"Brian Lumley - A Coven Of Vampires" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)

.?
Festus? Yes, Festus - but, again, in what connection?
Then I heard it. A name: chanted by the three worshippers, but not by Funny-Mouth who still sat
aloofly upright.
'Summanus, Summanus, Summanus . . .' they chanted; and suddenly, it all clicked into place.
Summanus! Of whom Martianus Capella had written as being The Lord of Hell... I remembered now. It
was Pliny who, in his Natural History, mentioned the dreaded Tuscan Rituals, 'books containing the
Liturgy of Summanus . . .' Of course; Summanus - Monarch of Night - The Terror that Walketh in
Darkness; Summanus, whose worshippers were so few and whose cult was surrounded with such mystery,
fear, and secrecy that according to St Augustine even the most curious enquirer could discover no
particular of it.
So Funny-Mouth, who stood so aloof to the ceremony in which the others were participating, must be
a priest of the cult.


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Though my eyes were fixed - my centre of vision being a picture, one of three, on the compartment
wall just above Moustache's head - I could still clearly see Funny-Mouth's face and, as a blur to
the left of my periphery, that of Jock.
The liturgy had come to an end with the calling of the 'God's' name and the offering of bread. For
the first time Funny-Mouth seemed to be taking an interest. He turned his head to look at the
table and just as I was certain that he was going to reach out and take the bread-cakes the train
lurched and Jock slid sideways in his seat, his face coming into clearer perspective as it came to
rest about half-way down Funny-Mouth's upper right arm. Funny-Mouth's head snapped round in a blur
of hate. Hate, livid and pure, shone from those cold eyes, was reflected by the bristling eyebrows
and tightening features; only the strange, painted-on mouth remained sterile of emotion. But he
made no effort to move Jock's head.
It was not until later that I found out what happened then. Mercifully my eyes could not take in
the whole of the compartment - or what was happening in it. I only knew that Jock's face, little
more than an outline with darker, shaded areas defining the eyes, nose, and mouth at the lower rim
of my fixed 'picture,' became suddenly contorted; twisted somehow, as though by some great emotion
or pain. He said nothing, unable to break out of that damnable trance, but his eyes bulged
horribly and his features writhed. If only I could have taken my eyes off him, or closed them
even, to shut out the picture of his face writhing and Funny-Mouth staring at him so terribly.
Then I noticed the change in Funny-Mouth. He had been a chalky-grey colour before; we all had, in
the weak glow from the alternatively brightening and dimming compartment ceiling light. Now he
seemed to be flushed; pinkish waves of unnatural colour were suffusing his outré features and his
red-slit mouth was fading into the deepening blush of his face. It almost looked as though . . .
My God! He did not have a mouth. With that unnatural reddening of his features the painted slit
had vanished completely; his face was blank beneath the eyes and nose.
What a God-awful dream. I knew it must be a dream now - it had to be a dream - such things do not
happen in real life. Dimly I was aware of Moustache putting the bread-cakes away and folding the
queer table. I could feel the rhythm of the train slowing down. We must be coming into Grenloe.
Jock's face was absolutely convulsed now. A white, twitching, jerking, bulge-eyed blur of hideous
motion which grew paler as quickly as that of Funny-Mouth - if that name applied now - reddened.
Suddenly Jock's face stopped its jerking. His mouth lolled open and his eyes slowly closed. He
slid out of my circle of vision towards the floor.
The train was moving much slower and the wheels were clacking over those groups of criss-crossing