"Patricia A. McKillip - The House on Parchment Street" - читать интересную книгу автора (McKillip Patricia A)

Carol brushed the grass off her knees. She moved toward the house. "I don't know. Why don't you ask
him?"
"I do. He gives me vague mumbles." He walked beside her, his hands in his pockets, his step long and
easy through the grass. "Perhaps he goes off to grow hair all over him and howl at the moon."
"I wish you wouldn't talk about things like that."
He glanced down at her. "Is it the graveyard? Does that make you nervous? People in it are dead. I don't
see why people should do things after they're dead that
they wouldn't do while they were living. Though perhaps that's no comfort."
Carol stopped suddenly on the porch. She drew a breath to speak, and held it a moment while one foot
traced the letters in the welcome mat. She said finally, "Do you believe in ghosts?" "No. Not outside of
people's minds." "Oh." Her mouth crooked. She nudged the door open with one shoulder. Alexander
moved forward to lounge in the doorway before she closed it. "Why? Do you think you've seen one?"
"Yes. It had big green teeth and spider webs in its hair, and I'm probably going nuts."
"Crackers," Alexander said. "Over here you go crackers. Words are funny. Do you want to come for a
ride on my bicycle and help me look for Bruce?" "No."
"Oh." He removed himself from the doorway with a sigh. "Right. If you see him, tell him I was here."
But she did not see him until long after dinner, until Aunt Catherine and Uncle Harold sat sipping tea in
the living room while the sky beyond the church steeple turned blue-grey with the late summer twilight.
Carol sat curled on the window-seat, watching the twilight outline the tree leaves and freeze them into a
motionless pattern. Something danced once past the window, too big to be a moth, flickering too much
to be a bird. "A bat," said Uncle Harold. She jerked back. Then
she saw Bruce slip like a shadow through the gate.
The back door closed softly a moment later. Uncle Harold put his cup down. He rubbed his eyes with his
fingers. The stairs began to creak.
"Bruce!"
The creaking stopped. It descended slowly. The living room door opened. Bruce stood mute in the
doorway, his mouth set while they stared at the rainbow-colored bruise on one eye that clashed
awesomely with the scarlet scratches.
"What happened now?" Uncle Harold said feebly.
"I fell off my bike."
"Oh, Bruce. Your bicycle is in two pieces on the back porch."
His hands rose suddenly in an angry desperate gesture. They were shadowed grey. The blunt ends of
pencils stuck out of his pockets. "Can't you leave me alone? All rightтАФI was fighting. But that's my
affair! I have to work it out for myself!"
In the silence came the soft futile tap of moths against the bright window. Uncle Harold said softly, "I'm
sorry. I won't meddle."
Bruce's mouth opened, then closed. His head dropped; his hand moved back and forth across the door
knob. "I'm sorry I'm late. I didn't want to come home." He closed the door as he left.
Uncle Harold looked down at his teacup. He picked it up and held it without drinking. He put it down
abruptly; it clattered in the saucer.

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"I never know how much to say!" "I know," Aunt Catherine said gently. The comers of her mouth were
tight. "It's hard to know." She put her knitting aside and rose. "I'll make a cold-pack for his eye."
Uncle Harold picked up his cup and followed her into the kitchen. Carol heard the murmur of their
voices behind the closed door. She leaned her head against the windowpane, feeling the glass cold
against her face. She rose finally and went into the hall.
A sheet of paper lay on the grey stones. She picked it up. It was coarse drawing paper. On the other side