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).

L. Sprague de Camp: Eudoric’s Unicorn

L. Sprague de Camp, Eudoric’s Unicorn, 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, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

When Sir Eudoric Dambertson's stagecoach line was running smoothly, Eudoric thought of expansion. He would extend the line from Kromnitch to Sogambrium, the capital of the New Napolitanian Empire. He would order a second coach. He would hire a scrivener to relieve him of the bookkeeping . . .

The initial step would be to look over the Sogambrian end of the route. So he posted notices in Zurgau and Kromnitch that, on a certain day, he would instead of turning around at Kromnitch to come back to Zurgau, continue on to Sogambrium, carrying those who wished to pay the extra fare.

Eudoric got a letter of introduction from his silent partner, Baron Emmerhard of Zurgau, who once had almost become Eudoric's father-in-law. The letter presented Eudoric to the Emperor's brother, the Archduke Rolgang.

"For a gift," said Emmerhard, fingering his graying beard, "I'll send one of my best hounds with thee. Nought is done at court without presents."

"Very kind of you, sir," said Eudoric.

"Not so kind as all that. Be sure to debit the cost of the bitch to operating expenses."

"At what value?"

"Klea should fetch at least fifty marks—"

"Fifty! Good my lord, that's absurd. I can pick up—"

"Be not impertinent with me, puppy! Thou knowest nought of dogs . . ."

After an argument, Eudoric got Klea's value down to thirty marks, which he still thought much too high. A few days later, he set out with a cage, containing Klea, lashed to the back of the coach. In seven days the coach, with Eudoric's helper Jillo driving, rolled into Sogambrium.

Save once when he was an infant, Eudoric had never seen the imperial capital. By comparison, Kromnitch was but a small town and Zurgau, a village. The slated gables seemed to stretch away forever, like the waves of the sea.

The hordes who seethed through the flumelike streets made Eudoric uneasy. They wore fashions never seen in rural parts. Men flaunted shoes with long, turned-up toes, attached by laces to the wearer's legs below the knee; women, yard-high conical hats. Everyone seemed in a hurry. Eudoric had trouble understanding the metropolitan dialect. The Sogambrians slurred their words, dropped whole syllables, and seldom used the old-fashioned, familiar "thou " and "thee."

Having taken quarters at an inn of middling grade, Eudoric left Jillo to care for the coach and team. Leading Klea, he made his way through a gray drizzle to the archducal palace. He tried on one hand to take in all the sights but, on the other, not conspicuously to stare, gape, and crane his neck.

Ramón J. Sender: El buitre

Ramón J. Sender, El buitre, 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, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo, Alejandro Cabeza
Ramon J. Sender por Alejandro Cabeza

