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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).

Pilar Pedraza: Los ojos azules

Pilar Pedraza, Los ojos azules, 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

El timbre del despertador le produjo un ligero sobresalto. Malhumorada, encendió la luz y se dispuso a seguir durmiendo cinco minutos más. A su lado, él se agitó y murmuro algo, pero no se despertó.
Llegó a clase con el tiempo justo. Cuando abrió la carpeta, advirtió que había olvidado los apuntes. No recordaba nada de lo que tenia que explicar aquel día. Muy nerviosa, pero tratando de no perder el control de la situación, guiñó el ojo a uno de los muchachos de la primera fila, tal vez el Representante. El chico subió de un ágil salto a la tarima y se sentó junto a ella. Mejor dicho, en el mismo sillón que ella, que era muy ancho, y empezó a recitar el tema. Lo haces muy bien cariño -pensó, mirando de soslayo aquella boca joven, de la que brotaba un torrente de erudición-, muy bien.
Sigue, sigue, no te detengas.
Entonces se despertó definitivamente.
Aquel sueño idiota había durado más de media hora. Tenía otra media para arreglarse, coger el coche y aparcar, si quería llegar a tiempo a clase. Se sentía mal. Todo le dolía, especialmente la garganta. "No iré", pensó. Pero hizo un esfuerzo, se incorporó en la cama tibia y fue alcanzando las prendas que el día anterior había dejado caer sobre una silla. Encontrar un zapato debajo de la cama le costó un minuto y le arrancó un par de maldiciones.
A pesar de que el tiempo apremiaba, extendió sobre el rostro, con mano torpe de impaciencia, una ligera capa de maquillaje, se peinó y se pinto los labios. No había tiempo para más. Tenía hambre y sabía el precio que iba a pagar por comenzar la jornada en ayunas, pero no podía ni hacerse un café. Cogió el bolso, la carpeta y los libros, y salió. 
Había que cambiar aquel maldito ascensor. Era una máquina malvada, que acudía con lentitud exasperante cuando uno tenía prisa y cuyas puertas tardaban una eternidad en abrirse. 
El día era oscuro y desapacible. Un viento helado barría las calles todavía dormidas. Y llovía. 
Ella era incapaz de soportar que le cayera encima una sola gota, de modo que, aunque tenía el garaje a dos pasos, volvió a subir, a por el paraguas. Cuando iba a abrir el ascensor para bajar, se le cayeron los libros y lo perdió, llamado por algún otro vecino. Se agachó a recogerlos. Una punzada de dolor le atravesó el costado izquierdo al incorporarse. Para no entretenerse más, emprendió el descenso a pie. 
A partir del segundo piso la luz no funcionaba, lo cual la lleno de angustia. Bajar unas escaleras a tientas era todavía peor que soportar la lluvia: siempre temía que un abismo se abriera bajo el último escalón. Por otra parte, nunca estaba segura de cuál era el ultimo. 
Ante la puerta del garaje, advirtió con horror que había dejado las llaves del coche sobre la consola del vestíbulo al coger el paraguas. No había tiempo de volver por ellas. Si tomo un taxi -pensó-, todavía llego. 

Norman Partridge: 10/31: Bloody Mary

Norman Partridge, Bloody Mary, 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 boy never goes out in daylight.
Oh, he could, and some do . . . but he doesn’t. Maybe that’s why he is still alive. He holes up in crawlspaces during the day. There are five houses he uses in rotation, all abandoned, none occupied by the dead or the living. As the world spins and sunlight and shadows travel the rooftops of his little town, he listens for a floorboard creak that doesn’t belong, hoping he won’t be discovered by the familiar boogeymen that have made this world their own since the dawning of 10/31—werewolves and witches, mummies and zombies, and other nameless things the boy would rather never see.
The boy isn’t very large. The way things are these days, he figures that’s a plus. He is less of a target at night, and for this reason he has come to trust the darkness. Strange to trust darkness in a world overrun with nightmares . . . but that’s the way it is.
It is not an exciting life. At night, the boy forages. He clings to the black spaces, shunning lightning flash and Jack o’ Lantern glow. During the day, he matches his silence with stillness. Occasionally, he dozes. Mostly, he spends his time with a flashlight and books, or sometimes a magazine. He likes the old ones with gory covers and pictorial articles about monsters, because they teach him secrets about the things he wants to avoid. On cold days he waits among wall studs and insulation, and on hot days he tucks himself next to cool concrete foundation. He lurks between sour earth and floorboards that rarely creak with tread inhuman or human, and he moves little or not at all, and he reads and learns, and he waits for night.
He waits until the pumpkins start to scream.
***
The pumpkins sit on porches. They sit there night and day. Some of them for years now. The ones that survived grew and thrived in ways that most pumpkins don’t, while the others rotted long ago. After the first calendar page was left unturned in the wake of 10/31, those ordinary pumpkins began the fast slide from orange to black. Within days their mouths were choked with cobwebs of mold. Within weeks their eyes collapsed into noses and their grins sagged into rotten frowns, as if with some strange withering disease. The ones that didn’t sluice away in the first rains petrified long ago. Those that remain are dry mummified memories of a world that no longer exists, as much a part of ancient history as candy, and costumes, and the idea of trick or treat itself.
But those other pumpkins, the ones that thrived—

