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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).

Robert W. Chambers: The demoiselle d'Ys

Robert W. Chambers: The demoiselle d'Ys , 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


"Mais je croy que je
Suis descendu on puiz
Ténébreux onquel disoit
Heraclytus estre Vereté cachée."

"There be three things which are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not:

"The way of an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a ship in the midst of the sea; and the way of a man with a maid."
I

The utter desolation of the scene began to have its effect; I sat down to face the situation and, if possible, recall to mind some landmark which might aid me in extricating myself from my present position. If I could only find the ocean again all would be clear, for I knew one could see the island of Groix from the cliffs.

I laid down my gun, and kneeling behind a rock lighted a pipe. Then I looked at my watch. It was nearly four o'clock. I might have wandered far from Kerselec since daybreak.

Standing the day before on the cliffs below Kerselec with Goulven, looking out over the sombre moors among which I had now lost my way, these downs had appeared to me level as a meadow, stretching to the horizon, and although I knew how deceptive is distance, I could not realize that what from Kerselec seemed to be mere grassy hollows were great valleys covered with gorse and heather, and what looked like scattered boulders were in reality enormous cliffs of granite.

"It's a bad place for a stranger," old Goulven had said: "you'd better take a guide;" and I had replied, "I shall not lose myself." Now I knew that I had lost myself, as I sat there smoking, with the sea-wind blowing in my face. On every side stretched the moorland, covered with flowering gorse and heath and granite boulders. There was not a tree in sight, much less a house. After a while, I picked up the gun, and turning my back on the sun tramped on again.

There was little use in following any of the brawling streams which every now and then crossed my path, for, instead of flowing into the sea, they ran inland to reedy pools in the hollows of the moors. I had followed several, but they all led me to swamps or silent little ponds from which the snipe rose peeping and wheeled away in an ecstasy of fright. I began to feel fatigued, and the gun galled my shoulder in spite of the double pads. The sun sank lower and lower, shining level across yellow gorse and the moorland pools.

Clarice Lispector: Uma história de tanto amor

Clarice Lispector, Uma história de tanto amor, 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


Era uma vez uma menina que observava tanto as galinhas que lhes conhecia a alma e os anseios íntimos.
A galinha é ansiosa, enquanto o galo tem angústia quase humana: falta-lhe um amor verdadeiro naquele seu harém, e ainda mais tem que vigiar a noite toda para não perder a primeira das mais longínquas claridades e cantar o mais sonoro possível.
É o seu dever e a sua arte.
Voltando às galinhas, a menina possuía duas só dela. Uma se chamava Pedrina e a outra Petronilha.
Quando a menina achava que uma delas estava doente do fígado, ela cheirava embaixo das asas delas, com uma simplicidade de enfermeira, o que considerava ser o sintoma máximo de doenças, pois o cheiro de galinha viva não é de se brincar. Então pedia um remédio a uma tia. E a tia:
“Você não tem coisa nenhuma no fígado”. Então, com a intimidade que tinha com essa tia eleita, explicou-lhe para quem era o remédio. A menina achou de bom alvitre dá-lo tanto a Pedrina quanto a Petronilha para evitar contágios misteriosos.
Era quase inútil dar o remédio porque Pedrina e Petronilha continuavam a passar o dia ciscando o chão e comendo porcarias que faziam mal ao fígado. E o cheiro debaixo das asas era aquela morrinha mesmo. Não lhe ocorreu dar um desodorante porque nas Minas Gerais onde o grupo vivia não eram usados assim como não se usavam roupas íntimas de nylon e sim de cambraia.
A tia continuava a lhe dar o remédio, um líquido escuro que a menina desconfiava ser água com uns pingos de café – e vinha o inferno de tentar abrir o bico das galinhas para administrar-lhes o que as curaria de serem galinhas. A menina ainda não tinha entendido que os homens não podem ser curados de serem homens e as galinhas de serem galinhas: tanto o homem como a galinha têm misérias e grandeza (a da galinha é a de pôr um ovo branco de forma perfeita) inerentes à própria espécie. A menina morava no campo e não havia farmácia perto para ela consultar.
Outro inferno de dificuldade era quando a menina achava Pedrina e Petronilha magras debaixo das penas arrepiadas, apesar de comerem o dia inteiro. A menina não entendera que engordá-las seria apressar-lhes um destino na mesa.
E recomeçava o trabalho mais difícil: o de abrir-lhes o bico. A menina tornou-se grande conhecedora intuitiva de galinhas naquele imenso quintal das Minas Gerais. E quando cresceu ficou surpresa ao saber que na gíria o termo galinha tinha outra acepção. Sem notar a seriedade cômica que a coisa toda tomava:
– Mas é o galo, que é um nervoso, é quem quer! Elas não fazem nada demais! e é tão rápido que mal se vê! O galo é quem fica procurando amar uma e não consegue!
Um dia a família resolveu levar a menina para passar o dia na casa de um parente, bem longe de casa. E quando voltou, já não existia aquela que  em vida fora Petronilha. Sua tia informou-lhe:
– Nós comemos Petronilha.

