Christopher Fowler: Dracula’s Library

Jonathan Harker stays on at Dracula’ s Castle, but at what cost to hisimmortal soul . . . ?

BEING A DIARY chronicle of the true and hitherto unrevealed fate of Jonathan Harker, discovered within the pages of an ancient book.

From The Journal of Jonathan Harker, 2 July
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I have always believed that a building can be imbued with thepersonality of its owner, but never have I felt such a dread ache of melancholy as I experienced upon entering that terrible, desolateplace. The castle itself – less a chateau than a fortress, much like theone that dominates the skyline of Salzburg –
is very old, thirteenthcentury by my reckoning, and a veritable masterpiece of unadorned ugliness. Little has been added across the years to make the interiormore bearable for human habitation. There is now glass in manyof the windows and mouldering tapestries adorn the walls, but atnight the noise of their flapping reveals the structure’s inadequateprotection from the elements. The ramparts are unchanged fromtimes when hot oil was poured on disgruntled villagers who came tocomplain about their murderous taxes. There is one entrance only,sealed by a portcullis and a pair of enormous studded doors. Water isdrawn up from a great central well by a complicated wooden pump-contraption. Gargoyles sprout like toadstools in every exposedcorner. The battlements turn back the bitter gales that forever sweepthe Carpathian mountains, creating a chill oasis within, so that onemay cross the bailey – that is, the central courtyard of the castle –  without being blasted away into the sky.

     But it is the character of the Count himself that provides thecastle with its most singular feature, a pervading sense of loss andloneliness that would penetrate the bravest heart and break it if admitted. The wind moans like a dying child, and even the weak sunlight that passes into the great hall is drained of life and hope bythe cyanic stained glass through which it is filtered.

Graham Masterton: A portrait of Jennie

He dragged the sheet off the easel.

“My God,” she gasped.

It was her, nude, with butterflies dancing around her nipples.

“Marry me, Jennie, or I promise I’ll never paint another picture.”

“John, you’re sick. You know I’m marrying Matt.”

“Jennie -- “” But she was gone.

At least he still had her likeness. But he would keep his promise. He wrapped his right hand in turpentine-soaked paint-rags, and struck a match. Screaming, he stumbled into the painting, and set that alight, too. The butterflies flew out, their wings blazing, but spiralled to the floor, as all dreams do.

Ángel Olgoso: Cleveland

El humo se acumulaba en el techo de la bolera. Los muchachos, confiados, lanzaron sus bolas como quien exprime un jugoso racimo de bayas y lo arroja lejos. Habían puntuado alto y ahora charlaban y fumaban tranquilamente, estudiando los ventiladores y el bruñido de la tarima. Mi turno. Entre las bolas vino rodando un cráneo, limpio y brillante. Los muchachos miraron con preocupación. Introduje los dedos en los orificios de los ojos. Sentí que se ennegrecían de sombra y de vacío de gruta. Era dolorosamente más ligero que las demás bolas corrientes. Ladeé la cabeza calibrando peso y distancia. Retrocedí unos pasos para tomar impulso. Al lanzarlo cerré los ojos y hubiera cerrado los oídos si éstos funcionaran de tal manera. El cráneo salió proyectado, describió una buena trayectoria y rodó por el centro de la pista percutiendo contra el suelo pulido, como un meteoro color crema a la deriva en la corriente de las probabilidades.

Robert Bloch: Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper

I looked at the stage Englishman. He looked at me.

"Sir Guy Hollis?" I asked.

"Indeed. Have I the pleasure of addressing John Carmody, the psychiatrist?"

I nodded. My eyes swept over the figure of my distinguished visitor. Tall, lean, sandy-haired — with the traditional tufted mustache. And the tweeds. I suspected a monocle concealed in a vest pocket, and wondered if he'd left his umbrella in the outer office.

But more than that, I wondered what the devil had impelled Sir Guy Hollis of the British Embassy to seek out a total stranger here in Chicago.

Sir Guy didn't help matters any as he sat down. He cleared his throat, glanced around nervously, tapped his pipe against the side of the desk. Then he opened his mouth.

"Mr. Carmody," he said, "have you ever heard of — Jack the Ripper?"

"The murderer?" I asked.

"Exactly. The greatest monster of them all. Worse than Springheel Jack or Crippen. Jack the Ripper. Red Jack."

"I've heard of him," I said.