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: En el ojo que mira



La mujer rota es la víctima estupefacta de la vida que ella misma eligió: una dependencia conyugal que la deja despojada de todo y de su ser mismo cuando el amor le es rehusado.
                                                                                   Simone de Beauvoir


El sonido del agua no es un relincho vigoroso sino un lamento pertinaz y resignado, un llanto quedo, aparentemente fruto de un dolor familiar, apaciguado de tan antiguo. Se inclina sobre la fuente. Puede ver su imagen reflejada en el espejo líquido. Los chorros que lanzan los caños turban la quietud de la superficie. O quizá una superficie cristalina e imperturbable entrañe un imposible. Quizá las ondas constituyan la única prueba de que el agua existe. Los círculos trémulos se ensanchan hasta apoderarse por completo de su figura; la mujer del agua tiembla. Ella vacila. Desearía asirse, aferrarse con fuerza hasta que el estremecimiento cese, hasta saberse firme de nuevo… Pero no tiene prisa. La intuición le dice que todo lleva su tiempo. De momento se limita a buscar en el fondo de esos ojos. No se encuentra, aunque tampoco ve el desconsuelo de los últimos años. Todavía no está derrotada. La mujer del agua parece guardar algún secreto. Sonríe casi imperceptiblemente, como quien reserva una sorpresa y disfruta imaginando el asombro que habrá de provocar cuando por fin la revele. Ella desearía interrogarla, pero sabe que de nada serviría: la mujer del agua es muy testaruda. Quizá sólo eso la haya salvado.
Siguiendo un impulso inexplicable, pasa las yemas de sus dedos sobre los labios de ella. Lejos quedan los tiempos en los que su espontaneidad se veía coartada; en los que alguien le impedía siempre hacer cosas “inadecuadas” en público. A pesar de que el toque es levísimo, los labios de agua ceden bajo el peso de la carne: acogen sus dedos tiernamente. De alguna forma, se encuentra dentro de su boca. Por supuesto está húmeda. Sin embargo le sorprende descubrir que también es ardiente, mucho más cálida de cuanto habría podido imaginar. La única explicación razonable puede encontrarse en el sol: sus rayos resultan tan abrasadores que el agua casi hierve. La fuente se diría un brasero lleno de ascuas encendidas.
Él observa hechizado la escena. No pierde un solo detalle. Su mano derecha se mueve involuntariamente en el aire, como si echase en falta algún utensilio que acostumbró a usar en el pasado.
―Demasiado caliente. Es una pena tener el agua tan cerca y no poderla beber, ¿verdad?
Ella se sobresalta. No le inquietan los extraños, pero creía estar sola mientras ejecutaba el insólito ritual. Sin embargo, por alguna razón, no le produce ningún pudor saber que ese desconocido la observaba en un momento de intimidad. Le ha bastado una mirada para intuir que él es casi como un confesor, que está acostumbrado a escuchar y guardar secretos.
―Si esta es la Fuente del Potro, el Museo de Bellas Artes debe de estar por aquí. ¿No es así?
De sobra sabe que el edificio se encuentra a sus espaldas, pero no ha querido perder la oportunidad de acercarse a él. Parece muy agradable, un caballero de otro tiempo, y la galantería en los hombres de una cierta edad le resulta especialmente adorable. Además, no pocas veces se sorprende pidiendo indicaciones sobre un monumento del que conoce la localización exacta. Aunque lleva un plano en el bolso, no le gusta sacarlo. Desplegarlo le parece un engorro y le molesta parecer una turista, porque no se siente exactamente así en ningún lugar. Prefiere pasear tranquilamente por las calles y preguntar a los viandantes por los lugares que quiere visitar. De esa forma dispone de la excusa perfecta para detenerse a hablar con las personas.
Se trata del primer viaje que emprende desde la separación. Lo ha hecho más por imposición que por ganas. Es una mujer muy disciplinada y se ha propuesto demostrarse a sí misma que aún es capaz de aprender a vivir de nuevo. Que todavía puede recuperar viejos hábitos negados durante muchos años, como el de acercarse a los extraños.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft: The last test

