Some people see things that others cannot. Tales of Mystery and Imagination. “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown” (H.P. Lovecraft).

Shirley Jackson: The Lottery

Shirley Jackson, The Lottery,  Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 2th, but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.
The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.
Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.
The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program--by Mr. Summers. who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him, because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called. "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three- legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?" there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it. 

Clarice Lispector: Macacos

Clarice Lispector, Macacos, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Da primeira vez que tivemos em casa um mico foi perto do Ano-Novo. Estávamos sem água e sem empregada, fazia-se fila para carne, o calor rebentara — e foi quando, muda de perplexidade, vi o presente entrar em casa, já comendo banana, já examinando tudo com grande rapidez e um longo rabo. Mais parecia um macacão ainda não crescido, suas potencialidades eram tremendas. Subia pela roupa estendida na corda, de onde dava gritos de marinheiro, e jogava cascas de banana onde caíssem. E eu exausta. Quando me esquecia e entrava distraída na área de serviço, o grande sobressalto: aquele homem alegre ali. Meu menino menor sabia, antes de eu saber, que eu me desfaria do gorila: "E se eu prometer que um dia o macaco vai adoecer e morrer, você deixa ele ficar? e se você soubesse que de qualquer jeito ele um dia vai cair da janela e morrer Iá embaixo?" Meus sentimentos desviavam o olhar. A inconsciência feliz e imunda do macacão-pequeno tornava-me responsável pelo seu destino, já que ele próprio não aceitava culpas. Uma amiga entendeu de que amargura era feita a minha aceitação, de que crimes se alimentava meu ar sonhador, e rudemente me salvou: meninos de morro apareceram numa zoada feliz, levaram o homem que ria, e no desvitalizado Ano-Novo eu pelo menos ganhei uma casa sem macaco.
Um ano depois, acabava eu de ter uma alegria, quando ali em Copacabana vi o agrupamento. Um homem vendia macaquinhos. Pensei nos meninos, nas alegrias que eles me davam de graça, sem nada a ver com as preocupações que também de graça me davam, imaginei uma cadeia de alegria: "Quem receber esta, que a passe a outro", e outro para outro, como o frêmito num rastro de pólvora. E ali mesmo comprei a que se chamaria Lisette.
Quase cabia na mão. Tinha saia, brincos, colar e pulseira de baiana. E um ar de imigrante que ainda desembarca com o traje típico de sua terra. De imigrante também eram os olhos redondos.
Quanto a essa, era mulher em miniatura. Três dias esteve conosco. Era de uma tal delicadeza de ossos. De uma tal extrema doçura. Mais que os olhos, o olhar era arredondado. Cada movimento, e os brincos estremeciam; a saia sempre arrumada, o colar vermelho brilhante. Dormia muito, mas para comer era sóbria e cansada. Seus raros carinhos eram só mordida leve que não deixava marca.
No terceiro dia estávamos na área de serviço admirando Lisette e o modo como ela era nossa. "Um pouco suave demais", pensei com saudade do meu gorila. E de repente foi meu coração respondendo com muita dureza: "Mas isso não é doçura. Isto é morte". A secura da comunicação deixou-me quieta. Depois eu disse aos meninos: "Lisette está morrendo". Olhando-a, percebi então até que ponto de amor já tínhamos ido. Enrolei Lisette num guardanapo, fui com os meninos para o primeiro pronto-socorro, onde o médico não podia atender porque operava de urgência um cachorro. Outro táxi. — Lisette pensa que está passeando, mamãe — outro hospital. Lá deram-lhe oxigênio.