Volaba entre las dos rompientes y le habría gustado ganar altura y sentir en sol en las alas, pero era más cómodo dejarse resbalar sobre la brisa.
Iba saliendo poco a poco al valle, allí donde la montaña disminuía hasta convertirse en una serie de pequeñas colinas. El buitre veía abajo llanos grises y laderas verdes.
—Tengo hambre —se dijo.
La noche anterior había oído tiros. Unos aislados y otros juntos y en racimo. Cuando se oían disparos por
la noche las sombras parecían decirle: «Alégrate, que ma- ñana encontrarás carne muerta.» Además por la noche se trataba de caza mayor. Animales grandes: un lobo o un oso y tal vez un hombre. Encontrar un hombre muerto era inusual y glorioso. Hacía años que no había comido carne humana, pero no olvidaba el sabor.
Si hallaba un hombre muerto era siempre cerca de un camino y el buitre odiaba los caminos. Además no era fácil acercarse a un hombre muerto porque siempre había otros cerca, vigilando.
Oyó volar a un esparaván sobre su cabeza. El buitre torció el cuello para mirarlo y golpeó el aire rítmicamente con sus alas para ganar velocidad y alejarse. Sus alas proyectaban una ancha sombra contra la ladera del monte. —Cuello pelado —dijo el esparaván—. Estás espantándome la caza. La sombra de tus alas pasa y repasa sobre la colina.
No contestaba el buitre porque comenzaba a sentirse viejo y la autoridad entre las grandes aves se logra mejor con el silencio. El buitre sentía la vejez en su estómago vacío que comenzaba a oler a la carne muerta devorada años antes.
Voló en círculo para orientarse y por fn se lanzó como una fecha fuera del valle donde cazaba el esparaván. Voló largamente en la misma dirección. Era la hora primera de la mañana y por el lejano horizonte había ruido de tormenta, a pesar de estar el cielo despejado.
 —El hombre hace la guerra al hombre —se dijo.
Recelaba del animal humano que anda en dos patas y tiene el rayo en la mano y lo dispara cuando quiere.
Del hombre que lleva a veces el fuego en la punta de los dedos y lo come. Lo que no comprendía era que siendo tan poderoso el hombre anduviera siempre en grupo. Las fieras suelen despreciar a los animales que van en rebaño.
Iba el buitre en la dirección del cañoneo lejano. A veces abría el pico y el viento de la velocidad hacía vibrar su lengua y producía extraños zumbidos en su cabeza. A pesar del hambre estaba contento y trató de cantar:
Los duendes que vivían en aquel cuerpo 
estaban fríos, pero dormían
y no se querían marchar.
Yo los tragué
y las plumas del cuello se me cayeron.
¿Por qué los tragué si estaban fríos?
Ah, es la ley de mis mayores.

Rebasó lentamente una montaña y avanzó sobre otro valle, pero la tierra estaba tan seca que cuando vio
el pequeño arroyo en el fondo del barranco se extrañó. Aquel valle debía estar muerto y acabado. Sin embargo, el arroyo vivía.

Brian W. Aldiss: Tomorrow’s Yesterdays

Brian W. Aldiss, Tomorrow’s Yesterdays, 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, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

When we look back over our century, over the years from AD 2000 to the present, 1st January, 2099, we can see how many of our present benefits have their roots in the twentieth century, and even earlier.

The Twenty-First Century has been a brilliant one, in contrast with its predecessor, with war – and the greed which often inspires war – largely in abeyance. While we celebrate its fruits, we look ahead to new challenges. And, as ever, to the unexpected – even the unlikely.

Some developments which seemed promising in AD 2000 have not matured. The expectation that we would have robot and android servants, for instance, is no more. Androids were too cumbersome and energy-consuming. The first models gave off hydroxils of a poisonous nature, and were banned. We have superceded them with something more adaptable – our dupes.

Let us leave that topic aside for a while, in order to consider the larger socio-economic benefits of Our Twenty-First Century.

Ambitions for closer cooperation between neighbouring countries, the striving for longevity, and the understanding that better health is achievable though better housing, sanitary improvements, and diet: the fulfillment of these concepts, and the abolition of most diseases, has transformed the world in which the majority of us live. As a result, consumerism has largely given way to contemplationism.

One thing we must expect from the future is the unexpected. Chaos Theory and experience combine to teach us that much. No one, a century ago, could have conceived that a handful of truly remarkable, benevolent, and charismatic individuals would arise simultaneously, strongly to influence the course of history. Nor would those predecessors of ours have expected the human species to turn to a mode of life so much less dependent on technology than was theirs.

At the start of this century, which we now think of as the Age of Idealism, six men and women came to power in the various nations that then existed, in Europe, the Americas, Russia, Central Asia, China, and Africa. This happened between the years of 2009 and 2023, as if six Nelson Mandelas had been born. What were the odds against these six powerful, enlightened and incorruptible people emerging at the same time? Perhaps no greater than the odds against such leaders as Stalin, Hitler, Franco, Soekarno, and others emerging almost simultaneously in the twentieth century. The Twentieth had the ill luck, we the good.

The world at this time was aghast at a nuclear conflict which had broken out between North and South Korea, practically destroying both countries and afflicting all surrounding areas. As a result, a new world order – if possible free of national rivalries, old grudges, and ideologies – was actively sought for.

