"Richard Matheson - What Dreams May Come" - читать интересную книгу автора (Matheson Richard)

thing.

It ended as abruptly as it started. I was standing in fog. I looked around but saw nothing in any
direction. I began to walk, moving slowly through the mist. Now and then, I thought I caught a
fleeting glimpse of people. When I tried to see them clearly, though, they faded off. I almost
called to one, then chose not to. I was master of this dream. I wouldn't let it dominate me.

I attempted to distract myself by making believe I was back in London. Remember how I traveled
there in 1957 to write a film? It had been November and I'd walked in fogs like this more than
onceтАФ"pea soup" is a good description. This was even thicker, though; like being underwater. It
even felt wet.

Finally, through the fog, I saw our house. That sight relieved me in two ways. One, the very look
of it. Two, the way I'd gotten there so quickly. That could only happen in a dream.

Suddenly, an inspiration came to me. I've told you how my body hurt. Even though it was a dream, I
still felt pain. Accordingly, I told myself that, since the pain was dream-eng-e-n-dered, it
wasn't necessary that I feel it. Robert, with the thought, the pain was gone. Which caused another
sense of pleasure and relief. What more vivid proof could one require that this was dream and not
reality?

I remembered, then, how I had sat up on the hospital bed, laughing, because it had all been a
dream. That's exactly what it was. Period.

I was in the entry hall without transition. Dream, I thought and nodded, satisfied. I looked
around, my vision still blurred. Wait, I thought. I'd been able to dispel the pain, why not the
vision?

Nothing happened. Everything beyond ten feet was still obscured by what appeared to be a pall of
smoke.


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I whirled at the clicking noise of claws across the kitchen floor. Ginger was running into the
front hall; you recall, our German Shepherd. She saw me and began her rocking, bouncing run of
joy. I spoke her name, delighted by the sight of her. I bent to stroke her head and saw my hand
sink deep into her skull. She recoiled with a yelp and scuttled back in terror, bumping hard
against the kitchen door jamb, ears pressed tight to her head, hair erected on her back.

"Ginger," I said. I fought away a sense of dread. "Come here." She's acting foolishly, I told
myself. I moved after her and saw her slipping frantically on the kitchen floor, trying to run
away. "Ginger!" I cried. I wanted to be irritated with her but she looked so frightened that I
couldn't be. She ran across the family room and lunged out through the flap of the dog door.

I was going to follow her, then decided not to. I would not be victimized by this dream no matter
how insane it got. I turned and called Ann's name.