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: Mors tua vita mea

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo, MORS TUA VITA MEA, escritora madrileña, escritora española, Relatos de misterio, Tales of mystery, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, escritora madrileña, escritora española, Relatos de misterio, Tales of mystery, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales



No sabíamos entonces quién sería el siguiente en morir para servir de alimento, como el pobre desgraciado que acabábamos de despachar.
Owen Chase (primer oficial del Essex), Narrative of the Most Extraordinary and Distressing Shipwreck of the Whale-Ship Essex


El compañero, un hombre bajito y rechoncho, contempla con terror el pedazo de cuerda que sostiene entre sus temblorosos dedos. Comprende inmediatamente que la suerte está echada. El encargado de su ejecución lo despacha rápido con un abrecartas. Con la maestría del carnicero, proceden a descuartizarlo. Para hacer la tarea más llevadera, primero le cortan la cabeza, las manos y los pies. Después lo despellejan. Sin esos signos de identidad tan humanos, podría ser un cordero o un ternero. Les proporcionará unos treinta kilos de carne. Lo suficiente para ir tirando durante un tiempo, hasta ser rescatados. Corazón, hígado y riñones, más perecederos, se consumirán primero. Luego cortarán tiras de carne de la espina dorsal, costillas y pelvis.
Deberían racionarlo escrupulosamente, pero una vez liberado el voraz apetito, ni siquiera esperan a cocinarlo. Los hombres se lanzan sobre el cadáver caliente. Probado el festín, sus miradas se vuelven feroces. La saliva fluye junto a los jugos gástricos. Y cuanto más comen, más hambre sienten. Sólo cuenta el instinto más básico y animal, una voluntad amoral ‒incluso inmoral‒ de sobrevivir a cualquier precio.
Es la ley del mar, el canibalismo de supervivencia. Acabados los víveres, los náufragos echan a suertes quién servirá de alimento al resto. Son cosas que suceden en los desastres. Lo comprobó la tripulación del Mignonette en 1884 y la del Essex ‒cuya desgracia inspiró a Melville‒, en 1821. Y antes, en 1765, los marineros del Peggy. Y en 1710, los del Nottingham Gallery... En los casos de extrema necesidad, la moral puede relajarse excepcionalmente: la conciencia aprende a prescindir de los remordimientos.

Remy de Gourmont: Péhor

Remy de Gourmont, Péhor, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


Nerveuse et pauvre, imaginative et famélique, Douceline fut précocement caresseuse et embrasseuse, amusée de passer ses mains le long de la joue des garçonnets et dans le cou des fillettes qui se laissaient faire comme des chattes. Elle se mettait, à propos de rien,

à    baiser les mains tricotantes de sa mère, et quand on la reléguait en pénitence sur une chaise, elle jouait à faire claquer ses lèvres sur ses paumes, sur ses bras, sur ses genoux qu’elle dressait nus l’un après l’autre ; alors elle se regardait. Telle que les curieuses, elle n’avait aucune pudeur. Comme on la grondait en termes grossièrement ironiques, elle se prit d’une tendresse de contradiction pour le coin méprisé et défendu ; les mains suivirent les yeux. Elle garda ce vice toute sa vie, ne s’en confessa jamais, le dissimula avec une effrayante astuce jusque parmi ses crises d’inconscience.
Les exercices préparatoires de la première communion la passionnèrent. Elle quémandait des images, des sous pour en acheter, volait celles de ses compagnes dans leurs paroissiens. Les Saintes Vierges lui plaisaient peu ; elle préférait les Jésus, les doux, ceux dont les joues lavées de rose, la barbe en flammes, les yeux bleus s’inscrivaient dans la diffuse lumière d’une auréole. L’un, avec une visitandine à ses pieds, lui montrait son cœur rutilant, et la visitandine articulait : « Mon bien-aimé est tout à moi et je suis toute à lui. » Sous un autre Jésus aux regards tendres et un peu loucheurs, on lisait : « Un de ses yeux a blessé mon cœur. »

D’un Sacré-Cœur piqué par un poignard giclait du sang couleur d’encre rose, et la légende, avilissant une des plus belles métaphores de la théologie mystique, portait : « Qu’est-ce que le Seigneur peut donner de meilleur à ses enfants que ce vin qui fait germer les vierges ? » Le Jésus d’où fusait ce jet de carmin avait une face affectueuse et encourageante, une robe bleue, historiée de fleurettes d’or, de translucides mains très fines où s’écrasaient en étoile deux petites groseilles : Douceline l’adora tout de suite, lui fit un vœu, écrivit
au dos de l’image : « Je me donne au S.-C. de Jésus, car il s’est donné à moi. »
Souvent, entrouvrant son livre de messe, elle contemplait la face affectueuse et encourageante, murmurait, en la portant à sa bouche : « À toi ! À toi ! »

Quant au mystère de l’Eucharistie, elle n’y comprit rien, reçut l’hostie sans émotion, sans remords de ses confessions sacrilèges, sans tentatives d’amour : tout son cœur allait à la face affectueuse et encourageante.

