Manly Wade Wellman: The Devil is Not Mocked

BALKAN WEATHER, EVEN BALKAN SPRING WEATHER, was not pleasant to General von Grunn, leaning heavily back behind the bulletproof glass of his car. May 4th—the English would call it St. George’s Day, after their saint who was helping them so little. The date would mean something to Heinrich Himmler, too; that weak-chinned pet of the Fuehrer would hold some sort of garbled druidic ritual with his Schutzstaffel on the Brockenburg. Von Grunn grimaced fatly at thought of Himmler, and leaned forward to look out into the night. An armed car ahead, an armed car behind—all was well.

“Forward!” he growled to his orderly, Kranz, who trod on the accelerator. The car moved, and the car ahead took the lead, into the Borgo Pass.

Von Grunn glanced backward once, to the lights of Bistritz. This country had been Rumanian not so long ago. Now it was Hungarian, which meant that it was German.

What was it that the mayor of Bistritz had said, when he had demanded a semi-remote headquarters? The castle along this pass, empty—ready for him? The dolt had seemed eager to help, to please. Von Grunn produced a long cigarette. Young Captain Plesser, sitting beside him, at once kindled a lighter. Slim, quiet, the young aide had faded from von Grunn’s consciousness.

“What’s the name of that castle again?” inquired the general, and made a grimace when Plesser replied in barbarous slavic syllables. “What’s the meaning in a civilized tongue?”

“Devil’s castle, I should think,” hazarded the captain’s respectful voice.

David Torres: Leche amarga

El llanto del niño nos llegaba desde el dormitorio -tibio, intermitente, monocorde- flotando sobre los ruidos del puerto y el lento fragor de las olas. Cada vez que lo oía, Emilio se retorcía incómodo en su asiento. Yo miraba su cara, sus manos de viejo pescador, surcadas de arrugas, bañadas por la última luz que se aferraba a la barandilla de la terraza, el metal de las latas, los bordes de las cosas.

-Por Dios -saltó al fin-. ¿No puedes hacer algo?

-Son casi las nueve -dije, mirando mi reloj-. Marisol es muy estricta con los horarios.

Se oía a mi mujer trasteando por la cocina, preparando la cena. Emilio se llevó la lata de cerveza a la boca, pero no bebió.

-No puedo oír llorar a un crío.

-Tiene hambre. Le toca ya su toma. En cuanto Marisol...

-No puedo oír llorar a un crío -repitió, como si no me hubiera oído-. Desde aquel día, en el barco.

Me dejó con la palabra en la boca. Devolvió la lata a la mesa, se puso en pie, cruzó en dos zancadas la terraza y desapareció entre las cortinas. Regresó con mi hijo entre los brazos, acunándolo con torpe ternura. Los gemidos, que se habían apagado unos instantes, redoblaron en cuanto Emilio se detuvo junto a la barandilla.

-¿Por qué no se calla?

Hector Hugh Munro (Saki): Sredni Vashtar

Conradin was ten years old, and the doctor had pronounced his professional opinion that the boy would not live another five years. The doctor was silky and effete, and counted for little, but his opinion was endorsed by Mrs. De Ropp, who counted for nearly everything. Mrs. De Ropp was Conradin's cousin and guardian, and in his eyes she represented those three-fifths of the world that are necessary and disagreeable and real; the other two-fifths, in perpetual antagonism to the foregoing, were summed up in himself and his imagination. One of these days Conradin supposed he would succumb to the mastering pressure of wearisome necessary things---such as illnesses and coddling restrictions and drawn-out dulness. Without his imagination, which was rampant under the spur of loneliness, he would have succumbed long ago.

Mrs. De Ropp would never, in her honestest moments, have confessed to herself that she disliked Conradin, though she might have been dimly aware that thwarting him ``for his good'' was a duty which she did not find particularly irksome. Conradin hated her with a desperate sincerity which he was perfectly able to mask. Such few pleasures as he could contrive for himself gained an added relish from the likelihood that they would be displeasing to his guardian, and from the realm of his imagination she was locked out---an unclean thing, which should find no entrance.

Peter Tremayne: Marbh Bheo

It was dark when I reached the old cottage. The journey had been far from easy. I suppose a city-bred person such as myself would find most rural journeys difficult. I had certainly assumed too much. As the crow flies, I had been told that the cottage was only some twenty-one miles from the centre of Cork City. But in Ireland the miles are deceptive. I know there is a standard joke about "the Irish mile" but there is a grain of truth in it. For the Boggeragh Mountains, in whose shadows the cottage lay, are a brooding, windswept area where nothing grows but bleak heather, a dirty stubble which clings tenaciously to the grey granite thrusts of the hills, where the wind whistles and sings over a moonscape of rocks pricking upwards to the heavens. To walk a mile in such terrain, among the heights and terrible grandeur of the wild, rocky slopes and gorse you have to allow two hours. A mile on a well-kept road is not like a mile on a forgotten track amidst these sullen peaks.

