"Shaun Hutson - Shadows" - читать интересную книгу автора (Hutson Shaun)

goose-pimples. He caught sight of his own reflection in Mathias' dressing room
mirror and his skin was white. As if the colour had been sucked from him.
Mathias sat unmoved, his eyes never leaving the writer who was quivering
violently.
He felt light-headed, a curiously unpleasant sensation of vagueness which made
him grip the chair as if anxious to assure himself he were not going to faint.
Mathias lowered his gaze and Blake felt the feeing subside as quickly
as it had come. He sucked in a deep breath, the warmth returning to his body.
He shook his head and blinked hard. 'Are you OK?' Mathias asked. The writer
nodded.
'Very clever, Jonathan,' he said, rubbing his arms briskly.
'Now do you believe me?' the psychic wanted to know. 'Can you deny what you
felt?' if you have this ability, how does it tie-in with the faith-
healing?'
'I can reach inside people. Inside their minds. Their bodies.'
'Then it would have to be a form of hypnosis, to make the subject believe you
could cure them.'
I can't give you all the answers, David,' Mathias answered, it doesn't matter.
You can't alter the facts, you can't deny what you saw on that stage tonight
or what you yourself felt here in this room.'
Blake chewed his bottom lip contemplatively.
'Think about what I've said,' the psychic added.
Blake got to his feet and announced that he had to get back to his hotel. The
two men shook hands and the writer left the building via a side entrance. The
sun outside was hot and the pavement felt warm beneath his shoes in a marked
contrast to the coolness of Mathias' dressing room.
He spotted a cab and sprinted across the street, clambering into the vehicle.
As the cab pulled away, Blake glanced over his shoulder at the red brick
building, watching as it gradually disappeared from view.
Jonathan Mathias sat before the mirror in his dressing room contemplating his
own features. He rubbed his cheeks and blinked hard. His eyes felt as if they
had grit in them but, as he sat there, he allowed his hands to drop to his
thighs, one hand curling into a loose fist. He inhaled and looked down, his
fist opening as he did so.
Cradled there, now shrunken and withered like rotten, foul smelling prunes,
were the three growths he'd taken from the body of Lucy West.
towards the bathroom once more.
The steam still swirled around and Blake almost slipped over on the tiles. He
lifted the toilet seat and urinated noisily; then, discarding the towel, he
turned towards the bath.
There was a body floating in the water.
Blake took a step back, nearly overbalancing, his eyes glued to the naked body
before him. The entire corpse was bloated, the skin tinged a vivid blue,
mottled from what appeared to be a long time in the water. The mouth was open,
lips wrinkled and cracked. A swollen tongue protruded from one corner.
Blake shook his head, studying the face more closely.
He may as well have been looking in a mirror.
The corpse in the bath was identical, in every detail, to himself. He felt as
if he were staring at his own dead body.
The writer clamped his eyes shut, screwing up the lids until white stars