Pilar Pedraza‏: Carne de ángel

Pilar Pedraza‏, Carne de ángel, 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, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

—¡Pase! —grité un par de veces antes de que el visitante me oyera y empujara la puerta de mi despacho.
Lo hizo suavemente, con timidez.
—¿Se puede? —preguntó—. ¿Llego en mal momento?
Al contrario. Me alegró su aparición. Interrumpía el molesto sopor que solía acometerme al mediodía, después de las clases.
La cabeza de Goran Pizska, mi estudiante del Doctorado europeo, hizo amistosas muecas y reverencias desde el umbral. Precedía a un cuerpo grande, blando y desgarbado, que consiguió dejar de tropezar consigo mismo y entrar en mi pequeño habitáculo abarrotado de libros y tapizado con carteles de las exposiciones en las que había participado como comisaria.
Conocía poco a Pizska, pero lo tenía por persona excelente y apasionado estudioso de la cultura de la muerte. Y además algo necrófilo. Esto último lo supe desde el día en que le conocí, en un congreso en Pavía, donde presentó una breve y nerviosa comunicación en la mesa que presidía yo misma. Me agradó el brioso amor con que trataba su tema en una sede como aquélla, académica, pretendidamente científica y más bien fría. Ni siquiera se servía del powerpoint, sino que disertaba sin leer, con diapositivas y fragmentos de video que manejaba con nerviosismo.
Según supe después, su necrofilia pertenecía al género platónico. La cruda realidad es que no había visto un muerto, un verdadero muerto de carne y hueso, en toda su vida. También yo soy amante de la palabra muerte mas que de los cadáveres. Pizska, que me conocía por referencias, se pegó a mí enseguida irradiando ese cariño admirativo de quienes nos interesamos por lo mismo, ya sea coleccionar vitolas de habano o estudiar las costumbres de los escorpiones.
Llevada por la atmósfera fraternal y generosa del congreso, accedí, quizá precipitadamente y contagiada por el entusiasmo de aquel individuo tan llamativo, a dirigir su tesis doctoral sobre la artesanía macabra practicada por los monjes capuchinos. Pizska se lo había pedido en vano a algunos otros colegas, que no vieron la utilidad de tal estudio, ya muy trillado, y lo rechazaron con diversas excusas. Yo confiaba más en los jóvenes que la mayoría de mis compañeros. Al cabo de un día, las obsesiones de Pizska se me habían contagiado y ya hablaba —como él— de muertos momificados con quien se me pusiera por delante. Mientras tomábamos una copa en el vestíbulo del hotel con algunos colegas antes de retirarnos a descansar, mencioné la cripta de Via Véneto en Roma. Pocos de los circunstantes, en su mayoría historiadores del arte y estudiosos de tumbas blanqueadas, la conocían. Pizska la había visto en fotografías, pero no había estado allí. Le recomendé que la visitara cuanto antes e incluso que la estudiara. En ningún otro lugar iba a encontrar una ordenación tan rigurosa de arquitectura de huesos combinada con momias enteras expuestas al aire, cinchadas a los muros para mantenerse en pie.

Edgar Allan Poe: Morella

Edgar Allan Poe, Morella, 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, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Αυτο χαθ’ αυτο μεθ’ αυτου, μονο ειδες αιει ον.

Itself, by itself, solely, ONE everlasting, and single.

PLATO. Sympos.