What was I doing in such an inhospitable area in the first place? That is the question which you will undoubtedly ask.

Well, it was not through any desire on my part. But one must live and my livelihood depended on my job with RTE. I am a researcher with Telefis Eireann, the Irish state television. Initially it was the idea of some bright producer that we make a programme on Irish folk customs. So that was the initial impetus which found me searching among dusty tomes in an old occult bookstore, in a little alley off Sheares Street on the nameless island in the River Lee which constitutes the centre of the city of Cork. The area is often mentioned in the literature of Cork as the place where once the fashionable world came to see and be seen. That era of glory has departed and now small artisans' houses and shops crowd upon it claustrophobically.

Marc R. Soto: Gatomaquia

Si te cuento esto es sólo porque en este mes y medio te he cobrado aprecio y no quiero que ni tú ni los tuyos acabéis mal. Haz que tu hermana se deshaga de él, Carlos. Que lo despeñe por un acantilado, o que envenene su comida. Lo que sea, pero que se deshaga de él.

Yo tenía un gato como ése. Quiero decir que Paula lo tenía y, por extensión, yo también. Se lo regalé cuando aquel doctor nos dijo que no podíamos tener hijos. Yo temía que mi mujer cayera en una de esas depresiones de las que se sale con sobrepeso y adicción al Prozac, de modo que me escapé de casa se lo compré en la tienda de mascotas del pueblo.

Por entonces llevábamos... Déjame pensar... Unos tres años liados, más dos de novios... En total cinco años juntos. El entresuelo que habíamos comprado en las afueras, cerca de la fábrica, estaba ya casi completamente amueblado. Teníamos televisor, tres lámparas y un DVD de esos con siete altavoces que, si quieres que te diga la verdad, son el mayor avance de la humanidad desde que se inventaron los condones lubricados.

Aquello sí que era como estar en el cine, y no la mierda que nos ponen aquí los viernes por la noche. En fin, lo que quiero decir es que lo teníamos todo, ¿vale? Y que podríamos haber continuado así por los siglos de los siglos de no ser porque un día vuelvo de la fundición y Paula me sale con que quiere un crío que lo ha estado pensando y cree que es el momento adecuado Y yo con los ojos como platos. ¿Qué me estás contando? Si a ti nunca te han gustado los críos. Sí que me gustan, sólo que no podíamos tenerlos, pero ahora... Ahora, ¿qué? Bueno, ahora que nos sobra una habitación y tú tienes trabajo fijo...

Niccolò Ammaniti: Alba tragica

Come l'uomo che cammina per una strada solitaria, avvolto nel terrore e nella paura, e dopo essersi guardato alle spalle, continua a camminare, senza voltarsi più, perché sa che un demonio spaventoso lo segue da vicino.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, La ballata del vecchio marinaio.

"Ma che ore saranno?! E che fresco che fa."

Marcello Beretta se ne stava buttato, mezzo assiderato dal freddo, su una panchina di Villa Borghese. Continuava a guardarsi il polso sperando che per magia si materializzasse un orologio.

Era ubriaco.

Parlava da solo.

Erano le tre meno venti di notte. E la temperatura era di qualche grado appena sopra lo zero.

Marcello non era più un giovanotto e tutto quel gelo che gli si infiltrava nelle ossa non gli faceva bene.

Era grasso (il diabete mellito). Con una pancia tonda e gonfia che sembrava che si fosse ingoiato un pallone da basket. In testa gli cresceva un cespo intricato di capelli bianchi e stopposi. Macchie di barba nascondevano i danni dell'acne giovanile. Sotto la narice destra gli cresceva un neo nero, bitorzoluto e peloso che se. lo avesse visto un oncologo si sarebbe messo a urlare. Il nasone, storto per una pallonata presa in faccia da ragazzino, sembrava una patata lessa. E aveva due occhi piccoli, gialli e macchiati di sangue.

Guy de Maupassant: Qui saint?

I

Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Je vais donc écrire enfin ce qui m'est arrivé! Mais le pourrai-je? l'oserai-je? cela est si bizarre, si inexplicable, si incompréhensible, si fou!

Si je n'étais sûr de ce que j'ai vu, sûr qu'il n'y a eu, dans mes raisonnements, aucune défaillance, aucune erreur dans mes constatations, pas de lacune dans la suite inflexible de mes observations, je me croirais un simple halluciné, le jouet d'une étrange vision. Après tout, qui sait?