"Do you know his history?"

"I don't think we'll get any place swapping old wives' tales about famous crimes of history."

He took a deep breath.

"This is no old wives' tale. It's a matter of life or death."

Tiziano Scarpa: Acqua

1

In piscina

Guarardo ragazze del secondo turno nuotare nelle mie Inde neuromagnetiche. Sono seduta ai bordi della piscina. Nuotano a rana, tre per corsia, ventiquattro te-tt che si immergono e fanno capolino a ritmo. All'improvviso però questa frase mi attraversa la testa e mi domanda che cose l'amore. Che cose l'amore in genette, al di là dei casi particolari che ci legano a questa a quella persona. Sto pensando a cosa può significale insomma il fatto che... Di colpo la massa azzurra love nuotano i corpi delle ragazze sparisce. In un attimo la piscina si svuota. Senza più sostegno, i corpi delle ragazze precipitano sul fondo. Rimbalzano sull'imbottitura, i cuscini spugnosi sono così soffici che le inghiottono come se affondassero nella gelatina. Le ragazze guardano in alto, verso l'istruttrice, non capiscono cos'hanno combinato di tanto grave per essersi meniate questo black-out di neuroenergia. Una ragazza In costume viola invece continua il movimento a rana anche sul fondo della piscina, come se niente fosse. Lo la apposta, chiaro. Allarga le braccia, apre e stringe le l'ambe. Striscia a rana sul fondo della piscina fino alla scaletta. Tre o quattro le stanno intorno, in piedi, ridacchiano. Camminano saltellando sui cuscini imbottiti in fondo alla piscina. Salgono tutte su per i gradini, mi sfilano davanti in silenzio. Qualcuna mi dà un'occhiata di traverso.

— Se fosse veramente innamorata non avrebbe questi cali di tensione — la ragazza in costume viola parla all'orecchio dell'ultima della fila. Troppo forte e chiaro per essere un pettegolezzo sottovoce.

Ho staccato il cavo dall'inguine, mi sono alzata. L'istruttrice si avvicina senza dire una parola.

—È la terza volta, oggi — lo dico io per lei. Tanto vale ammetterlo subito. Non ho nessuna voglia di rimproveri.

—Vedi di rilassarti. Fatti un po' una nuotata anche tu — l'istruttrice mi parla con la faccia seria. Ma non è severa, è dispiaciuta. Si siede sulla mia sedia, raccoglie il cavo e lo connette alla nuca. — Non ridere. Sono una primitiva, io. — Sta controllando di averlo fissato bene sotto la cuffia. Poi si fa sentire da tutte le altre: — Forza, si continua. Posso reggere almeno per un quarto d'ora. Se non ce la faccio vi avverto. — La piscina si riempie in un attimo di una polpa marrone a strisce gialle.

Cristina Fernández Cubas: La mujer de verde

—Lo siento —dice la chica—. Se ha confundido usted.

La he escuchado sin pestañear, asintiendo con la cabeza, como si la cosa más natural del mundo fuera ésta: confundirse. Porque no cabe ya otra explicación. Me he equivocado. Y por un momento repaso mentalmente la lista de pequeñas confusiones que haya podido cometer en mi vida sin encontrar ninguna que se le parezca. Pero no debo culparme. Me encuentro cansada, agobiada de trabajo y, para colmo, sin poder dormir. Esta misma mañana a punto he estado de telefonear a mi casero. ¿Cómo ha podido alquilar el piso de arriba a una familia tan ruidosa? Pero lo que importa ahora no son los vecinos ni tampoco el casero ni mi cansancio, sino el extraño espejismo que, por lo visto, he debido de sufrir hace apenas media hora. Una mezcla de turbación y certeza que me ha llevado a abandonar precipitadamente una zapatería, y correr por la calle tras una mujer a la que me he empeñado en llamar Dina. Y la mujer, sin prestarme atención, ha seguido indiferente su camino. Porque no era Dina. O por lo menos eso es lo que me está afirmando la verdadera Dina Dachs, sentada frente a su ordenada mesa de trabajo, con la misma sonrisa inocente con la que, hace apenas

una semana, acogió la noticia de su incorporación a la empresa. «No», me dice. «No me he movido de aquí desde las nueve.» Y después, meneando comprensivamente la cabeza: «Lo siento. Se ha confundido usted».

