"Ron Goulart - The Curse Of The Demon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goulart Ron)

He hefted the chest out -- it felt as though it weighed thirty pounds or
thereabouts -- and placed it on the rug. He consulted the note. "Okay, I open
this thing and read the spell. Sounds simple enough."

He kept the note in his left hand and took hold of the circular handle atop the
lid with his right. The metal box had a deep greenish tinge and its sides were
scrawled with blurred symbols and some kind of strange writing. Dan thought it
might be runic script, although he couldn't recall having seen runic script
before.

He tugged at the lid, but the box didn't open.

Setting the note on the floor, he took hold of the handle with both hands.

The lid popped open. Next an enormous amount of intensely bright light came
exploding out of the casket. Red flashes of lightning, blue flashes, yellow.

And a tremendous foul-smelling gust of wind came spilling out as well. It hit
Dan hard in the midsection, sending him tumbling backward.

He sat down on the rug, hard, tipped over a stack of last week's newspapers, and
went toppling back into unconsciousness.

"It is indeed most incredible that anyone might live in such a squalid and
slovenly manner."

Dan became aware of a somewhat nasal voice muttering, along with a crisp
brushing sound. He realized he was stretched out on his sofa, face up.

"There is, I swear, dust on every possible surface. It is no wonder that I have
sneezed thrice since my arrival."

Dan, very tentatively, opened his eyes.

Lying on the rug just in front of the sofa he'd awakened on was his
seven-year-old vacuum cleaner. The bag had been ripped asunder and the handle
was twisted and scorched black.

He sat up, feeling briefly woozy. "What the hell happened to my vacuum?"

"The same thing, my lad, that shall befall you, unless you cease this unseemly
caterwauling."
Dan blinked at the figure across the living room. "Mr. Bismarck? What are you
doing in my living room -- and sweeping the floor?"

"I had to resort to the broom, since that infernal engine refused to perform
properly." A thin, balding man of fifty, dressed in a wrinkled gray suit, was
sweeping dust and lint from the rug into a dustpan. He sneezed once, set the
dented dustpan aside.