Arthur Machen: A New Christmas Carol

Arthur Machen, A New Christmas Carol, 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

Scrooge was undoubtedly getting on in life, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that.
Ten years had gone by since the spirit of old Jacob Marley had visited him, and the Ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present, and Christmas Yet to Come had shown him the error of his mean, niggardly, churlish ways, and had made him the merriest old boy that ever walked on 'Change with a chuckle, and was called "Old Medlar" by the young dogs who never reverenced anybody or anything.
And, not a doubt of it, the young dogs were in the right. Ebenezer Scrooge was a meddler. He was always ferreting about into other peoples' business; so that he might find out what good he could do them. Many a hard man of affairs softened as he thought of Scrooge and of the old man creeping round to the countinghouse where the hard man sat in despair, and thought of the certain ruin before him.
"My dear Mr. Hardman," old Scrooge had said, "not another word. Take this draft for thirty thousand pounds, and use it as none knows better. Why, you'll double it for me before six months are out."
He would go out chuckling on that, and Charles the waiter, at the old City tavern where Scrooge dined, always said that Scrooge was a fortune for him and to the house. To say nothing of what Charles got by him; everybody ordered a fresh supply of hot brandy and water when his cheery, rosy old face entered the room.
It was Christmastide. Scrooge was sitting before his roaring fire, sipping at something warm and comfortable, and plotting happiness for all sorts of people.
"I won't bear Bob's obstinacy," he was saying to himself—the firm was Scrooge and Cratchit now—"he does all the work, and it's not fair for a useless old fellow like me to take more than a quarter share of the profits."
A dreadful sound echoed through the grave old house. The air grew chill and sour. The something warm and comfortable grew cold and tasteless as Scrooge sipped it nervously. The door flew open, and a vague but fearful form stood in the doorway.
"Follow me," it said.
Scrooge is not at all sure what happened then. He was in the streets. He recollected that he wanted to buy some sweetmeats for his little nephews and nieces, and he went into a shop.
"Past eight o'clock, sir," said the civil man. "I can't serve you."
He wandered on through the streets that seemed strangely altered. He was going westward, and he began to feel faint. He thought he would be the better for a little brandy and water, and he was just turning into a tavern when all the people came out and the iron gates were shut with a clang in his face.

Antonio Ros de Olano: Historia verdadera o cuento estrambótico, que da lo mismo

Antonio Ros de Olano, Historia verdadera o cuento estrambótico, 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


Abarricadado en los códices de muchos eruditos esquimales, desde donde sólo haré fuego con textos a rebote a los señores críticos si osaren atacarme, voime ahora derecho al correo submarino natural de Catania Pesce Cola. Y como por tales señas la mayor parte de ustedes no sabrán quién es; aclaro, y repito, que me voy derecho al atrevido recreador de la cruel admiración de Federico de Ñapóles... Mas como ni por ésas tal vez caigan ustedes en ello, digo, por último, que me voy como una bala al peje Nicolao; del cual peje, hasta que yo consigne lo que sé, sólo sabrán ustedes, acaso, que sacando del fondo de la mar, entre Scila y Caribdis, monedas y vasos de oro que le arrojaba su piadoso monarca, desapareció y... pax Christi.

Creen los investigadores someros que allí, entre aquellas bravas olas, muriera ahogado y acabara comido de monstruos marinos nuestro héroe; y así pretenden dar fin a su naciente historia: mas para refutarlos doy punto a mi discurso, y ahora verán ustedes lo que dijo el peje poniendo el pie en la playa de la isla.
Van cumplidas muchas lunas Desde que me eché a nadar; Tempestades oportunas, De las olas en las cunas, Me han mecido en alta mar.

