JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 33 из 425”
Their voices like loss. Now I can see Venus in the dark-sky. Star light, star bright, wish I may, wish I might… in these I always wish for Johanna.
My wish made, I try to walk down the driveway. Of course I do. house, isn’t it? Where else would I go but my house, now that dark and now that the stealthy rustling in the woods seems closer and somehow more purposeful? Where else can I go? It’s. and it will be frightening to go into that dark place alone (suppose been left so long alone? suppose she’s angry?), but I electricity’s off, I’ll light one of the hurricane lamps we keep ’ kitchen cabinet.
I can’t go down. My legs won’t move. It’s as if my body knows about the house down there that my brain does not. The rises again, chilling gooseflesh out onto my skin, and I wonder I have done to get myself all sweaty like this. Have I been run-And if so, what have I been running toward? Or from?
Hair is sweaty, too; it lies on my brow in an unpleasantly heavy clump. I raise my hand to brush it away and see there is a shallow cut, fairly recent, running across the back, just beyond the knuckles.
Sometimes this cut is on my right hand, sometimes it’s on the left. I think, If this is a dream, the details are good. Always that same thought: If this is a dream, the details are good. It’s the absolute truth. They are a novelist’s details… but in dreams, perhaps everyone is a novelist. How is one to know? Now Sara Laughs is only a dark hulk down below, and I realize I don’t want to go down there, anyway. I am a man who has trained his mind to misbehave, and I can imagine too many things waiting for me inside. A rabid raccoon crouched in a corner of the kitchen. Bats in the bath-room—if disturbed they’ll crowd the air around my cringing face, squeaking and fluttering against my cheeks with their dusty wings. Even one of William Denbrough’s famous Creatures from Beyond the Universe, now hiding under the porch and watching me approach with glittering, pus-rimmed eyes. “Well, I can’t stay up here,” I say, but my legs won’t move, and it seems I will be staying up here, where the driveway meets the lane; that I will be staying up here, like it or not. Now the rustling in the woods behind me sounds not like small animals (most of them would by then be nested or burrowed for the night, anyway) but approaching footsteps. I try to turn and see, but I can’t even do that… and that was where I usually woke up. The first thing I always did was to turn over, establishing my return to reality by demonstrating to myself that my body would once more obey my mind.
Their voices like loss. Now I can see Venus in the dark-sky. Star light, star bright, wish I may, wish I might… in these I always wish for Johanna.
My wish made, I try to walk down the driveway. Of course I do. house, isn’t it? Where else would I go but my house, now that dark and now that the stealthy rustling in the woods seems closer and somehow more purposeful? Where else can I go? It’s. and it will be frightening to go into that dark place alone (suppose been left so long alone? suppose she’s angry?), but I electricity’s off, I’ll light one of the hurricane lamps we keep ’ kitchen cabinet.
I can’t go down. My legs won’t move. It’s as if my body knows about the house down there that my brain does not. The rises again, chilling gooseflesh out onto my skin, and I wonder I have done to get myself all sweaty like this. Have I been run-And if so, what have I been running toward? Or from?
Hair is sweaty, too; it lies on my brow in an unpleasantly heavy clump. I raise my hand to brush it away and see there is a shallow cut, fairly recent, running across the back, just beyond the knuckles.
Sometimes this cut is on my right hand, sometimes it’s on the left. I think, If this is a dream, the details are good. Always that same thought: If this is a dream, the details are good. It’s the absolute truth. They are a novelist’s details… but in dreams, perhaps everyone is a novelist. How is one to know? Now Sara Laughs is only a dark hulk down below, and I realize I don’t want to go down there, anyway. I am a man who has trained his mind to misbehave, and I can imagine too many things waiting for me inside. A rabid raccoon crouched in a corner of the kitchen. Bats in the bath-room—if disturbed they’ll crowd the air around my cringing face, squeaking and fluttering against my cheeks with their dusty wings. Even one of William Denbrough’s famous Creatures from Beyond the Universe, now hiding under the porch and watching me approach with glittering, pus-rimmed eyes. “Well, I can’t stay up here,” I say, but my legs won’t move, and it seems I will be staying up here, where the driveway meets the lane; that I will be staying up here, like it or not. Now the rustling in the woods behind me sounds not like small animals (most of them would by then be nested or burrowed for the night, anyway) but approaching footsteps. I try to turn and see, but I can’t even do that… and that was where I usually woke up. The first thing I always did was to turn over, establishing my return to reality by demonstrating to myself that my body would once more obey my mind.