Je suis aujourd'hui dans une maison de santé; mais j'y suis entré volontairement, par prudence, par peur! Un seul être connaît mon histoire. Le médecin d'ici. Je vais l'écrire. Je ne sais trop pourquoi? Pour m'en débarrasser, car je la sens en moi comme un intolérable cauchemar.

La voici:

J'ai toujours été un solitaire, un rêveur, une sorte de philosophe isolé, bienveillant, content de peu, sans aigreur contre les hommes et sans rancune contre le ciel. J'ai vécu seul, sans cesse, par suite d'une sorte de gêne qu'insinue en moi la présence des autres. Comment expliquer cela? Je ne le pourrais. Je ne refuse pas de voir le monde, de causer, de dîner avec des amis, mais lorsque je les sens depuis longtemps près de moi, même les plus familiers, ils me lassent, me fatiguent, m'énervent, et j'éprouve une envie grandissante, harcelante, de les voir partir ou de m'en aller, d'être seul.

Cette envie est plus qu'un besoin, c'est une nécessité irrésistible. Et si la présence des gens avec qui je me trouve continuait, si je devais, non pas écouter, mais entendre longtemps encore leurs conversations, il m'arriverait, sans aucun doute, un accident. Lequel? Ah! qui sait? Peut-être une simple syncope? oui! probablement!

Edgar Allan Poe: William Wilson

What say of it? what say of CONSCIENCE grim,
That spectre in my path? -Chamberlaine's Pharronida.

LET me call myself, for the present, William Wilson. The fair page now lying before me need not be sullied with my real appellation. This has been already too much an object for the scorn, for the horror, for the detestation of my race. To the uttermost regions of the globe have not the indignant winds bruited its unparalleled infamy? Oh, outcast of all outcasts most abandoned! To the earth art thou not forever dead? to its honors, to its flowers, to its golden aspirations? and a cloud, dense, dismal, and limitless, does it not hang eternally between thy hopes and heaven?

I would not, if I could, here or to-day, embody a record of my later years of unspeakable misery, and unpardonable crime. This epoch -- these later years -- took unto themselves a sudden elevation in turpitude, whose origin alone it is my present purpose to assign. Men usually grow base by degrees. From me, in an instant, all virtue dropped bodily as a mantle. I shrouded my nakedness in triple guilt. From comparatively trivial wickedness I passed, with the stride of a giant, into more than the enormities of an Elah-Gabalus. What chance -- what one event brought this evil thing to pass, bear with me while I relate. Death approaches; and the shadow which foreruns him has thrown a softening influence over my spirit. I long, in passing through the dim valley, for the sympathy -- I had nearly said for the pity -- of my fellow-men. I would fain have them believe that I have been, in some measure, the slave of circumstances beyond human control. I would wish them to seek out for me, in the details I am about to give, some little oasis of fatality amid a wilderness of error. I would have them allow -- what they cannot refrain from allowing -- that, although temptation may have erewhile existed as great, man was never thus, at least, tempted before -- certainly, never thus fell. And it is therefore that he has never thus suffered. Have I not indeed been living in a dream? And am I not now dying a victim to the horror and the mystery of the wildest of all sublunary visions?

Santiago Eximeno: Huerto de cruces

Si terminase así el pueblo, resultaría de una fórmula de perfección o de simulación intelectualista