Nuevas traigo generosas De mi príncipe y señor... Mas mis carnes escamosas Piden pausa en estas cosas, Hasta vestirme mejor.

En efecto, antes de adelantarse el peje hacia la hermana del gobernador, se revolcó en la arena para mejor cubrir sus carnes, según había indicado.

La hermana del gobernador era hermosa, pero no perfecta en el orden de la sensibilidad, porque le faltaban el susto, el desmayo, el ¡ay-ay-ay! y el no más por Dios.

En cambio causaba la admiración de cuantos la conocían; así por cierta virilidad y noble fiereza que trasporaba en ella a pesar de su belleza femenil, como porque tenía una propiedad singular: nunca había dicho una mentira; y la adornaba otra, más singular si cabe, que la de no decir embustes; soplaba y sorbía a un tiempo mismo.

¡Oh! Esto último auguraba a la doncella grandes ventajas en el porvenir, porque a la vez podía dar y tomar un beso, sin que pudieran achacarle la desenvoltura de ser parte activa en un caso en que, si tomar es igual a dar en sus resultados sensibles; dar y tomar a un tiempo, es uno más uno; aritméticamente igual a dos. Podía pues tomar o tomarse dos besos en uno, contra todo principio, excepto el de la modestia.

La luz del sol se había sumergido.

El peje Nicplao estaba interesante: vestía de fósforo sobre prismas de cilice, que ejecutaban cambiantes vistosísimos.

Илья Варшавский ( Ilya Varshavsky ): Гомункулус ( Homunculus )

Илья Варшавский, Ilya Varshavsky, 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


Я проснулся от звонка телефона. На светящемся циферблате будильника часовая стрелка перешла за два часа. Не понимая, кто может звонить так поздно, я снял трубку.
- Наконец-то вы проснулись!- услышал я взволнованный голос Смирнова.- Прошу вас немедленно ко мне приехать!
- Что случилось?
- Произошло несчастье. Сбежал Гомункулус. Он обуреваем жаждой разрушения, и я боюсь даже подумать о том, что он способен натворить в таком состоянии.
- Ведь я вам говорил,- начал я, но в трубке послышались короткие гудки.

Медлить было нельзя.
Гомункулус! Я дал ему это имя, когда у Смирнова только зародилась идея создания мыслящего автомата, обладающего свободой воли. Он собирался применить изобретенные им пороговые молекулярные элементы для моделирования человеческого мозга.
Уже тогда бессмысленность этой затеи вызвала у меня резкий протест. Я просто не понимал, зачем это нужно. Мне всегда казалось, что задачи кибернетики должны ограничиваться синтезом автоматов, облегчающих человеческий труд. Я не сомневался в неограниченной возможности моделирования живой природы, но попытки создания электронной модели человека представлялись мне просто отвратительными. Откровенно говоря, меня пугала неизбежность конфликта между человеком и созданным им механическим подобием самого себя, подобием, лишенным каких бы то ни было человеческих черт, со свободой воли, определяемой не чувствами, а абстрактными, сухими законами математической логики. Я был уверен, что чем совершеннее будет такой автомат, тем бесчеловечнее он поведет себя в
выборе средств для достижения поставленной им цели. Все это я откровенно
высказал тогда Смирнову.
- Вы такой же ханжа, - ответил он, - как те, кто пытается объявить выращивание человеческих зародышей в колбе противоречащим элементарным нормам морали. Ученый не может позволить себе роскошь быть сентиментальным в таких вопросах.
- Когда выращивают человеческого эмбриона в колбе,- возразил я, - для того, чтобы использовать его ткани при операциях, требующих пересадки, то это делается в гуманных целях и морально оправдано. Но представьте себе, что кому-нибудь пришло в голову из любопытства вырастить в колбе живого человека. Такие попытки создания нового Гомункулуса, по-моему, столь же омерзительны, как и мысль о выведении гибрида человека с обезьяной.