Cependant, comme succédané au catéchisme de persévérance, on lui fit lire le « Bouclier de Marie. » Un passage où était notée la préférence de Jésus pour les belles âmes et son dédain des beaux visages l’intéressa. Elle se regarda, des heures entières, dans un miroir, se jugea jolie, décidément, eut du chagrin, souhaita d’enlaidir, pria avec ferveur, se donna la fièvre, se réveilla un matin avec des boutons plein la figure. Dans le délire qui suivit, elle proférait des mots d’amour. Guérie, elle remercia Jésus des marques blanches qui lui trouaient le front, se livra à de longues éjaculations, à genoux, derrière un mur, sur des pierres aiguës. Ses genoux saignaient : elle baisait les blessures, suçait le sang, se disait : « C’est le sang de Jésus, puisqu’il m’a donné son cœur. »

Harlan Ellison: I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream

Harlan Ellison, I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream , Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Limp, the body of Gorrister hung from the pink palette; unsupported hanging high above us in the computer chamber; and it did not shiver in the chill, oily breeze that blew eternally through the main cavern. The body hung head down, attached to the underside of the palette by the sole of its right foot. It had been drained of blood through a precise incision made from ear to ear under the lantern jaw. There was no blood on the reflective surface of the metal floor.

When Gorrister joined our group and looked up at himself, it was already too late for us to realize that, once again, AM had duped us, had had its fun; it had been a diversion on the part of the machine. Three of us had vomited, turning away from one another in a reflex as ancient as the nausea that had produced it.

Gorrister went white. It was almost as though he had seen a voodoo icon, and was afraid of the future. "Oh, God," he mumbled, and walked away. The three of us followed him after a time, and found him sitting with his back to one of the smaller chittering banks, his head in his hands. Ellen knelt down beside him and stroked his hair. He didn't move, but his voice came out of his covered face quite clearly. "Why doesn't it just do us in and get it over with? Christ, I don't know how much longer I can go on like this."

It was our one hundred and ninth year in the computer.

He was speaking for all of us.

Nimdok (which was the name the machine had forced him to use, because AM amused itself with strange sounds) was hallucinating that there were canned goods in the ice caverns. Gorrister and I were very dubious. "It's another shuck," I told them. "Like the goddam frozen elephant AM sold us. Benny almost went out of his mind over that one. We'll hike all that way and it'll be putrified or some damn thing. I say forget it. Stay here, it'll have to come up with something pretty soon or we'll die."

Benny shrugged. Three days it had been since we'd last eaten. Worms. Thick, ropey.

Nimdok was no more certain. He knew there was the chance, but he was getting thin. It couldn't be any worse there, than here. Colder, but that didn't matter much. Hot, cold, hail, lava, boils or locusts it never mattered: the machine masturbated and we had to take it or die.

Ellen decided us. "I've got to have something, Ted. Maybe there'll be some Bartlett pears or peaches. Please, Ted, let's try it."

I gave in easily. What the hell. Mattered not at all. Ellen was grateful, though. She took me twice out of turn. Even that had ceased to matter. And she never came, so why bother? But the machine giggled every time we did it. Loud, up there, back there, all around us, he snickered. It snickered. Most of the time I thought of AM as it, without a soul; but the rest of the time I thought of it as him, in the masculine the paternal the patriarchal for he is a jealous people. Him. It. God as Daddy the Deranged.