WITH a feeling of deep yet most singular affection I regarded my friend Morella. Thrown by accident into her society many years ago, my soul from our first meeting, burned with fires it had never before known; but the fires were not of Eros, and bitter and tormenting to my spirit was the gradual conviction that I could in no manner define their unusual meaning or regulate their vague intensity. Yet we met; and fate bound us together at the altar, and I never spoke of passion nor thought of love. She, however, shunned society, and, attaching herself to me alone rendered me happy. It is a happiness to wonder; it is a happiness to dream.
Morella's erudition was profound. As I hope to live, her talents were of no common order- her powers of mind were gigantic. I felt this, and, in many matters, became her pupil. I soon, however, found that, perhaps on account of her Presburg education, she placed before me a number of those mystical writings which are usually considered the mere dross of the early German literature. These, for what reason I could not imagine, were her favourite and constant study- and that in process of time they became my own, should be attributed to the simple but effectual influence of habit and example.
In all this, if I err not, my reason had little to do. My convictions, or I forget myself, were in no manner acted upon by the ideal, nor was any tincture of the mysticism which I read to be discovered, unless I am greatly mistaken, either in my deeds or in my thoughts. Persuaded of this, I abandoned myself implicitly to the guidance of my wife, and entered with an unflinching heart into the intricacies of her studies. And then- then, when poring over forbidden pages, I felt a forbidden spirit enkindling within me- would Morella place her cold hand upon my own, and rake up from the ashes of a dead philosophy some low, singular words, whose strange meaning burned themselves in upon my memory. And then, hour after hour, would I linger by her side, and dwell upon the music of her voice, until at length its melody was tainted with terror, and there fell a shadow upon my soul, and I grew pale, and shuddered inwardly at those too unearthly tones. And thus, joy suddenly faded into horror, and the most beautiful became the most hideous, as Hinnon became Ge-Henna.
It is unnecessary to state the exact character of those disquisitions which, growing out of the volumes I have mentioned, formed, for so long a time, almost the sole conversation of Morella and myself. By the learned in what might be termed theological morality they will be readily conceived, and by the unlearned they would, at all events, be little understood. The wild Pantheism of Fichte; the modified Paliggenedia of the Pythagoreans; and, above all, the doctrines of Identity as urged by Schelling, were generally the points of discussion presenting the most of beauty to the imaginative Morella. That identity which is termed personal, Mr. Locke, I think, truly defines to consist in the saneness of rational being. And since by person we understand an intelligent essence having reason, and since there is a consciousness which always accompanies thinking, it is this which makes us all to be that which we call ourselves, thereby distinguishing us from other beings that think, and giving us our personal identity. But the principium indivduationis, the notion of that identity which at death is or is not lost for ever, was to me, at all times, a consideration of intense interest; not more from the perplexing and exciting nature of its consequences, than from the marked and agitated manner in which Morella mentioned them.

Juan Perucho: Apariciones y fantasmas

Juan Perucho, Apariciones y fantasmas, 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, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Después de todo, no era tan difícil invocar a los espíritus alrededor de una mesa. Los había por todas partes. En París mismo, por aquellos años, se aparecía regularmente y sin necesidad de invocación el fantasma de Jacques de Molay, gran maestre de los templarios, quemado vivo en 1314, el cual circulaba con suma desfachatez por la punta del «Vert Galant», la plaza Dauphine y el Pont Neuf. El Museo de Cluny tenía también su espíritu ensangrentado, que se aparecía sólo a las señoras en la sala de los instrumentos de tortura y a plena luz del día. Eso, sin contar con los innumerables espectros nocturnos que se paseaban entre las tumbas del cementerio del «Pére Lachaise» recitando en voz alta sus penas. Uno de ellos, el de una joven seducida y abandonada, dejaba por el suelo un rastro perfumado de finos pañuelos de encaje, mojados tristemente de lágrimas.

La cosa se puso emocionante cuando de Charleston llegó a París Sofía Walder y, a raíz de la muerte del luciferino y apóstata abbé Constant, se puso ésta al frente de los ocultistas masónicos. La señorita Walder era muy bella y figuraba como la discípula predilecta del general Albert Pike, fundador del Palladium, el rito reformado. Estaba en posesión de un genio diabólico, una mirada glacial y sabía muy bien lo que se hacía. Según Leo Taxil, ella fue quien inventó la Marsellesi, Anticlerical, cuyos abominables y célebres primeros versos decían así:

Allons! fils de la République,
Lejour de vote est arrivé!
Contre nous de la noire dique
L 'oriflamme ignoble est levé (bis)
Entendez-vous tous ees infames
Croasser leurs stupides chants?
lis voudraient, encor, les brigands,
Salir nos enfants et nos femmesl

La señorita Walder obligaba al diablo a aparecer en persona. La primera vez que lo hizo resultó una cosa horrible, pero aseguró de este modo su jefatura vitalicia. El doctor Bataille, afamado ocultista, nos lo cuenta en su Diable au XIX siecle: «Acaeció en casa de madame X., un sábado por la tarde, día :onsagrado a Moloch. La guapa Sofía Walder no había prevenido a nadie de sus propósitos, y empezó a pronunciar siete veces el nombre del Anti-Cristo, que es Apollonius Zabah. Recitó en seguida la invocación a Moloch, excusándose humildemente por llamarlo sin los accesorios habituales y rogándole que se apareciera a la concurrencia sin hacer víctima alguna. De pronto, la mesa que servía para los ejercicios espiritistas hizo un salto hacia el techo y, al caer, se metamorfoseó en un repugnante cocodrilo con alas de murciélago. El pánico fue general, y todo el mundo quedó como petrificado, clavado en su sitio. Pero la sorpresa llegó al colmo cuando el cocodrilo se dirigió a un piano vertical que había en la habitación, lo abrió y, sentándose en el taburete, comenzó a tocar una discordante melodía mientras dirigía a madame X., la dueña de la casa, unas expresivas y apasionadas miradas que la dejaron turbada en su pudor y aterrada en sus sentimientos. Al cabo, el cocodrilo alado desapareció bruscamente, dejando -cosa extraña— vacías todas las botellas de licor que había en el bufete.»

Robert William Chambers: A Pleasant Evening

Robert William Chambers, A Pleasant Evening, 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, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Et pis, doucett'ment on s'endort.

On fait sa carne, on fait sa sorgue.

On ronfle, et, comme un tuyan d'orgue.

L'tuyan s'met à ronfler pus fort...

Aristide Bruant
Chapter I

As I stepped upon the platform of a Broadway cable-cat at Forty-second Street, some body said:

"Hello, Hilton, Jamison's looking for you."

"Hello, Curtis," I replied, "what does Jamison want?"

"He wants to know what you've been doing all the week," said Curtis, hanging desperately to the railing as the car lurched forward; "he says you seem to think that the Manhattan Illustrated Weekly was created for the sole purpose of providing salary and vacations for you."

"The shifty old tom-cat!" I said, indignantly, "he knows well enough where I've been. Vacation! Does he think the State Camp in June is a snap?"

"Oh," said Curtis, "you've been to Peekskill?"

"I should say so," I replied, my wrath rising as I thought of my assignment.

"Hot?" inquired Curtis, dreamily.

"One hundred and three in the shade," I answered. "Jamison wanted three full pages and three half pages, all for process work, and a lot of line drawings into the bargain. I could have faked them--I wish I had. I was fool enough to hustle and break my neck to get some honest drawings, and that's the thanks I get!"

"Did you have a camera?"

"No. I will next time--I'll waste no more conscientious work on Jamison," I said sulkily.

"It doesn't pay," said Curtis. "When I have military work assigned me, I don't do the dashing sketch-artist act, you bet; I go to my studio, light my pipe, pull out a lot of old Illustrated London News, select several suitable battle scenes by Caton Woodville--and use 'em too."

The car shot around the neck-breaking curve at Fourteenth Street.

"Yes," continued Curtis, as the car stopped in front of the Morton House for a moment, then plunged forward again amid a furious clanging of gongs, "it doesn't pay to do decent work for the fat-headed men who run the Manhattan Illustrated. They don't appreciate it."