Felisberto Hernández: Acunamiento

Felisberto Hernández Acunamiento, 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

Prólogo

Todos los sabios estaban de acuerdo en que el fin del mundo se aproximaba. Hasta habían fijado fecha. Todos los países se llenaron de espanto. Todos los hombres con el espíritu impreciso, no podían pensar en otra cosa que en hacerse los gustos. Y se precipitaban. Y no se preocupaban de que los póstumos placeres fueran a expensas del dolor de los demás. Hubo un país que reaccionó rápidamente de la fantástica noticia. Nadie sabía si ese estado de coraje era por ignorancia, por sabiduría, por demasiado dolor o por demasiado cinismo. Pero ellos fueron los únicos asombrosamente capaces de resolver el problema de precaverse: construyeron seis planetitas de cemento armado incluyendo las leyes físicas que los sostuvieran en el espacio.

I

Por más grande que fuera el esfuerzo humano, resultaba ridículo y pequeño al querer suplir a la Tierra. Se calculaba que ese país tenía diez veces más habitantes de los que cabían en los planetitas. Entonces decidieron algo atroz: debían salvarse los hombres perfectos. Vino el juicio final y unos cuantos hombres juzgaron a los demás hombres. En el primer momento todos se manifestaron capaces de esta tarea. Sin embargo, hubo un hombre extrañamente loco, que dijo lo contrario. Además propuso al pueblo que todos los hombres que se eligieran para juzgar a los demás, debían aceptar esta tarea a condición de ser fusilados.

II

El pueblo aceptó esta última proposición. Se disolvieron las aptitudes para la tarea de selección: nadie amaba la justicia al extremo de dar la vida por ella. Hubo sin embargo un hombre de experiencia concreta que aceptó. Indignado porque un grupo de inteligentes se burló de su experiencia, prefirió juzgar al grupo de inteligentes, y morir fusilado con una sonrisa trágica de ironía y de veneno de rabia. Gracias a los sacrificados por la justicia a ellos mismos, se juzgó a los hombres y los perfectos ocuparon sus respectivos puestos en los planetitas de cemento armado.

Neil Gaiman: A Study in Emerald

Neil Gaiman, A Study in Emerald, 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


I. The New Friend
F RESH FROM THEIR STUPENDOUS EUROPEAN TOUR, WHERE THEY PERFORMED BEFORE SEVERAL OF THE CROWNED HEADS OF EUROPE, GARNERING THEIR PLAUDITS AND PRAISE WITH MAGNIFICENT DRAMATIC PERFORMANCES, COMBINING BOTH COMEDY AND TRAGEDY, THE STRAND PLAYERS WISH TO MAKE IT KNOWN THAT THEY SHALL BE APPEARING AT THE ROYAL COURT THEATRE, DRURY LANE, FOR A LIMITED ENGAGEMENT IN APRIL, AT WHICH THEY WILL PRESENT MY LOOK-ALIKE BROTHER TOM!, THE LITTLEST VIOLET-SELLER AND THE GREAT OLD ONES COME (THIS LAST AN HISTORICAL EPIC OF PAGEANTRY AND DELIGHT); EACH AN ENTIRE PLAY IN ONE ACT! TICKETS ARE AVAILABLE NOW FROM THE BOX OFFICE.

It is the immensity, I believe. The hugeness of things below. The darkness of dreams.
But I am woolgathering. Forgive me. I am not a literary man.
I had been in need of lodgings. That was how I met him. I wanted someone to share the cost of rooms with me. We were introduced by a mutual acquaintance, in the chemical laboratories of St. Bart’s. “You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive,” that was what he said to me, and my mouth fell open and my eyes opened very wide.
“Astonishing,” I said.
“Not really,” said the stranger in the white lab-coat, who was to become my friend. “From the way you hold your arm, I see you have been wounded, and in a particular way. You have a deep tan. You also have a military bearing, and there are few enough places in the Empire that a military man can be both tanned and, given the nature of the injury to your shoulder and the traditions of the Afghan cave-folk, tortured.”
Put like that, of course, it was absurdly simple. But then, it always was. I had been tanned nut-brown. And I had indeed, as he had observed, been tortured.
The gods and men of Afghanistan were savages, unwilling to be ruled from Whitehall or from Berlin or even from Moscow, and unprepared to see reason. I had been sent into those hills, attached to the-th Regiment. As long as the fighting remained in the hills and mountains, we fought on an equal footing. When the skirmishesdescended into the caves and the darkness then we found ourselves, as it were, out of our depth and in over our heads.

