"Robert R McCammon - They Thirst" - читать интересную книгу автора (McCammon Robert R)

lelkesz had crossed himself and dropped his crucifix into the grave. That was
a week ago, before the Widow Janos had disappeared; before the Sandor family
vanished on a snowy Sunday night, leaving all their possessions behind; before
Johann the hermit reported that he had seen naked figures dancing on the
windswept heights of Mount Jaeger and running with the big timber wolves that
stalked that haunted mountain. Soon after that Johann had vanished along with
his dog, Vida. The boy remembered the strange hardness in his father's face, a
flicker of some deep secret within his eyes. Once he had heard Papa tell Mama,
They're on the move again.
In the fireplace, wood shifted and sighed. The boy blinked and drew away.
Behind him his mother's needles were still; her head was cocked toward the
door, and she was listening. The wind roared, bringing ice down from the
mountain. The door would have to be forced open in the morning, and the hard
glaze would shatter like glass.
Papa should be home by now, the boy told himself. It's so cold out tonight, so
cold . . . surely Papa won't be gone much longer. Secrets seemed to be
everywhere.
Just yesterday night someone had gone through the Krajeck cemetery and dug up
twelve graves, including Ivon Griska's. The coffins were still missing, but it
was rumored that the lelkesz had found bones and skulls lying in the snow.
Something pounded at the door, a noise like a hammer falling upon an anvil.
Once. And again. The woman jumped in her chair and twisted around.
"Papa!" the boy shouted joyfully. When he stood up, the flame-face was
forgotten. He started toward the door, but his mother caught his shoulder.
"Hush!" she whispered, and together they waited, their shadows filling the far
wall.
More hammering on the door-a heavy, leaden sound. The wind screamed, and it
was like the wail of Ivon Griska's mother when the sealed coffin was lowered
into the frozen dirt.
"Unbolt the door!" Papa said. "Hurry! I'm cold."
"Thank God!" Mama cried out. "Oh, thank God!" She moved quickly to the door,
threw back the bolt, and flung it open. A torrent of snow ripped at her face,
the wind distorting eyes, nose, and mouth. Papa, a huddled shape in his hat
and coat, stepped into the dim firelight, and diamonds of ice sparkled in his
eyebrows and beard. He took Mama into his arms, his massive body almost
engulfing her. The boy leapt forward to embrace his father, grateful that he
was home because being the man of the house was much more difficult than he
had imagined. Papa reached out, ran a hand through the boy's hair, and clapped
him firmly on the shoulder.
"Thank God you're home!" Mama said, clutching onto him. "It's over, isn't it?"
"Yes," he said. "It's over." He turned and closed the door, letting the bolt
fall.
"Here, step over by the fire. God in Heaven, your hands are cold! Take off
your coat before you catch your death!" She took the coat as he shrugged it
from his shoulders, then his hat. Papa stepped toward the fire, palms outward
to receive the heat. Flames glittered briefly in his eyes, like the glitter of
rubies. And as he passed his son, the boy crinkled up his nose. Papa had
brought home a funny smell. A smell of ... what was it? Think hard.
"Your coat is filthy!" Mama said, hanging it on a hook near the door. She
brushed at it with a trembling hand. She felt the tears of relief about to