"I think the public does," I said, "but I'm sure Jamison doesn't. It would serve him right if I did what most of you fellows do--take a lot of Caton Woodville's and Thulstrup's drawings, change the uniforms, 'chic' a figure or two, and turn in a drawing labelled 'from life.' I'm sick of this sort of thing anyway. Almost every day this week I've been chasing myself over that tropical camp, or galloping in the wake of those batteries. I've got a full page of the 'camp by moonlight,' full pages of 'artillery drill' and 'light battery in action,' and a dozen smaller drawings that cost me more groans and perspiration than Jamison ever knew in all his lymphatic life!"

Horacio Quiroga: Un peón

Horacio Quiroga, Un peón, 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, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Una tarde, en Misiones, acababa de almorzar cuando sonó el cencerro del portoncito. Salí afuera, y vi detenido a un hombre joven, con el sombrero en una mano y una valija en la otra.

Hacía cuarenta grados fácilmente, que sobre la cabeza crespa de mi hombre obraba como sesenta. No parecía él, sin embargo, inquietarse en lo más mínimo. Lo hice pasar, y el hombre avanzó sonriendo y mirando con curiosidad la copa de mis mandarinos de cinco metros de diámetro, que, dicho sea de paso, son el orgullo de la región y el mío.

Le pregunté qué quería, y me respondió que buscaba trabajo. Entonces lo miré con más atención.

Para peón, estaba absurdamente vestido. La valija, desde luego de suela, y con lujo de correas. Luego, su traje, de cordero marrón sin una mancha. Por fin las botas; y no botas de obraje, sino artículo de primera calidad. Y sobre todo esto, el aire elegante, sonriente y seguro de mi hombre.

-¿Peón él...?

-Para todo trabajo -me respondió alegre-. Me sé tirar de hacha y de azada... Tengo trabalhado antes de ahora no Foz-do-Iguassú; e fize una plantación de papas.

El muchacho era brasileño, y hablaba una lengua de frontera, mezcla de portugués-español-guaraní, fuertemente sabrosa.

-¿Papas? ¿Y el sol? -observé-. ¿Cómo se las arreglaba?

-¡Oh! -me respondió encogiéndose de hombros-. O sol no hace nada... Tené cuidado usted de mover grande la tierra con a azada... ¡Y dale duro a o yuyo! El yuyo es el peor enemigo de la papa.

Véase cómo aprendí a cultivar papas en un país donde el sol, a más de matar las verduras quemándolas sencillamente como al contacto de una plancha, fulmina en tres segundos a las hormigas rubias y en veinte a las víboras de coral.

Isaac Asimov: Runaround

Isaac Asimov, Runaround, 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, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

It was one of Gregory Powell's favorite platitudes that nothing was to be gained from excitement, so when Mike Donovan came leaping down the stairs toward him, red hair matted with perspiration, Powell frowned.

"What's wrong?" he said. "Break a fingernail?"

"Yaaaah," snarled Donovan, feverishly. "What have you been doing in the sublevels all day?" He took a deep breath and blurted out, "Speedy never returned."

Powell's eyes widened momentarily and he stopped on the stairs; then he recovered and resumed his upward steps. He didn't speak until he reached the head of the flight, and then:
"You sent him after the selenium?"


"And how long has he been out?"

"Five hours now."

Silence! This was a devil of a situation. Here they were, on Mercury exactly twelve hours-and already up to the eyebrows in the worst sort of trouble. Mercury had long been the jinx world of the System, but this was drawing it rather strong-even for a jinx.

Powell said, "Start at the beginning, and let's get this straight."

They were in the radio room now-with its already subtly antiquated equipment, untouched for the ten years previous to their arrival. Even ten years, technologically speaking, meant so much. Compare Speedy with the type of robot they must have had back in 2005. But then, advances in robotics these days were tremendous.

Powell touched a still gleaming metal surface gingerly. The air of disuse that touched everything about the room-and the entire Station was infinitely depressing.

Donovan must have felt it.

He began: "I tried to locate him by radio, but it was no go. Radio isn't any good on the Mercury Sunside not past two miles, anyway. That's one of the reasons the First Expedition failed. And we can't put up the ultrawave equipment for weeks yet-'

"Skip all that. What did you get?"

