"Brian Lumley - Titus Crow 1 - The Burrowers Beneath" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)

approached by a police officer. Having stumblingly identified myself, I was
told the following story.
A passing motorist had actually seen the Collapse; the tremors attendant had
been felt in nearby Marske. The motorist, realizing there was little he could
do on his own, had driven on at speed into Marske to report the thing and
bring help. Allegedly the house had gone down like a pack of cards. The police
and the ambulance had been on the scene within minutes and rescue operations
had begun immediately. Up to now it appeared that my uncle had been out when
the collapse occurred, for as of yet there had been no trace of him. There had
been a strange, poisonous odour about the place but this had vanished soon
after the rescue work had started. The floors of all the rooms except the
study had now been cleared, and during the time it took the officer to bring
me up-to-date even more debris was being frantically hauled away.
Suddenly there was a lull in the excited babble of voices. I saw that the
sweating rescue workers were standing amid the ruins in a gang looking down at
something. My heart gave a wild leap and I scrambled over the debris to see
what they had found.
There, where the floor of the study had been, was that which I had feared and
more than half expected. It was simply a hole. A gaping hole in the floor -
but from the angles at which the floorboards lay, and the manner in which they
were scattered about, it looked as though the ground, rather than sinking, had
been pushed up from below. . .
Nothing has since been seen or heard of Sir Amery Wendy-Smith, and though he
is listed as being missing, I know that in fact he is dead. He is gone to
worlds of ancient wonder and my only prayer is that his soul wanders on our
side of the threshold. For in our ignorance we did Sir Amery a great injustice
- I and all the others who thought he was out of his mind - all of us. Each of
his queer ways, I understand them all now, but the understanding has come hard
and will cost me dear. No, he was not mad. He did the things he did out of
self-preservation, and though his precautions came to nothing in the end, it
was fear of a nameless evil and not madness which prompted them.
But the worst is still to come. I myself have yet to face a similar end. I
know it, for no matter what I do the tremors haunt me. Or is it only in my
mind? No, there is little wrong with my mind. My nerves may be gone but my
mind is intact. I know too much! They have visited me in dreams, as I believe
they must have visited my uncle, and what they have read in my mind has warned
them of their danger. They dare not allow me further to investi-
gate, for it is just such meddling which may one day fully reveal them to men
- before they are ready!
God! Why hasn't that folklorist fool Wilmarth at Mis-katonic answered my
telegrams? There must be a way out! Even now they dig - those dwellers in
darkness . . .
But no - this is no good! I must get a grip on myself and finish this
narrative. I have not had time to tell the authorities the truth, but even if
I had I know what the result would have been. 'There's something wrong with
all the Wendy-Smith blood,' they would say. But this manuscript will tell the
story for me and will also stand as a warning to others. Perhaps when it is
seen how my passing so closely parallels that of Sir Amery, people will be
curious; with this manuscript to guide them perhaps men will seek out and
destroy Earth's elder madness before it destroys them . . .