"Lisa Tuttle - Ghosts and Other Lovers" - читать интересную книгу автора (Tuttle Lisa)

So quickly it had become a habit to wipe her hands whenever she felt them becoming wet. Now,
half-reclining in bed, propped up on pillows, she decided to do nothing and see what happened.

Her hands rested on top of the blanket at chest-level. She felt a tingling sensation in the fingertips, and
then she saw the stuff oozing out in faint, wispy tendrils.

Her skin crawled at the sight, and a horrible thought occurred to her. What if those slimy tendrils were
now emerging not only from her fingertips, but all over her body? Those prickling feelings . . . She gasped
for breath and held herself rigidly still, fighting down the urge to leap up and rip off her gown. She would
wait and see.

The shining tendrils thickened and grew more solid. They took on the appearance of ghostly fingers. They
were fingers. They were hands.

She thought of Mr. ElphinstoneтАЩs hands, and of the ghostly form which had appeared between them, had
appeared to grow out of them. Meanwhile, the hands attached to her hands grew larger still, and then
began to elongate, to grow away from her into arms. She stared in wonder. So she could do it, too! Mr.
Elphinstone wasnтАЩt so special, after all.
But these hands and arms were not those of a baby. They were much too big for any baby. And there
was something unpleasantly familiar about them as they grew into the chest and shoulders of a man. The
head was still unformed, but Eustacia suddenly knew who it was.

It was Mr. Elphinstone, of course. He had done this to her. It was his wicked plan to come to her
secretly in this nasty, ghost-like manner. In a moment his head would grow out of that neck, his face
would form, and eyes would open, and he would look down on her and smile in triumph, his hands
closing firmly over hers, his lips . . .

No. It was impossible. She would not have it. She refused.

Growling incoherently, she rubbed her hands fiercely against the blanket. The half-finished, cloudy
likeness of a man still hung in the air, a face beginning to form. Once it had formed, once his eyes had
opened and looked down at her, it might be too late. She might never escape his clutches. Feeling sick
and furious, concentrating all her mind on denying his power, she swung both hands at it. She had
imagined dispersing it, but although its appearance was cloudy, it was not made of smoke. Her hands
sank into something horribly cold and slimy. It was thick and soupy, not entirely liquid, but not solid,
either; something like clotted milk or half-set cheese, but worse; indescribably worse. It was something
that should have been dead but was alive; something that looked alive and yet was dead. And it was
coldтАФsheтАЩd never felt such a cold. Not a clean cold like ice or snow. This cold had the quality of a bad
smell.

The feel of it made her gag. It made her head swim. But she persisted. Her fingers grasped and tore until
she had pulled it to pieces, until she had completely destroyed the unnatural, unwanted effigy.

Then she got out of bed and tottered across the floor on weak legs and threw up in the washbowl. Her
head ached fiercely. She rested a moment, and then opened the window. It was a cold and windy day,
and she was grateful for that. The wind would rush into the room and sweep out the nasty smells of
sickness: the smells of blood, and vomit, and something much worse.

IтАЩve won, she thought, weary but triumphant.You havenтАЩt got me. IтАЩm free.