Ángel Torres Quesada: El ángel malo que surgió del sur

Ángel Torres Quesada, El ángel malo que surgió del sur, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


Apenas terminó de materializarse, gritó:
—¡Ya está bien, coño!
El estentóreo bramido repercutió en toda la sala de la lujosa mansión del Sr. Aprieto, que palideció y se quedó encogido en el sillón donde había estado dormitando, vencido por el cansancio y tantas horas de aburrida espera.
Sus ojos se abrieron a continuación como platos y bailotearon vertiginosamente, como si un centenar de chistularis ensayaran dentro de su cabeza aún aturdida, a todo ritmo, la zarabanda que debían interpretar en la plaza mayor del pueblo el día del patrón.
Quizá fueron las esencias de tantas mixturas pseudomágicas que ardían las que provocaron el trance en que se había sumido y del que la voz fuerte, de ultratumba, le sacó tan violentamente.
Con un temblor en sus piernas que a veces le hizo entrechocar las rodillas, se incorporó, realizando un gran esfuerzo para sobreponerse al miedo, la sorpresa, y sus deseos, sobre todo, de salir corriendo de allí. Pero algo en su interior le dijo que ya no podía volverse atrás. Tenía que enfrentarse a lo provocado.
Sacó pecho, hundió estómago y adelantó el mentón. Luego intentó mover una pierna y… todos sus propósitos se vinieron abajo: seguía con aquel miedo que le aplastaba los hombros. ¡Adelante!, se dijo. Echó una mirada al personaje que continuaba despotricando a un par de metros de sus narices. Aprieto tenía detrás la mesa de nogal que le aprisionaba en los riñones, pero que al mismo tiempo sostenía su precaria posición vertical. Aumentó su apoyo en ella, acomodando sus posaderas en el canto para apuntalar su cuerpo lleno de temblores.
Entonces la visita se revolvió hacia él, y le miró como se contempla una cucaracha antes de aplastarla.
—He dicho que ya está bien, coño —repitió el personaje—. ¿Es que no me ha oído?
¿Cómo no iba a oírle si hasta había hecho oscilar los sólidos muros de la señorial mansión de sus antepasados? El Sr. Aprieto aspiró profundamente. ¿Por qué tener miedo? Al fin y al cabo, el diablo estaba allí porque él lo había llamado. Además, mientras el ente diabólico permaneciera dentro de los signos cabalísticos nada podía temer. Allí estaba más seguro que en el penal de Ocaña.
Carraspeó y dijo:
—El diablo, supongo.
—Eso, y usted es Livingstone. ¿Quién voy a ser si no, joder?
—Es que como ha tardado tanto…
—Pues no pensaba acudir a la llamada, ea.
Aprieto le miró estupefacto, fijándose con más detenimiento. El aspecto del diablo no tenía nada de aterrador. Por el contrario, consideró ridícula e inadecuada su vestimenta, ya que en el exterior hacía fresco, un airecillo frío que se filtraba por las mal encajadas ventanas, por lo que él se llevó un buen rato antes de hacer la invocación, atizando el fuego que aún crepitaba con fuerza en la chimenea, con el exclusivo fin de proporcionar a la esperada visita el acogedor ambiente que merecía.
—¿Por qué ha dicho que no quería venir? —preguntó susurrante.

John Langan: Renfrew's Course

John Langan, Renfrew's Course, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


“So this is the wizard,” Neil said.
“Supposedly,” Jim said.
Six feet tall, the statue had been carved from wood that retained most of its whiteness, even though the date cut into its base read 2005, seven years ago. Jim thought the color might be due to its not having been finished—splinters stood out from the wood’s uneven surface—but didn’t know enough about carpentry to be certain.
“Looks kind of Gandalf,” Neil said.
He was right. The wide-brimmed hat, long beard, staff and robe, all suggested Tolkien’s character, an impression the squirrel at the figure’s left foot, fox behind its right, owl on its shoulder did little to argue.
“I know,” Jim said. “It’s like that statue of William Wallace—did I tell you about that? They wanted to put up a new statue of Wallace—somewhere out near Stirling, I think—so what did the artist come up with? Mel Gibson in Braveheart.”
“No wonder there’re so few Jews in Scotland.”
“Apparently, the real guy was much stranger.”
“Gibson? I know,” Neil said, starting up the hill towards the dirt path that would take them into the nature preserve.
“No, the wizard.” Once he had caught up to Neil and they were walking under the tall pine and oak, Jim continued, “In one story, the King of France was causing some kind of difficulty for the local merchants—an embargo, I think. Michael Renfrew mounted his iron horse and in a single bound crossed the distance from Kirkcaldy to Paris. When he showed up at the French palace, its doors flew open for him. The King’s guards found their swords red hot in their hands. Needless to say, Louis-the-whatever changed his mind, and quickly, at that.”
“An iron horse, huh?”
“Legend says you can still see its hoofprint on the cliff it leapt off.”
To their right, separated from them by dense rows of pine, a stone tower raised its crenellated head above the tree line. “See?” Jim said, pointing to it. “Over there—that’s Renfrew’s keep.”