Sí. Ahora comprendo que a la fuerza se trata de un error. Porque, aunque el parecido me siga resultando asombroso, la chica que tengo delante no es más que una muchacha educada, cortés, una secretaria eficiente. Y la mujer, la desconocida tras la que acabo de correr en la calle, mostraba en su rostro las huellas de toda una vida, el sufrimiento, una mirada enigmática y fría que ni siquiera alteró una sola vez, a pesar de mis llamadas, de los empujones de la gente, del bullicio de una avenida comercial en vísperas de fiestas. Y fue seguramente eso lo que me llamó la atención, lo que me había llevado a pensar que aquella mujer —Dina, creía— sufría un trastorno, una ausencia, una momentánea pérdida de identidad. Pero ahora sé que mi error es tan sólo un error a medias. Porque la desconocida, fuera quien fuera, necesitaba ayuda. Y vuelvo a mirar a Dina, su jersey de angora y el abrigo de paño colgado del perchero, y de nuevo recuerdo a la mujer. Vestida con un traje de seda verde en pleno mes de diciembre. Un traje de fiesta, escotado, liviano... Y un collar violeta. Indiferente al frío, al tráfico, a la gente. No digo nada más. La evidencia de que he confundido a aquella chica con una demente me hace sonreír. Y me encierro en mi despacho, dejo las compras sobre una silla y empiezo a revisar la correspondencia. Será un mes agotador, sólo un mes. Y luego Roma, Roma y Eduardo. Me siento feliz. Tengo todos los motivos del mundo para sentirme feliz.

Clark Ashton Smith: A Rendezvous in Averoigne

Gerard de l'Automne was meditating the rimes of a new ballade in honor of Fleurette, as he followed the leaf-arrased pathway toward Vyones through the woodland of Averoigne. Since he was on his way to meet Fleurette, who had promised to keep a rendezvous among the oaks and beeches like any peasant girl, Gerard himself made better progress than the ballade. His love was at that stage which, even for a professional troubadour, is more productive of distraction than inspiration; and he was recurrently absorbed in a meditation upon other than merely verbal felicities.

The grass and trees had assumed the fresh enamel of a mediaeval May; the turf was figured with little blossoms of azure and white and yellow, like an ornate broidery; and there was a pebbly stream that murmured beside the way, as if the voices of undines were parleying deliciously beneath its waters. The sun-lulled air was laden with a wafture of youth and romance; and the longing that welled from the heart of Gerard seemed to mingle mystically with the balsams of the wood.

Gerard was a trouvère whose scant years and many wanderings had brought him a certain renown. After the fashion of his kind he had roamed from court to court, from chateau to chateau; and he was now the guest of the Comte de la Frênaie, whose high castle held dominion over half the surrounding forest. Visiting one day that quaint cathedral town, Vyones, which lies so near to the ancient wood of Averoigne, Gerard had seen Fleurette, the daughter of a well-to-do mercer named Guillaume Cochin; and had become more sincerely enamored of her blonde piquancy than was to be expected from one who had been so frequently susceptible in such matters. He had managed to make his feelings known to her; and, after a month of billets-doux, ballades, and stolen interviews contrived by the help of a complaisant waiting-woman, she had made this woodland tryst with him in the absence of her father from Vyones. Accompanied by her maid and a man-servant, she was to leave the town early that afternoon and meet Gerard under a certain beech-tree of enormous age and size. The servants would then withdraw discreetly; and the lovers, to all intents and purposes, would be alone. It was not likely that they would be seen or interrupted; for the gnarled and immemorial wood possessed an ill repute among the peasantry. Somewhere in this wood there was the ruinous and haunted Chateau des Faussesflammes; and, also, there was a double tomb, within which the Sieur Hugh du Malinbois and his chatelaine, who were notorious for sorcery in their time, had lain unconsecrated for more than two hundred years. Of these, and their phantoms, there were grisly tales; and there were stories of loup-garous and goblins, of fays and devils and vampires that infested Averoigne. But to these tales Gerard had given little heed, considering it improbable that such creatures would fare abroad in open daylight. The madcap Fleurette had professed herself unafraid also; but it had been necessary to promise the servants a substantial pourboire, since they shared fully the local superstitions.

Edgar Allan Poe: Metzengerstein

“Pestis eram vivus, moriens tua mors ero.”
MARTIN LUTHER.

