Сияние

On the Stairs

           

           (-Skiptom’Loumydarlin’-)

           Thevoicewasinhishead,somuchapartofhim,sofrighteninglyclosethatitmighthavebeenapartofhisownthoughts.Itwassoftandinfinitelysly.Mockinghim.Seemingtosay:

           (Ohyes,you’lllikeithere.Tryit,you’lllikeit.Tryit,you’llliiiiikeit-)

           Nowhisearswereopenandhecouldhearthemagain,thegathering,ghostsorspiritsormaybethehotelitself,adreadfulfunhousewhereallthesideshowsendedindeath,whereallthespeciallypaintedboogieswerereallyalive,wherehedgeswalked,whereasmallsilverkeycouldstarttheobscenity.Softandsighing,rustlingliketheendlesswinterwindthatplayedundertheeavesatnight,thedeadlylullingwindthesummertouristsneverheard.Itwaslikethesomnolenthumofsummerwaspsinagroundnest,sleepy,deadly,beginningtowakeup.Theyweretenthousandfeethigh.

           (Whyisaravenlikeawritingdesk?Thehigherthefewer,ofcourse!Haveanothercupoftea!)

           Itwasalivingsound,butnotvoices,notbreath.Amanofaphilosophicalbentmighthavecalleditthesoundofsouls.DickHallorann’sNana,whohadgrownuponsouthernroadsintheyearsbeforetheturnofthecentury,wouldhavecalleditha’ants.Apsychicinvestigatormighthavehadalongnameforit-psychicecho,psychokinesis,atelesmicsport

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