Howard Phillips Lovecraft: The last test, 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, Tales of mystery, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo

Few persons know the inside of the Clarendon story, or even that there is an inside not reached by the newspapers. It was a San Francisco sensation in the days before the fire, both because of the panic and menace that kept it company, and because of its close linkage with the governor of the state. Governor Dalton, it will be recalled, was Clarendon’s best friend, and later married his sister. Neither Dalton nor Mrs. Dalton would ever discuss the painful affair, but somehow the facts have leaked out to a limited circle. But for that and for the years which have given a sort of vagueness and impersonality to the actors, one would still pause before probing into secrets so strictly guarded at the time.
The appointment of Dr. Alfred Clarendon as medical director of San Quentin Penitentiary in 189- was greeted with the keenest enthusiasm throughout California. San Francisco had at last the honour of harbouring one of the greatest biologists and physicians of the period, and solid pathological leaders from all over the world might be expected to flock thither to study his methods, profit by his advice and researches, and learn how to cope with their own local problems. California, almost over night, would become a centre of medical scholarship with earthwide influence and reputation.
Governor Dalton, anxious to spread the news in its fullest significance, saw to it that the press carried ample and dignified accounts of his new appointee. Pictures of Dr. Clarendon and his new home near old Goat Hill, sketches of his career and manifold honours, and popular accounts of his salient scientific discoveries were all presented in the principal California dailies, till the public soon felt a sort of reflected pride in the man whose studies of pyemia in India, of the pest in China, and of every sort of kindred disorder elsewhere would soon enrich the world of medicine with an antitoxin of revolutionary importance—a basic antitoxin combating the whole febrile principle at its very source, and ensuring the ultimate conquest and extirpation of fever in all its diverse forms.
Back of the appointment stretched an extended and not wholly unromantic history of early friendship, long separation, and dramatically renewed acquaintance. James Dalton and the Clarendon family had been friends in New York ten years before—friends and more than friends, since the doctor’s only sister, Georgina, was the sweetheart of Dalton’s youth, while the doctor himself had been his closest associate and almost his protégé in the days of school and college. The father of Alfred and Georgina, a Wall Street pirate of the ruthless elder breed, had known Dalton’s father well; so well, indeed, that he had finally stripped him of all he possessed in a memorable afternoon’s fight on the stock exchange. Dalton Senior, hopeless of recuperation and wishing to give his one adored child the benefit of his insurance, had promptly blown out his brains; but James had not sought to retaliate. It was, as he viewed it, all in the game; and he wished no harm to the father of the girl he meant to marry and of the budding young scientist whose admirer and protector he had been throughout their years of fellowship and study. Instead, he turned to the law, established himself in a small way, and in due course of time asked “Old Clarendon” for Georgina’s hand.

Horacio Quiroga: El balde

Horacio Quiroga, El balde, 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

-¡Señora! -gritó la sirvienta sofocada aún por la rápida ascensión-: son del depósito de abajo. Están enojadísimos con los niños... han querido quemar todo.

-¿Qué?, ¿quemar?, ¿qué?... Que suban. ¿Luisa? ¡Ah! ¡estos hijos! El dependiente estaba ya arriba.

-¡Sí, señora, sí, son sus hijos! ¡Sus niños que ya no saben qué hacer! Estaban agujereando el piso para incendiar el depósito... Los hemos visto.

-¡Qué horror! ¡Estos hijos van a acabar conmigo! ¿Pero está seguro? ¿No será una broma de criaturas?

-¿Broma, señora? ¡Sus niños son poco amigos de bromas! Con una barrena habían hecho un agujero para echar un fósforo. Se morían de gusto pensando en lo que iba a pasar. Esas son las bromas de sus niños... Por suerte los hemos oído a tiempo.