HORROR and fatality have been stalking abroad in all ages. Why then give a date to the story I have to tell? I will not. Besides I have other reasons for concealment. Let it suffice to say that, at the period of which I speak, there existed, in the interior of Hungary, a settled although hidden belief in the doctrines of the Metempsychosis. Of the doctrines themselves — that is, of their falsity, or probability — I say nothing. I assert, however, that much of our incredulity (as La Bruyere observes of all our unhappiness,) vient de ne pouvoir etre seuls.

But there are some points in the Hungarian superstition (the Roman term was religio,) which were fast verging to absurdity. They, the Hungarians, differed essentially from the Eastern authorities. For example — “The soul,” said the former, (I give the words of an acute, and intelligent Parisian,) “ne demeure, quun seul fois, dans un corps sensible —au reste — ce quon croit d’etre un cheval —un chien —un homme —n’est que le resemblance peu tangible de ces animaux.”

The families of Berlifitzing, and Metzengerstein had been at variance for centuries. Never, before, were two houses so illustrious mutually embittered by hostility so deadly. Indeed, at the era of this history, it was remarked by an old crone of haggard, and sinister appearance, that fire and water might sooner mingle, than a Berlifitzing clasp the hand of a Metzengerstein. The origin of this enmity seems to be found in the words of an ancient prophecy. “A lofty name shall have a fearful fall, when, like the rider over his horse, the mortality of Metzengerstein shall triumph over the immortality of Berlifitzing.”

José Carlos Somoza: La luz de la noche

Adriana perdió el sueño el día en que perdió a su madre. Esa noche la pasó en vela, sin llorar; sin pensar en nada; simplemente no pudo dormir. Y a partir de entonces ya no durmió más.

Lo curioso era que por las mañanas se sentía estupenda y seguía tan bonita como siempre. Pero llegaba la noche y no se dormía. Adriana vivía en la ciudad con su padre, en una casa de dos plantas, y la escalera que daba a su habitación era de madera. Durante una de aquellas noches de insomnio subió y bajó por ella veinte veces, para distraerse. Luego, se asomó a la ventana y le sorprendió ver luz, ya que siempre había creído que la noche era oscuridad. Supuso que, como había pasado todas las noches de sus catorce años de vida durmiendo, no se había enterado de que la noche también tenía luz.

No era como la del sol, claro, sino blanca y fría. Adriana ignoraba si procedía de las farolas o de la Luna. Poseía la virtud de dibujar el contorno de las cosas y otorgarles otra apariencia: su colcha era un rectángulo pintado de blanco; su espejo, un cristal fosforescente, y el reflejo de ella misma sobre él una figura plateada de largo cabello.

Sintió curiosidad por contemplar la calle bajo aquella luz extraña. Se vistió y salió de puntillas para no despertar a su padre. Quedó asombrada. ¡Oh, Dios, era como si hubiese nevado! (Y no nevaba, ni podía nevar, porque era primavera). Pero todo, absolutamente todo, asfalto, aceras, techos de coches, tejados de casas, copas de árboles, todo parecía como bajo una capa de nieve. Pero no era nieve, sino luz: ¡era increíble! Esto no lo sabe nadie porque la gente se duerme, y si alguien pasa una noche en vela, casi siempre termina durmiéndose a la siguiente. Pero Adriana llevaba ya muchas noches sin pegar ojo. ¡Y era tan bonito lo que veía a su alrededor!

