"House On Parchment Street" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

"Frankenstein's monster was only in a book. Carol, that sunlightЧit wasn't right. They had shadows. They weren't real, but they had shadows. Whose sunlight
were we sitting in? OursЧor theirs? Who was real, then? Us or them? Were they in our time? Or were we in theirs? Or is time something like the house, where stones from different centuries exist side by side, and where people from different centuries can talk to each other?"
"I don't know. It sounds scary. I still don't see why we have to go sit in a graveyard at midnight."
"I want to see if they come out at midnight. Perhaps the girl was buried in the graveyard. She probably was, if she lived in this house, because people didn't move around so much before cars were invented. And perhaps we can find her tombstone, find out when she lived, what her name is."
Carol grimaced. "Why should she come out at midnight? It's cold and wet and dark."
He sighed patiently. "Ghosts do. It's traditional." "It's also traditional for witches and werewolves to exist. Suppose we do sit out there, and everyone comes outЧthere's bound to be a vampire around somewhere, and it's traditional they bite you in the neck, and people find you the next day stiff as a board without a drop of blood in your veins. What would my mother say? What would your mother say?"
"At this point, I don't think my mother would be
too surprised at what happens to me. I'll go alone, if
you're frightened. Shall I? But in the cellar, I didn't
think you were afraid of anything."
Carol eyed him coldly. His voice was guileless, but
the corners of his mouth curved. He grinned suddenly, the scratches pulled awry across his face, and she laughed in spite of herself.
"Oh, all right. But if anything horrible happens, I will never speak to you again."
"No, I don't expect you will," he said reflectively.
She sat at her window watching the moon hung like an eye above the church steeple when Bruce tapped at the door. She opened it softly. He said, "You'll want shoes."
"Why? It's my neck they'll bite."
"I know, but there will be slugs all over the grass."
She put on her shoes without a word. They crept through the hall by the light of Bruce's flashlight and slid down the banister. The house was soundless in the quiet midnight. They went out the back door. The night smelled richly of damp earth and cut grass. Moonlight glanced silver off the corners of the house.
"The moon is full."
"Sh."
The gate creaked faintly as they opened it. The long grass blades curved silver against the cold iron of the graveyard fence. The spire loomed above them, a shadow against the stars, and moonlight brushed the ancient arches of the windows. Carol brushed close to Bruce, her hands tucked under her arms. The faint chill of their breaths drifted mistlike before them. "Emily Raison's house is so darkЕ ."
"She's in bed."
"Most people are in bed. Sensible people, who don't believe in ghosts, who wouldn't dream of coming out at midnight to sit on a gravestone andЧWhat's that?" Her ringers closed on his arm.
"Emily Raison's cat," he said patiently.
"What's she doing out at midnight?"
"I don't know. Cats keep odd hours. Come on." He swept the light toward the side path. "Let's go over the fence here. There's a tree we can sit in." He pulled himself up. The sharp railing points glittered like spears. He was still a moment, balanced between them. She heard the soft whisper of his sigh. "It's different, thinking about a graveyard and being in one. It looks so quietЕ ."
"Just wait." She swung a leg over the railing.
"It seems like there should be rain and thunderЕ ."He slipped down and focussed the light. The worn stones stood waist-high, tilted, shadowed from the clear moon by hunched, aged trees. Carol jumped down beside him, and the midnight bell began to toll.
Bruce was still beside her; she saw the flicker of his eyes across the ancient graves. He touched her, and she jumped.
"ShЧ" His voice was the tendril of a whisper in the hushed air.
"I want to get off this grave. Suppose somebody wants out?"
He looked down. Grass moved under the light,
springing straight where he had first stepped. He moved slowly at first, almost jerkily. She stared after him. The last bell pealed, echoing into unendurable silence.
"Come onЧ"
His head was a dark patch above a gravestone. She moved finally, crouched beside him. From the deep fields came the dreaming cry of an owl. Footsteps, faint and steady, came toward them down the path.
Carol's hand pressed against her mouth. Bruce's fingers curled warningly about her wrist. His breath rose and stilled. The footsteps grew louder; a shadow slipped soundlessly from stone to stone. Something flashed starlike from the moving figure. Bruce's hand tightened. Carol hid her face abruptly in her bent knees. "I'm going to be sick." "ShЧ"
The footsteps stopped. Bruce shifted; his flashlight scraped against the stone. There was an odd whimper from the ghost. Bruce breathed a short incoherent word and rose.
An explosion of light drenched him. A neat elderly woman in a coat and hat pointed a formidable flashlight at them. The terrier at her heels set up a frenzy of barking.
"Bruce Lawrence! Does your father know you're out?"
"No, Mrs. Brewster," Bruce said wearily. "But I expect he will."
"I don't understand," Uncle Harold said at breakfast the next morning. "What were you doing in the graveyard last night?"
Bruce pushed a cold crumpet around his plate with one finger. Sunlight fell in a cheerful pool on the table; from the stove came the crackle of eggs slowly frying. Aunt Catherine turned away from them to listen.
"Was it Mrs. Brewster on the phone?" she asked, and Uncle Harold nodded.
"She was out walking her dog, and she saw a light flickering in and out of the gravestones. Being naturally fearless, she investigated, and found my son, who as I recall, said he was going to bed at ten o'clock last night." He shook his head. "I don't mind if you run about in graveyards in the middle of a summer night as long as you don't damage property. But if you feel you absolutely must do such things, I wish you would refrain from annoying Mrs. Brewster."
"What were you doing there?" Aunt Catherine asked. Bruce tore his crumpet slowly in half. He sighed.
"I'm not really sure, now. It seemedЧit seemed like a good idea at the time. We thoughtЧI mean I thoughtЧ"
"We thought," Carol said. Uncle Harold's eyebrows rose.
"You, too?"
"I did the thinking," Bruce said. "I don't think I did very well."
"But what were you doing?" Uncle Harold said bewilderedly. Carol's eyes flicked to Bruce's face. It was lowered; his mouth was set in a taut, stubborn line. He lifted his head suddenly. "DadЧ"