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

deities of the Cthulhu Cycle of myth. Bentham did send them to you, then, as
you requested?'
He nodded an affirmative. 'But there was no letter with the box, and it seemed
pretty hastily or clumsily wrapped to me. I believe I must have frightened
Bentham pretty badly ... or at least, something did!'
Frowning, I shook my head, doubt suddenly inundating my mind once more. 'But
it's all so difficult to believe, Titus, and for a number of reasons.'
'Good!' he instantly replied. 'In resolving your own incredulity, which I
intend to do, I might also allay the few remaining doubts which I myself yet
entertain. It is a difficult thing to believe, Henri - I've admitted that -
but we certainly can't afford to ignore it. Anyhow, what reasons were you
speaking of just now, when you voiced your reluctance to accept the thing as
it stands?'
'Well for one thing' - I sat back in my chair - 'couldn't the whole rigmarole
really be a hoax of some sort? Wendy-Smith himself hints of just such a
subterfuge in that last paragraph of his, the "police report".'
'Ah!' he exclaimed. 'A good point, that - but I've already checked, Henri, and
that last paragraph was nor part of the original manuscript! It was added by
the author's publisher, a clever extract from an actual police report on the
disappearances.'
'Then what about this Bentham chap?' I persisted. 'Couldn't he have read the
story somewhere? Might he not simply be adding his own fancies to what he
considers an intriguing mystery? He has, after all, admitted to a
certain interest in weird and science-fiction cinema. Perhaps his taste also
runs to macabre literature! It's possible, Titus. The Wendy-Smith story may,
as you seem to suspect, be based on fact - may indeed have been drawn from
life, a veritable diary, as the continuing absence of Sir Amery and his nephew
after all these years might seem to demand - but it has seen print as a
fiction!'
I could see that he considered my argument for a moment, but then he said: 'Do
you know the story of "The Boy Who Cried Wolf", Henri? Of course you do. Well,
I've a feeling that Paul Wendy-Smith's last manuscript was dealt with on a
similar principle. He had written a fair number of macabre stories, you see,
and I'm afraid his agent and executor - despite some preliminary doubts, as
witness the delay in publishing - finally saw this last work as just another
fiction. It puts me disturbingly in mind of the Ambrose Bierce case. You know
the circumstances to which I refer, don't you?'
'Hmmm?' I murmured, frowning as I wondered what he was getting at. 'Bierce?
Yes. He was an American master of the macabre, wasn't he? Died in 1914 . . .?'
'Not "died", Henri,' he quickly corrected me. 'He simply disappeared, and his
disappearance was quite as mysterious as anything in his stories - quite as
final as the vanishment of the Wendy-Smiths!'
He got down on his hands and knees on the floor and began to collect up some
of the books and maps. 'But in any case, my friend, you've either not been
listening to me as well as you might, or' - he smiled up at me - 'you have
very little faith in what I've sworn to be the truth. I'm talking about my
dreams, Henri - think about my dreams!'
He gave me time to consider this, then said, 'But there, just supposing that
by some freak those nightmares of mine were purely coincidental; and suppose
further that