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: No haré nada por lo que el dios de la biomecánica me impida entrar en su cielo / Nothing the god of bio-mechanics wouldn't let you in heaven for

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo, No haré nada por lo que el dios de la biomecánica me impida entrar en su cielo, Nothing the god of bio-mechanics wouldn't let you in heaven for, 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, Philip K. Dick



Antes eran hombres, hombres como nosotros…
                    La isla del doctor Moreau, H. G. Wells

Procread y multiplicaos, y henchid la tierra; sometedla y dominad sobre los peces del mar, sobre las aves del cielo…”. Acostumbra a repetir ese paso de la Biblia mientras el heterogéneo material genético se funde en las probetas.
Pero ese laboratorio no es un templo. Y de serlo, se habría erigido en honor a un dios cruel, preocupado únicamente por sus mezquinos intereses, siempre ávido de nuevos sacrificios. En las paredes, en nichos excavados sobre el pretendido blanco, tarros con fetos de rasgos zoomorfos que antaño se habrían considerado monstruos. Un macabro homenaje a los orígenes del mayor programa de ingeniería genética y social.
“Sobrevive el que se adapta al cambio”, afirma el director del proyecto. Quizá esté jugando con él. Puede que lo hayan descubierto. Disponen de tantos informantes…
De regreso a casa, en los sórdidos suburbios que se extienden más allá del perímetro de seguridad, compra bajo la lluvia ácida, en uno de tantos puestos ambulantes, tallarines. No tiene tiempo que perder; le espera una larga noche de trabajo.
En su pasillo hace cola una variopinta multitud: humanos mejorados para la gloria del Estado y el óptimo funcionamiento del sistema. Branquias para los operarios de las plataformas petrolíferas; alas para los albañiles asignados a la construcción de los rascacielos desde donde la élite dirige sus destinos; enormes y sensibles pabellones auditivos para los zapadores ‒ciegos‒ encargados de excavar el laberinto subterráneo que alberga los niveles más desfavorecidos del desgarrado tejido social...
Aunque no podrá revertir la manipulación genética que les dio vida, procurará paliar sus secuelas con cirugía y tratamientos farmacológicos. 

Philip K. Dick: The Skull

Philip K. Dick, The Skull, 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


"What is this opportunity?" Conger asked. "Go on. I'm interested."

The room was silent; all faces were fixed on Conger—still in the drab prison uniform. The Speaker leaned forward slowly.

"Before you went to prison your trading business was paying well—all illegal—all very profitable. Now you have nothing, except the prospect of another six years in a cell."

Conger scowled.

"There is a certain situation, very important to this Council, that requires your peculiar abilities. Also, it is a situation you might find interesting. You were a hunter, were you not? You've done a great deal of trapping, hiding in the bushes, waiting at night for the game? I imagine hunting must be a source of satisfaction to you, the chase, the stalking—"

Conger sighed. His lips twisted. "All right," he said. "Leave that out. Get to the point. Who do you want me to kill?"

The Speaker smiled. "All in proper sequence," he said softly.

The car slid to a stop. It was night; there was no light anywhere along the street. Conger looked out. "Where are we? What is this place?"

The hand of the guard pressed into his arm. "Come. Through that door."

Conger stepped down, onto the damp sidewalk. The guard came swiftly after him, and then the Speaker. Conger took a deep breath of the cold air. He studied the dim outline of the building rising up before them.

"I know this place. I've seen it before." He squinted, his eyes growing accustomed to the dark. Suddenly he became alert. "This is—"

"Yes. The First Church." The Speaker walked toward the steps. "We're expected."

"Expected? Here?"

"Yes." The Speaker mounted the stairs. "You know we're not allowed in their Churches, especially with guns!" He stopped. Two armed soldiers loomed up ahead, one on each side.

"All right?" The Speaker looked up at them. They nodded. The door of the Church was open. Conger could see other soldiers inside, standing about, young soldiers with large eyes, gazing at the ikons and holy images.

"I see," he said.

"It was necessary," the Speaker said. "As you know, we have been singularly unfortunate in the past in our relations with the First Church."

"This won't help."

"But it's worth it. You will see."

They passed through the hall and into the main chamber where the altar piece was, and the kneeling places. The Speaker scarcely glanced at the altar as they passed by. He pushed open a small side door and beckoned Conger through.

"In here. We have to hurry. The faithful will be flocking in soon."

Conger entered, blinking. They were in a small chamber, low-ceilinged, with dark panels of old wood. There was a smell of ashes and smoldering spices in the room. He sniffed. "What's that? The smell."

