"Robert Anton Wilson - Masks of the Illuminati" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilson Robert Anton)

the ground, and the monstrous creatures people have seen, are enough to make your hair
turn white."
 Another farmer, who asked that his name be withheld from publication, added
more grisly details to McGlaglen's macabre tale, saying that his own son had encountered
one of the "monstrous creatures" two years ago and is still under medical attention. He
refused to describe the creature, saying, "City folk would laugh at us."
Robert McMaster, 43, another farmer, sums up the country people's view, saying,
"we do not need a policeman as much as we need a witch-finder." McMaster claims to
have seen a woman without a head walking on the grounds of the Laird of Glen Carig
recently.
"Superstition," says Inspector McIntosh; but our reporter admits he was glad to be
back in the city before night came down on "The Devil's Acres."

From the diary of Sir John Babcock, June 25, 1914:

What manner of man is he, or what creature in the form of man? True, I have only
met him in the flesh two times, but he has been a perpetual presence in my life for these
two years now-- since I bought that accursed Clouds Without Water and became drawn
into the affairs of the Verey family and the horrors at Loch Ness. Even before the
blasphemous incident of the inverse cross that drove me out of Arles, he haunted my
sleep, appearing in the most grotesque forms in constant nightmares that verged on sheer
delirium. That one hideous vision in particular continues to haunt me -- he was wearing a
turban and seemed some loathsomely obese Demon-Sultan, while all about him danced
and piped a crew of insectoid servitors that only a Dor├й or Goya could depict. Like King
Lear, I would fain cry out, "Apothecary, give me something to sweeten my imagination!"
But this is not imagination; it is horrid reality. I still recall his last words to me in
London: "Your God and Jesus are dead. Our magick is now stronger, for the Old Ones
have returned." Sometimes, almost, my faith wavers and I believe him. That is the
supreme horror: to be drawn passively, without further struggle, all hope gone, to that
which I dread most, like one who stands at the edge of an abyss and cannot resist the
seductive demoniac voice that whispers, "Jump, jump, jump. . ."



ACTION
EXTERIOR. RAILROAD STATION, BASEL, SWITZERLAND, 1914. EARLY EVENING.
TRACKING SHOT.
Railway platform. We pan over several faces. Three normal-average men and women, a
frightfully ugly man, a dwarf, more ordinary faces.

SOUND
Railroad sounds. Preparations for departure.

First voice in crowd: ". . . not the Almighty. . ."

Second voice: "You take it," I told him, "and stick it where the moon doesn't shine." He
was positively vivid.

Third voice: "I nearly reached India."