Gonzalo Suárez: Cierta alteración en la hipótesis de H. Poincaré

Gonzalo Suárez, Cierta alteración en la hipótesis de H. Poincaré, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


La pequeñez humana es cosa probada. Los filósofos nos han hablado de ello.
No había ni un hombre, ni un animal, ni una planta, ni una piedra.
La superficie era blanca, dura y resbaladiza.
Me enviaron a mí, para que investigara.
Soy un hombre de pocas palabras, pero tampoco tuve ocasión de hablar con nadie. Hacía frío.
Mis primeras observaciones me llevaron a poder afirmar, sin temor a errar, que: no soplaba viento.
Fue fácil proseguir la encuesta, puesto que ningún obstáculo se interponía en mi camino. Me deslizaba sentado, manteniendo el equilibrio con las palmas de las manos.
No se trataba de un tobogán, y a uno y otro lado había espacios abiertos.
Me abstengo de describir sensaciones subjetivas.
Era como la luna, pero por dentro. O más bien una cascara de huevo. Producía vértigo mirar hacia arriba. Una gárgola monstruosa pendía sobre mi cabeza.
Un monstruo metálico y babeante. Escupió, y me aparté a tiempo.
Y casi caigo en el cráter de un volcán funcional.
Había agua, pero no vida.

Arthur Machen: The Turanians

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The smoke of the tinkers' camp rose a thin pale-blue from the heart of the wood.
Mary had left her mother at work on "things," and had gone out with a pale and languid face into the hot afternoon. She had talked of walking across the fields to the Green, and of having a chat with the doctor's daughter, but she had taken the other path that crept down towards the hollow and the dark thickets of the wood.
After all, she had felt too lazy to rouse herself, to make the effort of conversation, and the sunlight scorched the path that was ruled straight from stile to stile across the brown August fields, and she could see, even from far away, how the white dust-clouds were smoking on the road by the Green. She hesitated, and at last went down under the far-spreading oak trees, by a winding way of grass that cooled her feet.
Her mother, who was very kind and good, used to talk to her sometimes on the evils of "exaggeration," on the necessity of avoiding phrases violently expressed, words of too fierce an energy. She remembered how she had run into the house a few days before and had called her mother to look at a rose in the garden that "burnt like a flame." Her mother had said the rose was very pretty, and a little later had hinted her doubts as to the wisdom of "such very strong expressions."
"I know, my dear Mary," she had said, "that in your case it isn't affectation. You really feel what you say, don't you? Yes; but is it nice to feel like that? Do you think that it's quite right, even?"
The mother had looked at the girl with a curious wistfulness, almost as if she would say something more, and sought for the fit words, but could not find them. And then she merely remarked:
"You haven't seen Alfred Moorhouse since the tennis party, have you? I must ask him to come next Tuesday; you like him?"
The daughter could not quite see the link between her fault of "exaggeration" and the charming young barrister, but her mother's warning recurred to her as she strayed down the shadowed path, and felt the long dark grass cool and refreshing about her feet. She would not have put this sensation into words, but she thought it was as though her ankles were gently, sweetly kissed as the rich grass touched them, and her mother would have said it was not right to think such things.
And what a delight there was in the colours all about her! It was as though she walked in a green cloud; the strong sunlight was filtered through the leaves, reflected from the grass, and made visible things—the tree-stems, the flowers, and her own hands—seem new, transformed into another likeness. She had walked by the woodpath over and over again, but to-day it had become full of mystery and hinting, and every turn brought a surprise.
To-day the mere sense of being alone under the trees was an acute secret joy, and as she went down deeper and the wood grew dark about her, she loosened her brown hair, and when the sun shone over the fallen tree she saw her hair was not brown, but bronze and golden, glowing on her pure white dress.
She stayed by the well in the rock, and dared to make the dark water her mirror, looking to right and left with shy glances and listening for the rustle of parted boughs, before she would match her gold with luminous ivory. She saw wonders in a glass as she leaned over the shadowed, mysterious pool, and smiled at the smiling nymph, whose lips parted as if to whisper secrets.

