"Charles L. Grant - Black Oak 03 - Winter Knight" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Charles L)

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Ellen Proctor sits by a window in a nursing home she's lived in for almost seven years. Her hair is brushed, her
clothes are clean, her hands lie calmly in her lap. Her face is turned slightly toward the winter sun, but there is no smile
at her mouth, no smile in her eyes.

When it's time for meals, a nurse feeds her; when it's time for bed, a nurse helps her; when it's time to wash, a nurse
bathes her.

Physically she is as healthy as she can be in such a situation.

Proctor visits her every Wednesday night, and every Wednesday night he tries to bring her back. No one knows
where she is or why she's there, but Proctor tries to bring her back.

She hasn't said a word in almost seven years.

do you believe in ghosts ?
Episode 3

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ight in early January, the first Sunday, and a silence that belongs only to winter, a darkness without the moon.

The shops were closed along Battle Row, the display windows dark, no need for night-lights or spotlights or alarms.
A few of the buildings were mock Tudor, first floors extending partway over the large-block pavement on either side of
the street, with heavy casement windows and mullion panes, and window boxes now empty, not to be seeded until
spring; the rest were ordinary brick and weathered stone, tonight made extraordinary by the sharp brittle air that
sparkled around the streetlamps, and by the snow that fell slowly out of the dark.

At the top of the Row was the Raven's Loft, another Tu-dor but not a copy; two years before it had celebrated its
three hundredth birthday. It too went dark once the land-lord, Darve Westrum, ushered Conrad Cheswick politely out
the door and politely, but firmly, closed it behind him.

Conrad stood in the cold then, shivering as he buttoned his topcoat and adjusted his scarf more snugly around his
neck. A rotund man with a close-cropped white beard and thick white hair, round cheeks and bright eyes, he
resem-bled to his constant discomfort a cartoon rendering of Fa-ther Christmas in tailored cashmere. It especially
bothered him this time of year, although Christmas and Boxing Day were a long fortnight gone.

Briskly he rubbed his gloved palms together and blew out a puff of breath, watched it expand and fade, and
reck-oned it was time he made his way home. Not at all drunk, but not completely sober either. A good thing, he
thought, that he hadn't driven. He had a feeling as he took his first step away from the pub that he'd probably end up
in a ditch somewhere and never hear the end of it.