Bertalicia Peralta: El retrato del abuelo

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Abuelo murió hace años. A su muerte hubo que ir deshaciéndose de sus pertenencias, poco a poco. Un día fue el bastón. Otro, los dos pares de zapatos que usaba cuando salía a misa los domingos. Otro, las camisas blancas, bien planchadas, con su olor a bolitas de alcanfor. Las prendas íntimas se usaron, cortadas en pedazos del mismo tamaño, como trapos para la limpieza del piso, de los muebles, hasta que se volvieron hilachas.

Llegó el momento en que sólo quedó de su vivir entre la casa una foto magnífica, que lo mostraba aún de carnes vivas, ojos intensos, boca firme. La fotografía, más que impresión de un instante, semejaba la conciencia del futuro vigilando uno a uno los movimientos familiares.

Un día fue el nieto de veinte meses quien descubrió la clave. A su paso desenfadado y vacilante por toda la casa, el marco de la fotografía se estrelló contra el suelo y la presión desparramó las astillas de vidrios alrededor. Un olorcillo penetrante inundó la atmósfera. Una tela grisácea, sedosa y repugnante quedó pegada como goma de mascar sobre el linóleo amarillento que recubría el piso, y las carnes vivas del abuelo que habían estado enmarcadas por tanto tiempo, se ennegrecieron rápidamente para siempre.


Vincent O'Sullivan: The Business of Madame Jahn


How we all stared, how frightened we all were, how we passed opinions, on that morning when Gustave Herbout was found swinging by the neck from the ceiling of his bedroom. The whole Faubourg, even the ancient folk who had not felt a street under them for years, turned out and stood gaping at the house with amazement and loud conjecture. For why should Gustave Herbout, of all men, take to the rope? Only last week he had inherited all the money of his aunt, Madame Jahn, together with her house and the shop with the five assistants, and life looked fair enough for him. No; clearly it was not wise of Gustave to hang himself!

Besides, his aunt's death had happened at a time when Gustave was in sore straits for money. To be sure, he had his salary from the bank in which he worked; but what is a mere salary to one who (like Gustave) threw off the clerkly habit when working hours were over to assume the dress and lounge of the accustomed boulevardier: while he would relate to obsequious friends vague but satisfactory stories of a Russian Prince who was his uncle, and of an extremely rich English lady to whose death he looked forward with hope. Alas! with a clerk's salary one cannot make much of a figure in Paris. It took all of that, and more, to maintain the renown he had gained among his acquaintance of having to his own a certain little lady with yellow hair who danced divinely. So he was forced to depend on the presents which Madame Jahn gave him from time to time; and for those presents he had to pay his aunt a most sedulous and irksome attention. At times, when he was almost sick from his craving for the boulevard, the café, the theatre, he would have to repair as the day grew to an end, to our Faubourg, and the house behind the shop, where he would sit to an old-fashioned supper with his aunt, and listen With a sort of dull impatience while she asked him when he had last been at Confession, and told him long dreary stories of his dead father and mother. Punctually at nine o'clock the deaf servant, who was the only person besides Madame Jahn that lived in the house, would let in the fat old priest, who came for his game of dominoes, and betake herself to bed. Then the dominoes would begin, and with them the old man's prattle which Gustave knew so well: about his daily work, about the uselessness of all things here on earth, and the happiness and glory of the Kingdom of Heaven; and, of course, our boulevardier noticed, with the usual cheap sneer of the modern, that whilst the priest talked of the Kingdom of Heaven he yet showed the greatest anxiety if he had symptoms of a cold, or any other petty malady. However, Gustave would sit there with a hypocrite's grin and inwardly raging, till the clock chimed eleven. At that hour Madame Jahn would rise, and, if she was pleased with her nephew, would go over to her writing-desk and give him, with a rather pretty air of concealment from the priest, perhaps fifty or a hundred francs. Whereupon Gustave would bid her a manifestly affectionate good-night! and depart in the company of the priest. As soon as he could get rid of the priest, he would hasten to his favourite cafés, to discover that all the people worth seeing had long since grown tired of waiting and had departed on their own affairs. The money, indeed, was a kind of consolation; but then there were nights when he did not get a sou. Ah! they amuse themselves in Paris, but not in this way — this is not amusing.

