"Charles L. Grant - In a Dark Dream" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Charles L)
and cracks to reform into timbers, the moss and clumps of grass into
seawater stains, while embedded strips of ore reddened and ran into
strips of dried blood. Its top was flat and angled slightly lakeward,
its sides thrusting from the forest floor to bull the trees aside. But
not the trees behind it.
They rose thickly and darkly to the top of the uneven ridge that formed
a semicircle rim around the lake's deep basin; and when the foliage was
thick, the summer wind
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still, the water calm and empty, it was easy to imagine that no one
lived there on the slopes, and no one lived along the shore, and there
was no town to the south, beyond the sagging stone bridge that spanned
the creek the lake fed. There were too many leaves and too many gullies
and too many dips where a house could be hidden and lie unseen from the
road.
From the rock.
The black rock where Glenn held his breath and concentrated on a stone
loosely cupped in his left hand. He blinked against the water's glare
that only moments before had made him think there'd been a cloud, then
it. And missed. And he lost it over the edge and groaned.
A mild gust pushed him gently.
He shifted.
Slow; he was getting slow.
In days past he would have grabbed it without looking, tossed it once,
and grabbed it again. Big ones. Small ones.
Slow; he was getting slow.
He shifted again, wondering what it was that made him sit on his heels
instead of his rump, as if his legs wouldn't protest and his knees pop
when he moved. The perversely tempting feeling, perhaps, of falling,
nearly falling, because of the angle, and because of the trees that
poked their way up from the narrow shoulder below, tops straining, boles
twisting, leaves hissing at him to come on, come on, it won't hurt if
you jump.
Hypnotic; it was hypnotic, and sounded perfectly
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