Alejandra Basualto: Rosas

Alejandra Basualto, Rosas, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


Soñabas con rosas envueltas en papel de seda para tus aniversarios de boda, pero él jamás te las dio. Ahora te las lleva todos los domingos al panteón.

Michael Swanwick: Sleep of Reason

Michael Swanwick, Sleep of Reason , Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Midway in life's journey, a man who might have been Dante or might have been Goya himself (on this the record is not clear) went astray and found himself alone in a dark wood. Never saw he so drear, so rank, so arduous a wilderness! Alas for him that he was an artist, and susceptible to such influences. Alas for us all that he fell asleep!
The Noösphere is the ocean of thought within which we all live, dream, make love, and sometimes aspire. It is purified by reason. It is polluted by war and madness. And, like a river so badly polluted it catches fire, the Noösphere in times of war and madness can be a dangerous thing.
In a time of war and madness, the man who might well have been Goya fell asleep, and his dreams caught fire. They congealed and took form and entered the physical world. As cats and owls and bats and less wholesome creatures, winged, furred and fanged, they leaped into the night, and filled the skies with their keening presence.
One flew off with a child's jacket. Another swooped down and bit a hole in the lord mayor's ear. A third put on a uniform and led the French armies into Russia.
A thousand ills poured from the dreamer's troubled sleep. The Siege of Leningrad and the Trail of Tears. Andersonville and total warfare. The Paraguayan War, the Taiping Rebellion, the Bataan Death March. Pol Pot, Baba Yar, Jack the Ripper. Mercury poisoning, thalidomide babies, mustard gas and trench warfare. Lynchings. Black Thursday, Black Friday, Black 47. September Eleventh. The Rape of Nanking, the occupation of Tibet, the Great Leap Forward, the Cultural Revolution. Stalin and Beria and the Soviet Terror and the relocations and the gulags. Krystalnacht, and then the camps: Chelmo, Majdanek, Treblinka, Belzec, Sobibor, Auschwitz, Belsen, Buchenwald, Dachau, Maidenek — the names roll by like cattle cars in an endless train. The Jewish Holocaust, the Native American Holocaust, the Romani Holocaust, the Armenian Holocaust… Why go on?