One cannot live a proper life upon a salary and an occasional gift of fifty or a hundred francs. And it is not entertaining to tell men that your uncle, the Prince at Moscow, is in a sorry case, and even now lies a-dying, or that the rich English lady is in the grip of a vile consumption and is momently expected to succumb, if these men only shove up their shoulders, wink at one another, and continue to present their bills. Further, the little Mademoiselle with yellow hair had lately shown signs of a very pretty temper, because her usual flowers and bon-bons were not apparent. So, since things were come to this dismal pass, Gustave fell to attending the race-meetings at Chantilly. During the first week Gustave won largely, for that is sometimes the way with ignorant men: during that week, too, the little Mademoiselle was charming, for she had her bouquets and boxes of bon-bons. But the next week Gustave lost heavily, for that is also very often the way with ignorant men: and he was thrown into the blackest despair, when one night at a place where he used to sup, Mademoiselle took the arm of a great fellow whom he much suspected to be a German, and tossed him a scornful nod as she went off.

On the evening after this happened, he was standing between five and six o'clock, in the Place de la Madeleine, blowing on his fingers and trying to plan his next move, when he heard his name called by a familiar voice, and turned to face his aunt's adviser, the priest.

Ángel Olgoso: El misántropo

Ángel Olgoso, El misántropo, 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

Don Celso Filgueira convocaba la antipatía de todos los vecinos del concello de Ribadeo. Confundían su pereza verbal con arrogancia y la justa cordialidad con desprecio. Recelaban de su negativa a copas y cafés y de su timidez bronca que no se paraba en hipocresías. El malentendido es la ley de gravitación de los solitarios. Cuando don Celso murió, todos consideraron para sí a aquel sujeto insociable una especie de lobezno muerto y bien muerto, pero don Celso Filgueira fue enterrado inadvertidamente con vida. Él, que anticipó esta contingencia (la soledad regala a manos llenas tiempo y temas), hizo instalar en su féretro un sistema patentado por el ingeniero Avendaño, de Monforte. Así pues, al despertar, oprimió en seguida el interruptor que levantó en la superficie un disco portador del número de enterramiento, encendió la lámpara de señalización y conectó la sirena de alarma. Era la mañana después de san Wenceslao, llovía y el soplo del orvallo apenas dejaba escuchar la llamada de auxilio. Mientras don Celso se removía como loco en la oscuridad, devorado ya por los gusanos del miedo, los vecinos iban acudiendo al camposanto atraídos por aquellos extraños e incansables bocinazos. Bastó que supieran de qué tumba provenían para que se dieran media vuelta. Y subiéndose unos las solapas y sacudiéndose otros las pellas de barro en los retamales, todos se alejaron, se alejaron.

Ambrose Bierce: An Arrest

Ambrose Bierce, An Arrest, 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

Having murdered his brother-in-law, Orrin Brower of Kentucky was a fugitive from justice. From the county jail where he had been confined to await his trial he had escaped by knocking down his jailer with an iron bar, robbing him of his keys and, opening the outer door, walking out into the night. The jailer being unarmed, Brower got no weapon with which to defend his recovered liberty. As soon as he was out of the town he had the folly to enter a forest; this was many years ago, when that region was wilder than it is now.

The night was pretty dark, with neither moon nor stars visible, and as Brower had never dwelt thereabout, and knew nothing of the lay of the land, he was, naturally, not long in losing himself. He could not have said if he were getting farther away from the town or going back to it - a most important matter to Orrin Brower. He knew that in either case a posse of citizens with a pack of bloodhounds would soon be on his track and his chance of escape was very slender; but he did not wish to assist in his own pursuit. Even an added hour of freedom was worth having.

Suddenly he emerged from the forest into an old road, and there before him saw, indistinctly, the figure of a man, motionless in the gloom. It was too late to retreat: the fugitive felt that at the first movement back toward the wood he would be, as he afterward explained, “filled with buckshot.” So the two stood there like trees, Brower nearly suffocated by the activity of his own heart; the other - the emotions of the other are not recorded.

A moment later - it may have been an hour - the moon sailed into a patch of unclouded sky and the hunted man saw that visible embodiment of Law lift an arm and point significantly toward and beyond him. He understood. Turning his back to his captor, he walked submissively away in the direction indicated, looking to neither the right nor the left; hardly daring to breathe, his head and back actually aching with a prophecy of buckshot.

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Tales of Mystery and Imagination

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