the terse message; it was an invitation 
to a speech this evening, coupled with a vague 
assurance that the topics would be of 
considerable interest to a man of his tastes. 
There was no signature: only a queer, 
illegible symbol that meant nothing to him. On 
the reverse side were an address and a time.

It was, perhaps, the very vagueness of the note that 
had piqued his curiosity so strongly. He 
assumed that the organizers of the speech had 
obtained his name from one of the many mailing 
lists he subscribed to. It was true that his 
interests tended toward the perverse, and the 
possibility of some less than ordinary 
spectacle had drawn him here, to these 
shadowed, beggar-ridden streets where ill-
kempt figures stared at him with hungry eyes. 
He was only passingly familiar with this area 
of the city; his pursuits had brought him to 
the slums several times in the past, but it 
had always been during the day.

He scanned the invitation one last time and started 
off again, averting his eyes from a pockmarked 
man in a shredded rain coat who offered him a 
crumpled handbill. He only had two more blocks.

Fog and shadows transformed the cityscape. What had 
been merely shabby and unpleasant during the 
day became fantastic and nightmarish in the 
darkness. Fetid wisps of sewer air were 
granted temporary solidity by the thin, 
fluorescent moonlight. His footsteps echoed 
down the narrow street, dying out into the 
background noise of yowling alley cats and 
distant singing. A rat scurried past him; 
there was a tattered scrap of damp paper in 
its mouth. Overhead, above a boarded up shop, 
a sickly yellow light flickered on. There was 
a thump, and the light was quickly 
extinguished. Whispers and laughter drifted 
from behind closed doors, and seemed to follow 
his as he found his way deeper into the city.

At length, he came to the top of a flight of 
crumbling, concrete stairs leading down to the 
basement of a tottering apartment building. 
The moonlight rendered the number on the door 
barely visible. The man examined his 
invitation again, and began his descent.

Spiders scurried away as he set his foot down. The 
wall next to him was decorated with a scrawl 
of graffiti. The symbols were incomprehensible 
to him: gibberish in peeling, fibrous paint.

He knocked at the swollen door set at the bottom of 
the stairs, and stepped back as he heard 
immediate movement from the room or hall 
beyond. The door swung open.

The man on the other side was pale and stocky, with 
empty eyes and loose, flabby lips. His skin 
was doughy and white, and slick with sweat. He 
said nothing, merely stared with yellowed eyes.

The man groped in his pocket again for his 
invitation. He extended it to the doorman, 
shuddering involuntarily as his hand brushed 
against the soft, damp flesh of the other�s 
wrist. The doorman said nothing, but his lips 
split into a wet, wide grin as he read the 
invitation. He urged entry with a fat, wormy 
hand. His grin was idiotic and threatening.

The man entered anyway, edging past the doorman and 
toward the door at the opposite end of the 
grimy foyer. It was ajar, revealing a long, 
carpeted hallway. The man stepped through 
quickly, leaving the smiling, sweaty doorman 
behind.

The carpet squished underfoot as he closed the door 
behind him. There was the faint odor of mold 
and urine, and oddly he found this smell more 
repulsive and disturbing than the fat man who 
had taken his invitation. He paused for a 
brief moment, and debated with himself. It 
occurred to him that no one knew where he was� that 
the situation had progressed from vaguely 
exciting to vaguely ominous. He considered 
turning back.

Instead he held his breath and hurried to the door 
at the far end of the hall.

Beyond the door was a small room, stuffy and poorly 
lit. There were two rows of folding chairs; 
some were occupied by shadowed figures, 
cloaked in rags and filth. They stared fixedly 
at the mildewed, yellow curtain that dominated 
the front of the room. Some mumbled softly to 
themselves as the man passed by. There was a 
podium in front of the curtain; atop it stood 
an untidy stack of papers. The unknown speaker 
had yet to arrive.

The man took a seat in the back of the room, as far 
from the other members of the audience as he 
could. He settled into the uncomfortable chair 
and glanced around at the other attendees. One 
of the men in the front row turned to meet his 
gaze. It was the man in the torn raincoat, 
with the pockmarked cheeks and flyers. He 
nodded with casual familiarity. His eyes were 
unfocused, and his chin was shiny with drool.

Before the man could react, there was a heavy 
rustling sound as the thick curtain parted and 
the speaker approached the podium.

He was tall and thin, and his coat was the same 
shade of faded yellow as the curtain. His face 
was a pale, expressionless mask � a white blur 
in the room�s half light. His clothing rustled 
as he moved.

The speaker reached the podium and stopped. He 
stared past the audience, lifted his hand, and 
extended a single, emaciated finger. The 
lights dimmed further, and silence filled the 
room, broken only by the soft, wet susurration 
of the speaker�s breath. He rustled the papers 
on the podium, and drew forth a tattered sheet 
from the pile, seemingly at random.

And then he spoke.

His words were delivered in a dull, hollow monotone. 
His voice lacked any semblance of emotion or 
inflection.

The audience listened, rapt, ecstatic, as the 
syllables washed over them.

The man tried desperately not to hear what was being 
said. He closed his eyes and moaned. He 
clamped his hands across his ears, but the 
words were too pervasive� too encompassing. 
Against his will, the man�s hands fell to his 
lap, and he raised his eyes to the podium.

He listened, intently. Tears filled his eyes as he 
began to comprehend the awful simplicity of 
the message that was being delivered. He 
moaned and nodded along with the rest.

The speech was mercifully brief. When it was over, 
the speaker�s pale features surveyed the 
audience. The briefest flicker of satisfaction 
passed across the mask of his face. He 
disappeared behind the curtain, leaving his 
audience to stagger to their feet and lurch in 
stunned silence toward the exit.

The man paused as he passed the podium. Then, as if 
against his will, his hand snaked out and 
grabbed the stack of papers. He shoved them 
into the pocket of his coat and shuffled out 
behind the others.

That night there was one more shivering, soulless 
figure who wandered the streets with a handful 
of crumpled flyers and an empty smile.