Juan Perucho: El dorado

Juan Perucho: El dorado, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Surge a la superficie de los espejos, proveniente de las profundidades de la nada. Lo vio, con gran espanto, el hijo pequeño del marqués de la Mina cuando m peinaba para ir al colegio de nobles de Cordelles, recitando mentalmente la lección de matemáticas que el padre Tomás Cerda había dictado el día anterior. En llegando a la afirmación de que «Multiplicar una quantitat per una altra no es sino prendre aquesta quantitat tantes vegades com unitats hi ha en l'altra»1, vio al monstruo, que tenía un perfil inconcreto, flotando con campechanía en los espacios bruñidos e irreales del espejo. El niño se espantó, lloró desconsola damente, huyó de la habitación y se escondió debajo de la mesa del comedor. Tuvo que pasar mucho rato para apaciguarlo y, por fin, tranquilizarlo.
Por la tarde, el marqués convocó una junta científica para esclarecer el fenómeno. Asistieron Pedro Virgili, del Real Colegio de Cirugía y Antonio Palau Verdera, Martín d'Ardenya, Agustín Caselles y Francisco Salva Campillo, por la Academia de Ciencias Naturales, ahora elevada a «real» bajo la providencia del mismo marqués. Por último, y en representación de la de Buenas Letras, decana de las Academias barcelonesas, acudió el padre Mateo Aymerich, en virtud de su nueva vocación naturalista y no por su carácter de historiador, acreditado por su reciente episcopologio. Como invitado de honor, el famoso «abbé Desfontaines», colaborador de las Mémoires de Trévoux, que estaba en Barcelona de paso hacia Madrid, donde iba a ser huésped del padre Feijóo.
La junta científica observó al monstruo con meticulosidad y, sentados los académicos alrededor del espejo, después de prolijas deliberaciones respecto a la naturaleza, cualidad, posible especie del fenómeno, determinaron: 1) Que «aquello» no tenía consistencia física, y mal se podía hablar de una entidad real, sin límites tangibles y corpóreos; 2) que, siendo así, tampoco se podía afirmar la existencia en «aquello» de fluido vital, aunque se moviera y se desplazara ilusoriamente, yendo y viniendo de las entrañas del espejo; 3) que, en consecuencia, era unánime y vehemente la opinión de que se trataba de un espectro 0 de una imagen óptica, ajena al mundo físico, y 4) que, provisionalmente, aquel fenómeno de la naturaleza tenía un cierto parecido con los seres acuáticos, y que esta apariencia era reforzada por el hecho de que la ambulación fuese lenta y flotante, sin alas ni piernas y, por tanto, natatoria.
Se levantó acta de la reunión de la Junta con las conclusiones acordadas y se hizo constar que la conclusión cuarta había sido aprobada a propuesta del padre Aymerich, quien dejó deslumhrados a sus ilustres colegas por el conocimiento que poseía de las condiciones morales de los peces, fueran grandes o pequeños, sobre todo cuando, aprovechando la circunstancia de la conclusión cuarta, les leyó el siguiente fragmento, que casualmente llevaba en el bolsillo, de la Historia natural y geográfica del principado de Cataluña, que era la obra que actualmente escribía referente a los animales acuáticos y que acababa expresivamente de la siguiente forma: «Sin embargo del elogio muy cumplido de los pezes en lo moral y en lo physico, no les disimula una propiedad muy vergonzosa y reprehensible que es comerse unos a otros, y lo peor es que los grandes se comen a los pequeños. Si los pequeños se comiesen a los grandes, un solo Pez grande bastaría para muchos millares de los pequeños; pero, comiéndose los grandes a los pequeños, muchos millares de estos no bastan para saciar el hambre y llenar el buche de aquellos, y eso en lo moral y en lo physico tiene malísimas consequencias.»

Alfonso Castelao: Na noite da derradeira novena de difuntos

Alfonso Castelao: Na noite da derradeira novena de difuntos, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Na noite da derradeira novena de difuntos a eirexa estaba inzada de medos.

En cada vela escentilaba unha ánima e as ánimas que non cabían nas velas acesas acochábanse nos currunchos sombrizos e dende alí fitaban os rapaces e facíanlles carantoñas.

Cada luz que o sancristán mataba era unha ánima acesa que se desfacía en fíos de fume e todos sentíamo-lo bafo das ánimas en cada vela que morría.

Dende entón o cheiro da cera traime a lembranza dos medos daquela noite.

O abade cantaba o responso diante duha caixa chea de ósos e no intre de fina-lo “paternóster” daba comenzo o pranto.

Catro homes adiantábanse apartando mulleres enlouquecidas de door e cunha man erguían o ataúde e coa outra empuñaban unha facha.

A procesión tiña remate no osario do adro. Os catro homes levaban o ataúde pendurado a rentes do chan e a facha deitada pingando cera por riba dos ósos. Detrás seguía o enxamio de mulleres ceibando laídos abrouxadores, moito máis arrepiantes que os do pranto nun enterro de afogados. E se as mulleres carpían, os homes esbagullaban calados.

Naquela procesión todos tiñan por quen chorar e todos choraban.

E aínda choraba Baltasara, unha rapaza criada pola caridá de todos que aparecera dentro dun queipo, a carón dun cruceiro, que non tiña pai nin nai nin por quen chorar; mais ela foi collida polo andacio do pranto e tamén se desfacía carpindo con tódolos folgos.

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