La señora prometió corregirlos debidamente, asegurando al empleado que nunca más volverían a tener quejas de ellos. Aquel, con una esquiva mirada de desconfianza, volvió gruñendo a su depósito de alcoholes.

La idea de los chicos era en efecto de pasmosa sencillez; por el agujero aquel, que el malhadado tuerto denunciara, se iba a echar entre todos un fósforo encendido. Los toneles de alcohol arden al menor contacto de una llama; esto es evidente. Pero el fuego artificial había fracasa­do porque el tuerto, oyendo el cuchicheo en el techo, había visto el agujero sobre el cual los chicos se daban incesantes cabezazos para aplicar todos a un tiempo el ojo. Aunque la idea era del segundo, el mayor ha­bía conseguido la barrena, perteneciéndole por tanto la llave del plan. El menor, cuya imaginación dormía aún entre recién pasados ensueños de fosfatinas y arrow-root, había logrado obtener que entre los tres se cogiera el fósforo encendido, y entre los tres se lo arrojase a aquel cielo prohibido.

A las doce volvió el padre de la oficina, y su enojo fue violento, tanto como las diez palmadas que el mayor recibió atrás, motivos para que huyera a gritos, aplicando allí con furor sus dos manos.

-¡Lo que hay -concluyó el padre enardecido aún- es que todas estas cosas pasan cuando yo no estoy!

-¿Y qué quieres que haga? ¡Yo no puedo estar sobre ellos a cada momento! Eres injusto.

-Injusto o no, mientras yo estoy aquí, no pasa nada.

Ella no pudo menos de sonreírse.

-¡Bueno fuera! Yo no tengo tus manos.

Ray Bradbury: The Fog Horn

Ray Bradbury, The Fog Horn, 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

OUT there in the cold water, far from land, we waited every night for the coming of the fog, and it came, and we oiled the brass machinery and lit the fog light up in the stone tower. Feeling like two birds in the grey sky, McDunn and I sent the light touching out, red, then white, then red again, to eye the lonely ships. And if they did not see our light, then there was always our Voice, the great deep cry of our Fog Horn shuddering through the rags of mist to startle the gulls away like decks of scattered cards and make the waves turn high and foam.

"It's a lonely life, but you're used to it now, aren't you?" asked McDunn.

"Yes," I said. You're a good talker, thank the Lord."

"Well, it's your turn on land tomorrow," he said, smiling, "to dance the ladies and drink gin."

"What do you think McDunn, when I leave you out here alone?"

"On the mysteries of the sea." McDunn lit his pipe. It was a quarter past seven of a cold November evening, the heat on, the light switching it's tail in two hundred directions, the Fog Horn bumbling in the high throat of the tower. There wasn't a town for a hundred miles down the coast, just a road, which came lonely through the dead country to the sea, with few cars on it, a stretch of two miles of cold water out to our rock, and rare few ships.

The mysteries of the sea," said McDunn thoughtfully. "You know, the ocean's the biggest damned snowflake ever? It rolls and swells a thousand shapes and colours, no two alike. Strange. One night, years ago, I was here alone, when all of the fish of the sea surfaced out there. Something made them swim in and lie in the bay, sort of trembling and staring up at the tower light going red, white, red, white across them so I could see their funny eyes. I turned cold. They were like a big peacock's tail, moving out there until midnight. Then, without so much as a sound, they slipped away, the million of them was gone. I kind of think maybe, in some sort of way, they came all those miles to worship, Strange, But think how the tower must look to them, standing seventy feet above the water, the God-light flashing out from it, and the tower declaring itself with a monster voice. They never came back, those fish, but don't you think for a while they thought they were in the Presence?"

I shivered. I looked out at the long grey lawn of the sea stretching away into nothing and nowhere.

León Arsenal: Besos de alacrán

León Arsenal, Besos de alacrán, 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

Como cada mañana, el capitán Moctaur había subido a la torre de control. Siguiendo la costumbre de años, lo hizo por la escalera exterior, ascendiendo hasta lo más alto para terminar acodándose en la barandilla del piso superior, a contemplar ociosamente el bosque claro, las arboledas dispersas y los herbazales acariciados por la brisa, más allá de la descuidada pista del astropuerto.