Guy de Maupassant : La main d'écorché

Il y a huit mois environ, un de mes amis, Louis R..., avait réuni, un soir, quelques camarades de collège ; nous buvions du punch et nous fumions en causant littérature, peinture, et en racontant, de temps à autre, quelques joyeusetés, ainsi que cela se pratique dans les réunions de jeunes gens. Tout à coup la porte s'ouvre toute grande et un de mes bons amis d'enfance entre comme un ouragan. "Devinez d'où je viens, s'écria-t-il aussitôt. - Je parie pour Mabille, répond l'un, - non, tu es trop gai, tu viens d'emprunter de l'argent, d'enterrer ton oncle, ou de mettre ta montre chez ma tante, reprend un autre. - Tu viens de te griser, riposte un troisième, et comme tu as senti le punch chez Louis, tu es monté pour recommencer. - Vous n'y êtes point, je viens de P... en Normandie, où j'ai été passer huit jours et d'où je rapporte un grand criminel de mes amis que je vous demande la permission de vous présenter." A ces mots, il tira de sa poche une main d'écorché ; cette main était affreuse, noire, sèche, très longue et comme crispée, les muscles, d'une force extraordinaire, étaient retenus à l'intérieur et à l'extérieur par une lanière de peau parcheminée, les ongles jaunes, étroits, étaient restés au bout des doigts ; tout cela sentait le scélérat d'une lieue. "Figurez-vous, dit mon ami, qu'on vendait l'autre jour les défroques d'un vieux sorcier bien connu dans toute la contrée ; il allait au sabbat tous les samedis sur un manche à balai, pratiquait la magie blanche et noire, donnait aux vaches du lait bleu et leur faisait porter la queue comme celle du compagnon de saint Antoine. Toujours est-il que ce vieux gredin avait une grande affection pour cette main, qui, disait-il, était celle d'un célèbre criminel supplicié en 1736, pour avoir jeté, la tête la première, dans un puits sa femme légitime, ce quoi faisant je trouve qu'il n'avait pas tort, puis pendu au clocher de l'église le curé qui l'avait marié. Après ce double exploit, il était allé courir le monde et dans sa carrière aussi courte que bien remplie, il avait détroussé douze voyageurs, enfumé une vingtaine de moines dans leur couvent et fait un sérail d'un monastère de religieuses. - Mais que vas-tu faire de cette horreur ? nous écriâmes-nous. - Eh parbleu, j'en ferai mon bouton de sonnette pour effrayer mes créanciers. - Mon ami, dit Henri Smith, un grand Anglais très flegmatique, je crois que cette main est tout simplement de la viande indienne conservée par le procédé nouveau, je te conseille d'en faire du bouillon. - Ne raillez pas, messieurs, reprit avec le plus grand sang-froid un étudiant en médecine aux trois quarts gris, et toi, Pierre, si j'ai un conseil à te donner, fais enterrer chrétiennement ce débris humain, de crainte que son propriétaire ne vienne te le redemander ; et puis, elle a peut-être pris de mauvaises habitudes cette main, car tu sais le proverbe : "Qui a tué tuera." - Et qui a bu boira", reprit l'amphitryon. Là-dessus il versa à l'étudiant un grand verre de punch, l'autre l'avala d'un seul trait et tomba ivre-mort sous la table. Cette sortie fut accueillie par des rires formidables, et Pierre élevant son verre et saluant la main : "Je bois, dit-il, à la prochaine visite de ton maître", puis on parla d'autre chose et chacun rentra chez soi.

Poppy Z. Brite: Calcutta, Lord Of Nerves

I was born in a North Calcutta hospital in the heart of an Indian midnight just before the beginning of the monsoon season. The air hung heavy as wet velvet over the Hooghly River, offshoot of the holy Ganga, and the stumps of banyan trees on the Upper Chitpur Road were flecked with dots of phosphorus like the ghosts of flames. I was as dark as the new moon in the sky, and I cried very little. I feel as if I remember this, because this is the way it must have been.

My mother died in labor, and later that night the hospital burned to the ground. (I have no reason to connect the two incidents; then again, I have no reason not to. Perhaps a desire to live burned on in my mother's heart. Perhaps the flames were fanned by her hatred for me, the insignificant mewling infant that had killed her.) A nurse carried me out of the roaring husk of the building and laid me in my father's arms. He cradled me, numb with grief.

My father was American. He had come to Calcutta five years earlier, on business. There he had fallen in love with my mother and, like a man who will not pluck a flower from its garden, he could not bear to see her removed from the hot, lush, squalid city that had spawned her. It was part of her exotica. So my father stayed in Calcutta. Now his flower was gone. He pressed his thin chapped lips to the satin of my hair. I remember opening my eyes—they felt tight and shiny, parched by the flames—and looking up at the column of smoke that roiled into the sky, a night sky blasted cloudy pink like a sky full of blood and milk.

Santiago Roncagliolo: El pasajero de al lado

Fue sólo un susto.

El frenazo y el golpe. Los golpes. Estás un poco aturdido, pero puedes moverte. Abres la portezuela y te bajas sin mirar al taxista. No te duele nada. Eres un turista. Tu única obligación es pasarlo bien.

