"Brian Lumley - Necroscope 1 - Necroscope" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)

out of the corner of his eye. It was still there. He surrendered to instinct backed up by at least two of
his five senses, those of sight and hearing. The thing seemed rational; it existed; it wanted to talk to him.
Why him and why now? Doubtless he'd shortly be finding out. But - God damn! -he wanted to talk to
it, too. He had a real live ghost here, or a real dead one!
'Need anything?' he shakily repeated the other's question.
'You were going to light a cigarette,' the apparition pointed out. 'You might also like to take your
coat off, get yourself a coffee.' It shrugged. 'If you do these things first, then we can get on with it.'
The central heating had come on, turning itself up a notch to compensate for the sudden fall in
temperature. Kyle carefully stood up, took off his overcoat and folded it over the back of his chair.
'Coffee,' he said. 'Yes - er, I'll just be a moment.'
He walked round the desk and past his visitor. It turned to watch him leave the room, a pale
shadow of a thing floating there, skinny, insubstantial as a snowflake, a puff of smoke. And yet. . .oh,
yes, there was a power in it. Kyle was thankful it didn't follow him . . .
He put two five-pence pieces in the coffee machine in the main office, fumbling the coins into the
slot, and headed for the gents' toilet before the machine could deliver. He quickly relieved himself,
picked up his steaming paper cup of coffee on the way back to Gormley's office. The thing was
still there, waiting for him. He carefully walked round it, seated himself again at the desk.
And as he lit a cigarette he looked at his visitor more closely, in greater detail. This was something
he had to get fixed in his mind.
Taking into account the fact that its feet weren't quite touching the floor, it must be about five-ten
in height. If its flesh was real instead of milky mist, it - or he - would weigh maybe nine stone.
Everything about him was vaguely luminous, as if shining with some faint inner light, so Kyle
couldn't be sure about colouring. His hair, an untidy mop, seemed sandy. Faint and irregular marks on
his high cheeks and forehead might be freckles. He would be, oh, maybe twenty-five years old; he had
looked younger at first but that effect was wearing off now.
His eyes were interesting. They looked at Kyle and yet seemed to look right through him, as if he were
the ghost and not the other way about. They were blue, those eyes - that startlingly colourless blue
which always looks so unnatural, so that you think the owner must be wearing lenses. But more
than that, there was that in those eyes which said they knew more than any twenty-five-year-old had
any right knowing. The wisdom of ages seemed locked in them, the knowledge of centuries lay
just beneath the faintly blue film which covered them.
Apart from that, his features were fine, like porcelain and seeming equally fragile; his hands were
slim, tapering; his shoulders drooped a little; his skin in general, apart from the freckles of his face,
was pale and unblemished. But for the eyes, you probably wouldn't look at him twice on the
street. He was just . . . a young man. Or a young ghost. Or maybe a very old one.
'No,' said the object of Kyle's scrutiny, his lips immobile, 'I'm not any kind of ghost. Not in the
classic sense of the word, anyway. But now, since you obviously accept me, can we begin?'
'Begin? Er, of course!' Kyle suddenly felt like laughing, hysterical as a schoolgirl. He controlled it with
an effort.
'Are you sure you're ready?'
'Yes, yes. Go right ahead. But - er - can I record this? For posterity or whatever, you know?
There's a tape recorder here, and I -'
 'The machine won't hear me,' said the other, shaking his head again. 'Sorry, but I'm only
speaking to you -directly to you. I thought you understood that? But . . . take notes if you wish.'
'Notes, yes . . .' Kyle scrabbled in the desk drawers, found paper and a pencil. 'Fine, I'm ready.'
The other slowly nodded. 'The story I have to tell is . . . strange. But working in an
organisation such as yours, you shouldn't find it too unbelievable. If you do . . . there'll be plenty
for you to do afterwards; the truth of the things I'm going to tell you will come out then. As to any
doubts you may have about the future of your branch - put them aside. Your work will go on,
and it will go from strength to strength. Gormley was the head, but he's dead. Now you will be head -