"Matthews, Patricia - Goatman" - читать интересную книгу автора (Matthews Patricia)

Near the side window, she found tracks, but she was unable to identify them.
They were vaguely oval in shape, blurred by the wind-blown dust. There were only
two of them, but then she supposed, if it had been an animal, the creature could
have stood with his hind feet on the hard ground beyond the narrow border of
soft earth.

The placement of the tracks made it look as if the creature had stood just
outside the window, looking in.

Moira repressed a shudder, and tried to put the thought of the turning door knob
out of her mind.

Tray sniffed at the footprints and whined nervously. She took him by the collar
and let him into the house, where she removed a shoebox from the clothes closet,
then took it outside and carefully placed it over the prints; pushing the edges
of the box firmly into the soft earth.

After her morning tasks were finished, Moira found herself restless. She did not
feel like doing any of the things that normally occupied her time. She
recognized the restlessness as unusual, for up until now, she had been content
to drift through the days, resting, dreaming, doing nothing.

It was, she told herself, the fault of the old woman, Miss Rhode, and her
Goatman. That, and the wind. Well, since she couldn't get the matter out of her
mind, perhaps she could find some information about Goatman. If Miss Rhode knew
about him, surely other people did, too.

Dulcimer, the nearest town, had a population of 1,500 people. After picking up
some needed supplies, Moira parked her car in front of the old, ivy-covered
brick library, leaving Tray inside the car with the windows cracked.

Nelly Fairchild, the middle-aged librarian, was very friendly. Moira hesitated
only slightly before asking her if the library had any information on a
"Goatman."

"Goatman? Why, I haven't heard that name in years." Mrs. Fairchild smiled, and
for an instant, Moira could see the pretty young woman who had been, underneath
the rather plain middle-aged woman that she was.

"Why, my old Grandma used to scare me with stories about Goatman, when I was
child. I used to have nightmares about him, all hairy and goat-smelling, with
burning red eyes." She moved her shoulders in a brief, shuddery motion.

Moira was conscious of a keen disappointment. Was that all Goatman was, a
bogeyman for children?

"A neighbor of mine mentioned him," she said, hesitantly. "She seemed to think
that there might be some sort of danger . . ."