Para tu suerte, un autobús frena en la plaza. Te subes sin ver a dónde va. Caminas hacia al fondo. Aparte del mendigo que duerme, no hay nadie más ahí. Te sientas. Miras por la ventanilla. La ciudad y la mañana se extienden ante tus ojos. Respiras hondo. Te relajas.

En la primera parada, sube una chica. Tiene unos veinte años y es muy atractiva. Rubia. Todos aquí son rubios. Es la chica que siempre has querido que se siente a tu costado. Va vestida informalmente, con jeans ajustados y zapatillas. Su abrigo está cerrado, pero sugiere su rebosante camiseta blanca. Se sienta a tu lado. No puedes evitar mirarla.

Notas que te mira.

Al principio es imperceptible. Pero lo notas. Voltea a verte rápidamente con el rabillo del ojo, durante sólo un instante. Cuando le devuelves la mirada, vuelve a bajar los ojos. Se ruboriza. Trata de disimular una sonrisa. Finalmente, como venciendo la timidez, dice coqueta:

-¿Qué estás mirando? ¡No me mires!

Vuelve a apartar la vista de ti, pero ahora no puede dejar de sonreír. Hace un gesto, como cediendo a su impulso:

-¿Por qué me miras tanto? ¿Ah? Ya sé -Ahora se entristece-. Se me nota ¿No? ¿Se me nota? Pensaba que no -Sonríe pícara-. ¿Te la enseño? Si se me nota, ya no tengo que esconderla. ¿Quieres verla? -Se da aires de interesante, pone una mirada cómplice y habla en voz baja, como si transmitiese un secreto-. Está bien, mira.

Se abre el abrigo y deja ver una enorme herida de bala en su corazón. El resto del pecho está bañado en sangre.

Nicoletta Vallorani: Snuff movie

Si muore bambini, lo sappiamo tuli.
Ed è la morte peggiore.

Così il tizio arriva e mi dice: — Ehi, si fa un po' di movimento, piccoletta?

Scommetto che ha visto il tulle e si è fatto delle idee. È colpa del mio vestito da ballerina. Uno lo guarda e pensa: questa viene via facile. Il mondo è pieno di poveri fessi che aspettano solo di vedere una bambina solitaria per saltarle addosso. Ma la bambina ha i denti. Questa bambina, cioè, ha imparato a mordere e si è equipaggiata allo scopo.

Gli impianti mi sono costati un occhio, quasi in senso letterale, ma sono perfetti. Non mi devo mai porre il problema di portarmi dietro le mie armi, perché ce le ho addosso sempre, compreso quando dormo: una bella doppia fila di zanne azzurre, deliziose, efficienti.

Naturalmente, è successo tutto dopo che me ne sono andata dalla MultiD, quando ho imparato con dovizia di particolari come possono conciarti se non sai come difenderti. Certi maniaci amano i corpi indifesi: mi hanno scritturato per questo.

Ma io imparo facile: è questo il punto. Imparo facile e non mi arrendo mai. Parlo poco e guardo bene. Aspetto il momento giusto per usare le mie armi.

Mi sono fatta operare e non me ne sono mai pentita. Del resto, non avrei potuto comunque fare a meno dei denti in un posto come questo. Rogoredo: una fogna a cielo aperto dove gli assatanati danarosi vengono a cercarsi le loro prede in svendita.

Clive Barker: Animal Life

Ralph was dreaming of Kathleen again. She was standing on the edge of the pool he was building for Jerry Meuse on Coldwater Canyon, looking into the water saying: "It's milk, Ralph!"

As he realized that yes, indeed, the pool was filled with milk, the ground began to shake. Somewhere far off, he heard Duffy barking frantically.

I'm not dreaming, he thought, and opened his eyes. The walls were creaking, the doors flying open, the bed pitching around. This was no minor temblor. This was big and getting bigger. He felt a patter of dust on his face and threw himself out of the bed. A heartbeat later the ceiling came down, burying the place where he'd been sleeping seconds before.

The drapes were open a few inches (He'd not been able to sleep in total darkness since Kathleen's departure), and there was moonlight enough to get him across the pitching floor to the door. "Duffy?" he yelled as he raced down the stairs. "Where are you, boy?"

He ducked into the kitchen where Duffy usually spent the night (he'd protect his food before us, Kathleen had pointed out), but there was no response. The shaking had given way to brutal jolts now, as though some titanic foot were kicking the house. Every jar, plate, fork, and glass were either on the floor in pieces or on their way.