"I located the unorganized body signal in the short wave. It was no good for anything except his position. I kept track of him that way for two hours and plotted the results on the map."

René Avilés Fabila: El más extraño de los animales prodigiosos

René Avilés Fabila, El más extraño de los animales prodigiosos, 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, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Dentro de esa jaula de grandes proporciones, pasta tranquilamente una rara especie. Ningún letrero lo anticipa. Algunos expertos en zoología señalan que se trata de un pegaso sin alas, otros más afirman que es un unicornio sin cuerno. La gente sencilla, que se arremolina en el lugar, prefiere decirle caballo.

Richard Laymon: Mess hall

Richard Laymon, Mess hall , 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, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

JEAN DIDN’T HEAR footsteps. She heard only the rush of the nearby stream, her own moaning, Paul’s harsh gasps as he thrust into her. The first she heard of the man was his voice.

“Looks to me like fornication in a public park area.”

Her heart slammed.

Oh God, no.

With her left eye, she glimpsed the man’s vague shape crouching beside her in the moonlight, less than a yard away. She looked up at Paul. His eyes were wide with alarm.

This can’t be happening, Jean told herself.

She felt totally helpless and exposed. Not that the guy could see anything. Just Paul’s bare butt. He couldn’t see that Jean’s blouse was open, her bra bunched around her neck, her skirt rucked up past her waist.

“Do you know it’s against the law?” the man asked.

Paul took his tongue out of Jean’s mouth. He turned his head toward the man.

Jean could feel his heart drumming, his penis shrinking inside her.

“Not to mention poor taste,” the man added.

“We didn’t mean any harm,” Paul said.

And started to get up.

Jean jammed her shoes against his buttocks, tightened her arms around his back.

“What if some children had wandered by?” the man asked.

“We’re sorry,” Jean told him, keeping her head straight up, not daring to look at the man again, instead staring at Paul. “We’ll leave.”

“Kiss goodbye, now.”

Seemed like a weird request.

But Paul obeyed. He pressed his mouth gently against Jean’s lips, and she wondered how she could manage to cover herself because it was quite obvious that, as soon as the kiss was over, Paul would have to climb off her. And there she’d be.

Later, she knew it was a shotgun.

She hadn’t seen a shotgun, but she’d only given the man that single, quick glance.

Paul was giving her the goodbye kiss and she was wondering about the best way to keep the man from seeing her when suddenly it didn’t matter because the world blew up. Paul’s eyes exploded out of their sockets and dropped onto her eyes. She jerked her head sideways to get away from them. Jerked it the wrong way. Saw the clotted wetness on the moonlit trunk of a nearby tree, saw his ear cling to the bark for a moment, then fall.

Paul’s head dropped heavily onto the side of her face. A torrent of blood blinded her.

She started to scream.

Paul’s weight tumbled off. The man stomped her belly. He scooped her up, swung her over his shoulder, and started to run. She wheezed, trying to breathe. His foot had smashed her air out and now his shoulder kept ramming into her. She felt as if she were drowning. Only a dim corner of her mind seemed to work, and she wished it would blink out.

Better total darkness, better no awareness at all.

The man stopped running. He bent over, and Jean flopped backward. She slammed something. Beside her was a windshield plated with moonlight. She’d been dumped across the hood of a car. Her legs dangled over the car’s front.

She tried to lift her head. Couldn’t. So she lay there, struggling to suck in air.

The man came back.

He’d been away?

My Blog List

Tales of Mystery and Imagination

" Tales of Mystery and Imagination es un blog sin ánimo de lucro cuyo único fin consiste en rendir justo homenaje
a los escritores de terror, ciencia-ficción y fantasía del mundo. Los derechos de los textos que aquí aparecen pertenecen a cada autor.

Las imágenes han sido obtenidas de la red y son de dominio público. No obstante si alguien tiene derecho reservado sobre alguna de ellas y se siente
perjudicado por su publicación, por favor, no dude en comunicárnoslo.

List your business in a premium internet web directory for free This site is listed under American Literature Directory