Gabriel Miró

Cuánto tarda el tren en llegar, pensó Gabriel. Moría la tarde en el horizonte, envuelta en un charco de sangre desteñida, y las copas de los árboles más lejanos extendían sus ramas hacia las vías como ancianas artríticas. Cuándo tarda en llegar, pensó Gabriel, y sintió pereza y quiso levantarse, pero se arrepintió en el último momento. Se removió sobre el banco de piedra, inquieto, y miró a un lado y a otro, a la gente que como él esperaba en el andén a que llegara el último tren. Dónde irán todos éstos, pensó, que no tienen más necesidad que la que les crea su avaricia, y volvió su atención a las vías. Una moneda brillaba bajo los rayos del sol, olvidada entre listones de madera, quizá de un viajero que ya no la necesitaba, quizá de un niño que no pudo comprar su helado. Gabriel apoyó las manos a ambos lados de su cuerpo, sintiendo el frío del asiento de pie­dra en las palmas, y se meció adelante y atrás. No puede tardar ya mucho el tren, se dijo, no me hará esperar mucho más. No dejaba de llegar gente, advirtió mirando hacia las vallas de entrada. Hombres de piel morena y rostros surcados de arrugas; mujeres envueltas en vestidos negros, el pelo cubierto por un pañuelo; niños vestidos con trajes caros o con harapos, el ros­tro congelado en una mueca triste y seria. Les habían robado incluso la risa de los niños, tan querida y necesitada por todo el pueblo. Los hombres de blanco, con su rostro de cristal y sus armas, les habían arrebatado todo lo que tenían, y ahora les conminaban a marcharse, a abandonar todo lo que una vez había sido suyo. Abandonar el pueblo para siempre en un tren que les conduciría a las calles sucias y oscuras de una lejana ciudad. Los hombres de blanco, con sus falsas sonrisas y sus ame­nazas veladas. Así debía ser, pensó Gabriel, así debía ser, desde el momento que Tomás decidió volver a casa. Y, mientras espe­raba, escuchando el ruido de las voces de los hombres silencian­do los llantos de los niños, escuchando el arrastrar de las maletas llenas a rebosar sobre el empedrado de la estación, escu­chando los suspiros contenidos de las mujeres al volverse y mirar más allá de las vallas, Gabriel recordó a Tomás, al viejo Tomás, y su terca decisión de volver a ver a su familia.

Tanith Lee: Red as Blood

A fairy tale! A fairy tale! And finally one with bite.

The beautiful Witch Queen flung open the ivory case of the magic mirror. Of dark gold the mirror was, dark gold as the hair of the Witch Queen that poured down her back. Dark gold the mirror was, and ancient as the seven stunted black trees growing beyond the pale blue glass of the window.

"Speculum, speculum," said the Witch Queen to the magic mirror. "Dei gratia."

"Volente Deo. Audio."

"Mirror," said the Witch Queen. "Whom do you see?"

"I see you, mistress," replied the mirror. "And all in the land. But one."

"Mirror, mirror, who is it you do not see?"

"I do not see Bianca."

The Witch Queen crossed herself. She shut the case of the mirror and, walking slowly to the window, looked out at the old trees through the panes of pale blue glass.

Fourteen years ago, another woman had stood at this window, but she was not like the Witch Queen. The woman had black hair that fell to her ankles; she had a crimson gown, the girdle worn high beneath her breasts, for she was far gone with child. And this woman had thrust open the glass casement on the winter garden, where the old trees crouched in the snow. Then, taking a sharp

bone needle, she had thrust it into her finger and shaken three bright drops on the ground. "Let my daughter have," said the woman, "hair black as mine, black as the wood of these warped and arcane trees. Let her have skin like mine, white as this snow. And let her have my mouth, red as my blood." And the woman had smiled and licked at her finger. She had a crown on her head; it shone

in the dusk like a star. She never came to the window before dusk; she did not like the day. She was the first Queen, and she did not possess a mirror.

Ramsey Campbell: Rising Generation

As they approached the cave beneath the castle some of the children began to play at zombies, hobbling stiffly, arms outstretched. Heather Fry frowned. If they knew the stories about the place, despite her efforts to make sure they didn't, she hoped they wouldn't frighten the others. She hadn't wanted to come at all; it had been Miss Sharp's idea, and she'd been teaching decades longer than Heather, so of course she had her way. The children were still plodding inexorably toward their victims. Then Joanne said "You're only being like those men in that film last night." Heather smiled with relief. "Keep together and wait for me," she said.

She glanced up at the castle, set atop the hill like a crown, snapped and bent and discovered by time. Overhead sailed a pale blue sky, only a wake of thin foamy clouds on the horizon betraying any movement. Against the sky, just below the castle, Heather saw three figures toiling upward. Odd, she thought, the school had been told the castle was forbidden to visitors because of the danger of falling stone, which was why they'd had to make do with the cave. Still, she was glad she hadn't had to coax her class all the way up there. The three were moving slowly and clumsily, no doubt exhausted by their climb, and even from where Heather stood their faces looked exceptionally pale.

She had to knock several times on the door of the guide's hut before he emerged. Looking in beyond him, Heather wondered what had taken his time. Not tidying the hut, certainly, because the desk looked blitzed, scattered and overflowing with forms and even an upset ink-bottle, fortunately stoppered. She looked at the guide and her opinion sank further. Clearly he didn't believe in shaving or cutting his nails, and he was pale enough to have been born in a cave, she thought. He didn't even bother to turn to her; he stared at the children lined up at the cave entrance, though by his lack of expression he might as well have been blind. "I'd rather you didn't say anything about the legend," she said.

His stare swivelled to her and held for so long she felt it making a fool of her. "You know what I mean," she said, determined to show him she did too. "The stories about the castle. About how the baron was supposed to keep zombies in the cave to work for him, until someone killed him and walled them up. I know it's only a story but not for the children, please."

