"Manly Wade Wellman - The Dead Man's Hand" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wellman Manly Wade)

The Dead Man's Hand
Manly Wade Wellman
Now open lock To the Dead Man's knock!
Fly bar and bolt and band!
Nor move nor swerve Joint, muscle or nerve
To the spell of the Dead Man's Hand!
Sleep, all who sleep! Wake, all who wake!
But be as the Dead for the Dead Man's sake!

тАФThomas Ingoldsby, "The Hand of Glory."

The men in front of the store were all laughing in the sunset, but not one of them
sounded cheerful. "Y'hear this, Sam?" someone asked a latecomer. "Stranger askin'
the way to Old Monroe's. Must be the one who bought the place."
More laughter, in which the latecomer joined. Berna's father turned grim and
dangerous enough to counterbalance all their mockery. He was hard and gaunt in his
seersucker suit, with a long nose, a long chin, and a foxtrap mouth between them.
"I know the joke," he said, leaning over his steering wheel. "You think the place is
haunted."
"No," cackled a dried little gaffer on an upturned nail-keg. "Haunted ain't the
word. Curst, more like it. Me, I ain't got many more nights to live, and I wouldn't
spend none of 'em at Old Monroe's."
"I know all about that silly story," announced Berna's father.
"All?" teased someone else. "Silly story?"
"And I'm thankful it's so well believed. That's how I was able to buy the farm so
cheap."
"I wonder," mumbled the little old man, "if you bought it from who owns it
rightful. 'Fter all, way I heard it, Old Monroe's deal was only for his lifetimeтАФlong
enough in all conscience." He spat at a crack in the boardwalk. "When it comes to
that, whoever bargained for Old Monroe's soul made a fool trade, for Old Monroe's
soul was a sure shot anyway to go toтАФ"
"If you're all through laughing," interrupted Berna's father savagely, "maybe
someone will remember enough manners to direct us."
"Please, gentlemen," added Berna timidly from beside her father. She was slender
where he was gaunt, appealing where he was grim. Her dark wide eyes sought a
loiterer, who removed his palmleaf hat.
 "If you're set on it," said this one, "you follow the street out, along the pavement.
Miss the turn into Hanksville, then go left on a sand road. Watch for a little stone
bridge over a run, with a big bunch of willows. Across the run, beyond them
willows, is a private road. All grown up, and not even rabbit hunters go there. Well,
at the other end is your new house, and I wish you luck." He fiddled with the hat.
"You'll need it."
"Thank you kindly," said Berna's father. "My name's Ward Conley. I'll be your
neighbor at the Old Monroe farm. And if you think you'll play any ghost jokes
around there at night, remember I'm moving in with a shotgun, which I can use
tolerably well."
He started the car. Berna heard the men start talking again, not laughing now.
"I didn't think," she ventured as they drove out of the little town in the last red
sunglow, "that the story we heard was taken so seriously." She looked at her father.
"I didn't even pay attention when the farm broker mentioned it. Tell me all of it."