En un extremo de las instalaciones, perdida entre las hierbas verdes y amarillas, yacía una vieja lanzadera abandonada, con el casco enrojecido por la herrumbre. Gigantescos insectos alados de caparazones brillantes danzaban entre la vegetación. Una bandada de aves, de plumajes multicolores, sobrevoló el astropuerto antes de alejarse hacia el sur. Con indolencia, el capitán se colocó un cigarrillo entre los labios, siguiendo con la vista el vuelo de la formación, que aleteaba perezosamente en el cielo azul sin nubes de Balifata II.

El capitán Moctaur hizo visera sobre los ojos. Allí, punteando el cielo a unos pocos grados más al sur que la bandada, algo volaba a baja altura, acercándose al astropuerto. Enfocó sus prismáticos sobre aquella mota. Un transporte, una gran nave aérea se desplazaba muy lentamente en el aire claro de la mañana, planeando a unos pocos metros por encima de las ondulantes copas de los árboles. Pensativamente, el capitán encendió el cigarrillo y lanzó una bocanada de humo que la brisa dispersó casi de inmediato. Luego, con una última mirada al lento transporte, entró en la penumbra de la sala de control.

Casi al descuido, comprobó que las defensas autómatas del astropuerto estuvieran activas. El capitán no creía seriamente en la posibilidad de un ataque de piratas. Diez años de servicio en Balifata II le había acostumbrado a las naves que llegaban furtivamente, volando a muy baja altura para esquivar los sensores de otros aparatos.

—A ver, esa nave sin identificar que se aproxima volando desde el sur —avisó por el sistema de comunicaciones—. A ver si me recibe, cambio.

Silencio.

Philip K. Dick: A Little Something for Us Tempunauts

Philip K. Dick, A Little Something for Us Tempunauts, 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

Wearily, Addison Doug plodded up the long path of synthetic redwood rounds, step by step, his head down a little, moving as if he were in actual physical pain. The girl watched him, wanting to help him, hurt within her to see how worn and unhappy he was, but at the same time she rejoiced that he was there at all. On and on, toward her, without glancing up, going by feel … like he's done this many times, she thought suddenly. Knows the way too well. Why?
“Addi,” she called, and ran toward him. “They said on the TV you were dead. All of you were killed!”
He paused, wiping back his dark hair, which was no longer long; just before the launch they had cropped it. But he had evidently forgotten.“You believe everything you see on TV?” he said, and came on again, haltingly, but smiling now. And reaching up for her.
God, it felt good to hold him, and to have him clutch at her again, with more strength than she had expected. “I was going to find somebody else,” she gasped. “To replace you.”
“I'll knock your head off if you do,” he said. “Anyhow, that isn't possible; nobody could replace me.”
“But what about the implosion?” she said. “On reentry; they said—”
“I forget,” Addison said, in the tone he used when he meant, I'm not going to discuss it. The tone had always angered her before, but not now. This time she sensed how awful the memory was.“I'm going to stay at your place a couple of days,” he said, as together they moved up the path toward the open front door of the tilted A-frame house. “If that's okay. And Benz and Crayne will be joining me, later on; maybe even as soon as tonight. We've got a lot to talk over and figure out.”
“Then all three of you survived.” She gazed up into his careworn face. “Everything they said on TV …” She understood, then. Or believed she did. “It was a cover story. For—political purposes, to fool the Russians. Right? I mean, the Soviet Union'll think the launch was a failure because on reentry—”
“No,” he said. “A chrononaut will be joining us, most likely. To help figure out what happened. General Toad said one of them is already on his way here; they got clearance already. Because of the gravity of the situation.”
“Jesus,” the girl said, stricken. “Then who's the cover story for?”
“Let's have something to drink,” Addison said.“And then I'll outline it all for you.”

Jorge Campos: American Dream: The Evolution

Jorge Campos, American Dream: The Evolution, 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


¡Ah, si en esa mañana hubiera olvido!
Jorge Luis Borges

Bajaron emocionadas del camión tras una fría semana de viaje. Poco a poco se fueron acostumbrando a la luz. Un hombre de barba cerrada les indicó el agujero por donde debían cruzar el muro. Del otro lado tres las esperaban con placas metálicas enumeradas. El rótulo frente a una fila de hombres de negro desesperados por sus encargos libres de impuestos era claro: “No se aceptan devoluciones”.

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.

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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.


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