Читать книгу Dorian Gray - John Garavaglia - Страница 22

“Don’t try to deny it. I see the way you look at him.” The voice spoke in a demonic monotone.

“Where are you?”

“I’m over here.”

Basil turned and faced Dorian’s portrait. He stared into it.

“I…don’t understand,” he said, his throat closing up on him. He wondered if he was going keel over right there, before this intruder even showed himself.

“Did you think it was you who painted this portrait?” The voice asked, laughing. “‘The brush just danced in my hands,’” it mocked him. “Before I came along your work was dull, uninspiring, and pedestrian.”

“What do you want?” Basil shouted, his terror mounting, and he felt horribly weak for reacting that way. Sweat was dripping into his eyes. He rubbed them furiously to clear his vision, and then he lowered his hands.

“What do I want? I should be asking you that question.”

“What do you mean?”

“The boy, Basil!” Urged the disembodied voice. “I can give you Dorian Gray. All you have to do is submit.”

Basil backed away, shaking his head, positive now that either he was dreaming or going mad, or both. “Submit to what?”

Misty tendrils were emerging from the painting. Basil’s eyes widened in horror, watching two clawed hands reaching out and pulling some foul creature into reality.

“Submit to me!” It growled, lunging at the terrified painter.

DORIAN GRAY

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