José Gutiérrez-Solana: La sala de disección

Desde pequeño sentía yo cierta atracción por todo lo que las gentes califican de horrible; me gustaba ver los hospitales, el depósito de cadáveres, los que morían de muerte violenta, yo me metía en todos estos sitios; muchas veces me echaron y entonces volvía disgustado a mi casa. Cuántas veces he seguido a las camillas, a los heridos de algún accidente en la calle; algunas he sido testigo involuntario de estas tragedias emocionantes, de impresión desagradable. Luego estas escenas han provocado en mí tal afición y curiosidad que cuando leo un periódico que relata un crimen, me hago de conocimientos para ver la casa donde se desarrolló el suceso, el estado de la habitación, qué posición ocupaban la víctima o víctimas, en fin, todo el curso de las investigaciones de la policía. Una vez, en las inmediaciones de la Casa de la Moneda, vi una aglomeración de gente que se estrujaba por entrar alargando el cuello y poniéndose de puntillas; otros trepaban por la verja. En aquel grupo corría la voz de que dentro había el cadáver de un suicida; un guardia dijo a la gente que podían entrar para ver si alguno reconocía al muerto, que estaba sentado en el suelo, con el busto contra la pared y vestido elegantemente; tenía la sien destrozada de un balazo. En los hombros, sobre los pliegues de la americana negra, la sangre estancada la daba un tinte morado; por la boca abierta corría la sangre en estrechos hilos; a poca distancia había

Robert Bloch: The Dead Don't Die!

This is a story that never ends.

This is a story that never ends, but I know when it started. Thursday, May 24th, was the date. That night was the beginning of everything for me.

For Cono Colluri it was the end.

Cono and I were sitting there, playing two-handed stud poker. It was quiet in his cell, and we played slowly, meditatively. Everything would have been all right except for one thing. We had a kibitzer.

No matter how calmly we played, no matter how unemotional we appeared to be, we both were aware of another presence. The other, the kibitzer, stayed with us all night long.

His name was Death.

He grinned over Cono's shoulder, tapped him on the arm with a bony finger, selected the cards for every shuffle. He tugged at my hands, poked me in the back when I dealt.

We couldn't see him, of course. But we knew he was there, all right. Watching, watching and waiting; those big blind holes in the skull sneaking a look at the clock and counting the minutes, those skeleton fingers tapping away the seconds until dawn.

Félix J. Palma: Los Arácnidos

Antes de acudir a casa de mi abuela cacé una mosca. Era un ejemplar diminuto, de cuerpo gris metálico y ojos de un negro fulgurante. La atrapé al vuelo en la terraza, y la sostuve entre el pulgar y el índice, como quien se dispone a enhebrar una aguja. Así estuve un rato, aspirando el aroma de los almendros que la brisa arrastraba hasta mi ático mientras sentía contra la yema de los dedos el rebullir de aquella vida minúscula e insignificante que, como un dios cruel, podría truncar con sólo una ligera presión. Hice algunos amagos de aplastarla, arrancándole acordes agónicos, pero finalmente la encerré en un frasco y aguar­de a que Sandra saliera del baño contemplando cómo el insecto exploraba su prisión en un vuelo frenético, negándose a aceptar que se encontraba atrapado.

Me apresuré a disimular el tarro entre los adornos de la mesita cuando oí abrirse la puerta del baño. Sandra emergió junto a una nube de vapor y efluvios de perfumería, envainada en un sugerente vestido de terciopelo azul que le dejaba la espalda al descubierto y dibujaba con precisión su silueta de ánfora. Su aspecto me agradó, pues nunca la había visto tan elegante, pero enseguida comprendí que con semejante tributo a la sofisticación lo único que pretendía decirme era que aquella cita era tan importante para mí como para ella. Otra vez su notorio afán por agradar, su empeño mal disimulado por hacer que lo nuestro funcionara, que aquellos pasos erráticos nos encaminaran hacia algún sitio. Nos habíamos conocido hacía apenas un par de semanas, pero yo la había catalogado casi al instante. Sandra res­pondía a un patrón que conocía de memoria: treinta y muchos, con más llagas en el corazón de las que creía merecer, recelosa ante los nuestros pero con miedo a quedarse sola, a envejecer sin un cuerpo amigo al otro lado del colchón. Enseguida supe que bastaría con que yo le diese pie para que me asfixiara con todo el amor que venía recolectando desde los remotos tiempos del ins­tituto, cuando en las últimas filas de los cines empezó a com­prender que los príncipes azules no eran más que una engañifa.