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.The gully gradually leveled out as they approached the flat area marking the edge of a field around the Ville itself.Abruptly, the trees ended and the dead field stretched before them, ending at the rear of the massive, ancient church, attached to—and perhaps even held up by—its helter–skelter accretion of dependent buildings.A chill wind blew across the field, and Nora could hear the rattle of dry weeds."My God," she heard Caitlyn murmur beside her.This time, Nora had approached the Ville from the opposite side.From the closer perspective, she could see that the bizarre structure was even more rough–hewn than she'd thought.In the pale glow reflected from the night sky, she could almost make out the adze marks on the massive timbers that made up the ribs of the fortress.The central church seemed to have been built in successive layers, each higher layer slightly overhanging that below it, forming an inverted ziggurat that looked perverse and menacing.The vast majority of windows were far up in its flanks.Those not bricked up were filled with old ship's glass, pale green, though some appeared to be covered in oilcloth or waxed paper.This close, the impression of candlelight from the far side of the windows was unmistakable.A single window—small and rectangular—was placed at eye level, as if just for them."Unbelievable that a place like this could still exist in Manhattan," she said."Unbelievable it could still exist at all.What do we do?""Wait.See if anyone's around.""How long?""Ten, fifteen minutes.Enough time for a guard, if there is one, to make his rounds.Then we might move in closer.Be sure to take note of everything.We wantWest Sider readers to really get an eyeful.""Right," said Caitlyn, her voice quavering, her hand clutching her notebook.Nora settled down to wait.As she shifted, she felt the rough charm around her neck scratch her skin.She drew it out, looked at it.It looked as strange as the fetishes that had been left outside her apartment: tufts of feathers, the bundle of chamois.Pendergast had pressed it upon her, made her promise to wear it, promise to keep the flannel bag always on her person.New Orleans bred or not, he didn't seem like the type to believe in voodoo—did he? She let it drop back, feeling faintly silly, glad the reporter hadn't noticed.A faint noise put her on high alert.It had just started out of the darkness, a low drone like the sound of monstrous cicadas, and it took her a moment to realize it was coming from the church.It grew louder and clearer: the sound of deep singing.No, not singing exactly—more like chanting."You hear that?" Caitlyn asked, voice suddenly tight.Nora nodded.The sound swelled, growing in volume while deepening in timbre.It quavered, rising and falling in a complex rhythm.Nora saw Caitlyn shiver, draw her jacket more tightly around her shoulders.As they waited, listening intently, the chanting grew faster, more insistent.Now it began to rise in pitch, little by little."Oh shit, I don't like this at all," said Caitlyn.Nora put an arm around the reporter's shoulders."Just sit tight.Nobody knows we're here.We're invisible in the dark.""I shouldn't have agreed to come.This was a bad idea." Nora could feel the woman shaking.She marveled at her own lack of fear.She had Bill's death to thank for that.It wasn't fearlessness, exactly, so much as feeling dead to fear.After his death, what could be worse? Her own death would be a kind of release.The chanting grew in urgency, faster and faster.And then a new noise intruded—the bleating of a goat."Oh, no," Nora muttered.She tightened her arm around Caitlyn.Another plaintive bleat.The chanting was now high and fast, almost like a machine, the humming of a huge dynamo.Two more bleats cut through the drone: higher, frightened.Nora knew what was coming; she wanted to cover her ears but knew she couldn't."This needs a witness." She began to rise.Caitlyn clutched at her."No.Wait, please."Nora shook her off."This is what we came for.""Please.They'll see you.""Nobody's going to see me.""Wait—" But Nora was up and running across the field at a crouch.The grass was wet and slick underfoot.She flattened herself against the back wall of the old church; crept along it toward the small yellow window; paused; then glanced in, heart pounding.Porcelain sink, brown with age; broken china chamber pot; commode of splintered wood.An ancient, empty privy.Damn.She slid down, face against the cold, rough timber.The fabric of the ancient place seemed to exude an unusual odor: musky, smoky.Close as she was now, the sounds within were a lot louder.She pressed her ear to the wall, listening intently.She couldn't make out the words, couldn't even tell what language, although it was clearly not English.French? Creole?Along with the chanting, she could hear what seemed like the soft slap of bare feet, fast and rhythmical.A lone voice rose above the insistent ostinato: wavering, shrill, tuneless, yet clearly part of the ritual.Another long, frightened bleating: high, terrified.Then sudden, total silence.And then the shriek came, cutting the air, a pure animal expression of surprise and pain.The sound was almost immediately choked off by a thick gargling, followed by a long, drawn–out rattling cough, and then silence.Nora didn't have to see to know exactly what had happened.Just as suddenly, the chanting resumed, fast, exultant, with the voice of what was certainly a kind of priest rising above, wailing with glee.Mingled with that were the sounds of something else: something grunting, breathy, and wet.Nora gulped down mouthfuls of air, feeling suddenly nauseated.The sound had cut her to the bone and unexpectedly revived that terrible moment when she saw her husband, motionless, in a spreading pool of blood on their living room floor.She felt paralyzed.The earth whirled around her, and spots danced before her eyes.Caitlyn was right: this was a bad idea.These people, whoever they were, would not take kindly to an intrusion.She gripped the brick wall for a minute or two, until the feeling passed, and then she realized: they had to get out—now.As she turned, she caught sight of something moving in the dark, at the corner of the farthest building.A lurching, shambling movement; a blur of sallow flesh in the spectral moonlight; and then it was gone.With a thrill of dread she blinked hard, opened her eyes again.All was silent and dark; the chanting had ceased.Had she really seen something? Just when she was concluding she hadn't, it appeared again: glabrous, strangely bloated, dressed in tatters.It moved toward her with a motion that seemed somehow both random and yet full of horrible purpose.As she stared, Nora was irresistibly reminded of the thing that had chased her through the room of whale skeletons two nights before.With a gasp, she lurched to her feet and ran across the field."Caitlyn!" she gasped, stumbling into the reporter and grabbing her jacket, her lungs burning."We've got to get the hell out of here!" "What happened?" She was instantly terrified by Nora's terror, cowering on the ground."Go!" Nora grasped her shirt and hauled her bodily to her feet.Caitlyn stumbled as she tried to get up, and Nora caught her."Oh, my God," said Caitlyn, staring back, suddenly paralyzed."Dear God."Nora looked back.The thing—its face puffy and distorted, impossible to make out in the dim light—was now moving toward them with a horrible disjointed motion."Caitlyn!" Nora screamed, pulling her around."Go!""What—"But Nora was already running up the dark gully, pulling the reporter along by her arm.Caitlyn seemed drugged by fear, slipping and falling on the leaves, turning to look back again and again.Now the thing was moving more swiftly, coming at them with a loping motion that was full of sinister design.She could hear its slobbering, eager breathing."It's coming," said Caitlyn."It's coming after us [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]