Datlow, Ellen (ed) - Hauntings / Датлоу, Эллен (ред) - Призраки [2013, epub, ENG]

Eenie, Meenie, Ipsateenie short story by Pat Cadigan Hunger: A Confession / Голод: Исповедь short story by Dale Bailey Cargo / Груз short story by E. Michael Lewis Delta Sly Honey short story by Lucius Shepard Nothing Will Hurt You novelette by David Morrell The Ammonite Violin (Murder Ballad No. 4) / Аммонитовая скрипка (баллада убийства № 4) short story by Caitlín R. Kiernan Haunted / Привидения novelette by Joyce Carol Oates The Have-Nots short story by Elizabeth Hand Closing Time / После закрытия short story by Neil Gaiman Anna novelette by F. Paul Wilson Mr. Fiddlehead / Мистер Фидлхэд short story by Jonathan Carroll The Fooly short story by Terry Dowling The Toll short story by Paul Walther The Pennine Tower Restaurant short fiction by Simon Kurt Unsworth Distress Call short story by Connie Willis The Horn / Зов novelette by Stephen Gallagher Everybody Goes short story by Michael Marshall Smith Transfigured Night novelette by Richard Bowes Hula Ville short story by James P. Blaylock The Bedroom Light short story by Jeffrey Ford Spectral Evidence short story by Gemma Files Two Houses / Два дома novelette by Kelly Link Where Angels Come In / Куда приходят ангелы short story by Adam Nevill Hunger, an Introduction / Голод: Введение novelette by Peter Straub

Haunted houses, forbidden houses. The old Medlock farm. The Erlich farm. The Minton farm on Elk Creek. No Trespassing the signs said, but we trespassed at will. No Trespassing No Hunting No Fishing Under Penalty of Law but we did what we pleased because who was there to stop us? Our parents warned us against exploring these abandoned properties: the old houses and barns were dangerous, they said. We could get hurt, they said. I asked my mother if the houses were haunted and she said, Of course not, there aren’t such things as ghosts, you know that. She was irritated with me; she guessed how I pretended to believe things I didn’t believe, things I’d grown out of years before. It was a habit of childhood—pretending I was younger, more childish, than in fact I was. Opening my eyes wide and looking puzzled, worried. Girls are prone to such trickery; it’s a form of camouflage when every other thought you think is a forbidden thought and with your eyes open staring sightless you can sink into dreams that leave your skin clammy and your heart pounding—dreams that don’t seem to belong to you that must have come to you from somewhere else from someone you don’t know who knows you. There weren’t such things as ghosts, they told us. That was just superstition. But we could injure ourselves tramping around where we weren’t wanted—the floorboards and the staircases in old houses were likely to be rotted, the roofs ready to collapse, we could cut ourselves on nails and broken glass, we could fall into uncovered wells—and you never knew who you might meet up with, in an old house or barn that’s supposed to be empty. “You mean a bum?—like somebody hitch-hiking along the road?” I asked. “It could be a bum, or it could be somebody you know,” Mother told me evasively. “A man, or a boy—somebody you know—” Her voice trailed off in embarrassment and I knew enough not to ask another question. . . .