The author of this unusual book was a Czech writer miloš urban, masterfully manipulates our fear of the supernatural. The protagonist of the novel, a former COP, is drawn into investigating a series of brutal murders. The victims are people somehow involved in the destruction of the Gothic cathedrals…
Now I finally started to understand.
Plucking up courage, I stepped out of his hiding place. The first step, second, third. I saw her wearing: a yellow‑brown coat with a white hood that reached the floor. Ninth, tenth, eleventh step. I saw that she was fragile, she bowed her head, clasped her hands in front of him. Twelve, thirteen.
“Madam,” I said in a weak voice. What shook me stronger – the voice or the knees? I involuntarily came to the recent morning when I just now called another woman near the Church of St. Apollinaris. – Lady, can you hear me? – She did not answer. I took a little bit to the side to avoid it and look in the face. But she again turned back to me. I made a second attempt – and with the same success. Unbelievable – she doesn’t want me to think! She turned left, then right, like a weather vane. Maybe it’s Rosita, I thought, Roseta that decided to mess with me? But I knew it wasn’t her. Neither the voice nor the fragile figure could not belong to Rosete.
On the back I got ran down my spine. I involuntarily put a hand to his forehead: it made a cold sweat. The woman now stood motionless, her drooping shoulders didn’t flinch. I knew what to do: the way out free, one has only to jump to open the door to the sacristy and to dash out. Yes, I will. But instead – against his will – swiftly reached out a hand to touch the shoulder under the cloak… and my hand hit the column.
No, not about the column. About the tree. And how I could mix it with the column? What do I stand for? Floor plate disappeared around the stretch of green meadows. The grass in the temple. Marvelled by this circumstance, I rubbed my eyes. Then lifted her head: no Windows, no ceiling is not in sight. White high clouds between them – a shining sky, the blue of the cutting gaze that was waiting to stumble upon grey walls. Look around and see that I am standing on a hideous clearing, covered with iron and stone flowers. The temple where I should be, stands a little farther, choir bites into the cemetery, and I’m surrounded by crosses. Behind the fence you can see the garden – I saw a piece of lawn and tall elegant greenhouse, similar to transparent military tent. Behind the branches of fruit trees blacken the Windows of the choir.
Right next to my feet to notice the grave, and above it – the iron cross. On the rusty piece of tin visible curved letters. I can’t tell. And yet I know this label can repeat it by heart: “Hear the sorrowful news of the miracle, Lochmere that was thrown from the window of my son Shimon…”
My head is spinning and leans overgrown tomb, and I can’t stop.
You mumble something incoherent, my friend, I thought it was a faint…
Someone standing over me, someone lightly slaps my cheeks. Giant with a pleasant voice, the girl with a question in his eyes.
I was in the temple. Sat against Chen’s back to the pillar in the North aisle, near the sacristy. I have pounded in his temples and clenched stomach.