JК
Bag of Bones :: Кинг Стивен
Страница: 34 из 425Sometimes—most times, actually—I would find myself thinking Manderley, I have dreamt again of Manderley. There was something creepy about this (there’s something creepy about any repeating dream, I think, about knowing your subconscious is digging obsessively at some object that won’t be dislodged), but I would be lying if I didn’t add that some part of me enjoyed the breathless summer calm in which the dream always wrapped me, and that part also enjoyed the sadness and foreboding I felt when I awoke. There was an exotic strangeness to the dream that was missing from my waking life, now that the road leading out of my imagination was so effectively blocked.
The only time I remember being really frightened (and I must tell I don’t completely trust any of these memories, because for so long didn’t seem to exist at all) was when I awoke one night speaking clearly into the dark of my bedroom: “Something’s behind me, let it get me, something in the woods, please don’t let it get me.” wasn’t the words themselves that frightened me so much as the tone I which they were spoken. It was the voice of a man on the raw edge of and hardly seemed like my own voice at all.
Days before Christmas of 1997, I once more drove down to Fidelity where once more the bank manager escorted me to my safe-box in the fluorescent-lit catacombs. As we walked down the he assured me (for the dozenth time, at least) that his wife was a fan of my work, she’d read all my books, couldn’t get enough. For the dozenth time (at least) I replied that now I must get him in my home. He responded with his usual chuckle. I thought of this oft-exchange as Banker’s Communion… i Mr. Quinlan inserted his key in Slot A and turned it. Then, as discreetly as a pimp who has conveyed a customer to a whore’s crib, he left. I inserted my own key in Slot B, turned it, and opened the drawer. It very vast now. The one remaining manuscript box seemed to quail in the far corner, like an abandoned puppy who some-knows his sibs have been taken off and gassed. Promise was scrawled across the top in fat black letters I could barely remember what the story was about.
Snatched that time-traveller from the eighties and slammed the box shut Nothing left in there now but dust Give me that, i had hissed in my dream—it was the first time I’d thought of that one for years. Give me that, it’s my dust-catcher. Mr Quinlan, I’m finished,” I called. My voice sounded rough and was steady to my own ears, but Quinlan seemed to sense nothing wrong or perhaps he was just being discreet.
The only time I remember being really frightened (and I must tell I don’t completely trust any of these memories, because for so long didn’t seem to exist at all) was when I awoke one night speaking clearly into the dark of my bedroom: “Something’s behind me, let it get me, something in the woods, please don’t let it get me.” wasn’t the words themselves that frightened me so much as the tone I which they were spoken. It was the voice of a man on the raw edge of and hardly seemed like my own voice at all.
Days before Christmas of 1997, I once more drove down to Fidelity where once more the bank manager escorted me to my safe-box in the fluorescent-lit catacombs. As we walked down the he assured me (for the dozenth time, at least) that his wife was a fan of my work, she’d read all my books, couldn’t get enough. For the dozenth time (at least) I replied that now I must get him in my home. He responded with his usual chuckle. I thought of this oft-exchange as Banker’s Communion… i Mr. Quinlan inserted his key in Slot A and turned it. Then, as discreetly as a pimp who has conveyed a customer to a whore’s crib, he left. I inserted my own key in Slot B, turned it, and opened the drawer. It very vast now. The one remaining manuscript box seemed to quail in the far corner, like an abandoned puppy who some-knows his sibs have been taken off and gassed. Promise was scrawled across the top in fat black letters I could barely remember what the story was about.
Snatched that time-traveller from the eighties and slammed the box shut Nothing left in there now but dust Give me that, i had hissed in my dream—it was the first time I’d thought of that one for years. Give me that, it’s my dust-catcher. Mr Quinlan, I’m finished,” I called. My voice sounded rough and was steady to my own ears, but Quinlan seemed to sense nothing wrong or perhaps he was just being discreet.