José María Tamparillas: Maternidad

No siempre desaparece la humanidad, eso es lo malo. Ya se ha comido ocho de sus diez dedos y parte del antebrazo. Pero el hambre es fuerte y no sabe cuánto aguantará; mientras, el bebé le sonríe desde la cuna, inocente, ajeno al fin.

Nancy Holder: Blood Gothic

She wanted to have a vampire lover. She wanted it so badly that she kept waiting for it to happen. One night, soon, she would awaken to wings flapping against the window and then take to wearing velvet ribbons and cameo lockets around her delicate, pale neck. She knew it.

She immersed herself in the world of her vampire lover: She devoured Gothic romances, consumed late-night horror movies. Visions of satin capes and eyes of fire shielded her from the harshness of the daylight, from mortality and the vain and meaningless struggles of the world of the sun. Days as a kindergarten teacher and evenings with some overly eager, casual acquaintance could not pull her from her secret existence: always a ticking portion of her brain planned, proceeded, waited.

She spent her meager earnings on dark antiques and intricate clothes. Her wardrobe was crammed with white negligees and ruffled underthings. No crosses and no mirrors, particularly not in her bedroom. White tapered candles stood in pewter sconces, and she would read late into the night by their smoky flickerings, she scented and ruffled, hair combed loosely about her shoulders. She glanced at the window often.

She resented lovers-though she took them, thrilling to the fullness of life in them, the blood and the life-who insisted upon staying all night, burning their breakfast toast and making bitter coffee. Her kitchen, of course, held nothing but fresh ingredients and copper and ironware; to her chagrin, she could not do without ovens or stoves or refrigerators. Alone, she carried candles and bathed in cool water.

She waited, prepared. And at long last, her vampire lover began to come to her in dreams. They floated across the moors, glided through the fields of heather. He carried her to his crumbling castle, undressing her, pulling off her diaphanous gown, caressing her lovely body until, in the height of passion, he bit into her arched neck, drawing the life out of her and replacing it with eternal damnation and eternal love.

Ronald Chetwynd-Hayes: The Ghouls

The doorbell rang. A nasty long shrill ring that suggested an impatient caller or a faulty bell-button. Mr Goldsmith did not receive many visitors. He muttered angrily, removed the saucepan of baked beans from the gas ring, then trudged slowly from the tiny kitchen across the even smaller hall and opened the front door. The bell continued to ring.

A tall, lean man faced him. One rigid finger seemed glued to the bell-button. The gaunt face had an unwholesome greenish tinge. The black, strangely dull eyes stared into Mr Goldsmith's own and the mouth opened.

"Oosed o love hore…"

The shrill clatter of the doorbell mingled with the hoarse gibberish and Mr Goldsmith experienced a blend of fear and anger. He shouted at the unwelcome intruder.

"Stop ringing the bell."

"Oosed o love hore…" the stranger repeated.

"Stop ringing the bloody bell." Mr Goldsmith reached round the door frame and pulled the dirt-grimed hand away. It fell limply down to its owner's side, where it swung slowly back and forth, four fingers clenched, the fifth - the index finger - rigid, as though still seeking a bell-button to push. In the silence that followed, Mr Goldsmith cleared his throat.

"Now, what is it you want?"

"Oosed o love hore." The stranger said again unintelligibly, then pushed by Mr Goldsmith and entered the flat.

Miguel Ángel López Muñoz (Magnus Dagon): El zombi definitivo

Me habían pedido que hablara de zombis. Pero yo no quería describir uno cualquiera, así que me puse a mí mismo la meta de crear un ser imparable, una putrefacción artificial sin igual en la historia de la humanidad.

Empecé a pensar qué cualidades debería poseer. Tenía que ser fuerte y poderoso, sin duda, y carecer de alma y emotividad. Sería capaz de comerse incluso a otros de su condición, llegado el momento. La sola idea de enfrentarse a él provocaría temor, ya que podría tumbar y devorar a cualquiera que se pusiera en su camino. Tanto temor provocaría, que se le pagaría tributo, y entre todos le alimentaríamos, haciendo que él y los suyos fueran cada vez más imparables, aunque lo suficientemente listos como para darse cuenta de que, sin nosotros, ellos no serían nada, y por tanto nos asfixiarían lentamente, para que nunca se nos ocurriera tratar de unirnos contra ellos.

Me detuve, como herido por una flecha invisible, y dejé de anotar. Todo eso no valía para nada, ya había sido inventado. El zombi definitivo, de hecho, ya estaba entre nosotros. Nosotros solemos llamarlos bancos

Emilio Bueso: El hombre revenido

revenant
Noun:
1. One that returns after a lengthy absence.
2. One who returns after death.
Etimology:
French, from presentparticiple of revenir, to return, from Old
French. See revenue.
American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language


revenir
 verbe intransitif
Sens 1 Venir de nouveau.
Sens 2 Retourner quelque part.
Dictionnaire de la langue française

 

Se reunieron todos los gatos en los lindes de la muralla del pueblo, frente a la puerta norte, de repente, a plena luz del día; empezaron a llegar de madrugada y fueron tomando posiciones: los más viejos se tendieron al sol para remolonear duran­te la espera, mientras que los jóvenes llegaron un tanto más tarde para irse desplegando como una inquietud, dando latiga­zos ocasionales a diestro y siniestro con sus colas, nerviosas... Aguardaron al resto de sus congéneres y en cuanto se hallaron reunidos todos los del pueblo, se marcharon de él.

Lo hicieron juntos, a una. Gordos bien cebados, hembras en celo, sucios pulgosos, enfermos desvalidos, decrépitos desarra­pados, hembras preñadas, cachorros castrados, señoriales mini­nos domésticos, jóvenes musculados por la caza. Los gatos se reunieron en asamblea ante las miradas atónitas de todas las gentes del pueblo, que no se atrevieron a disuadir a sus masco­tas, sino que se limitaron a verlas marchar, a dejarlas hacer, embobados por lo turbador del espectáculo.

Y así fue como los gatos nos abandonaron. Se reunieron de repente y se fueron, caminando a paso ligero. Arrancaron la marcha al poco de congregarse junto al portón principal de la muralla. Primero se puso en pie un enorme y atigrado gato macho, articuló un exagerado bostezo y echó la mirada a la salida del pueblo. Los demás volvieron sus ojos en la misma dirección, poco a poco. Frente a ellos, la puerta norte que se abría al paso de una vieja calzada romana, a su vez flanqueada por un bosque de encinas en el que los gatos se adentraron sin más. Marcharon, unos muy juntos y otros más distantes, indiferentes todos, en una espantosa proce­sión que dejó a nuestro pueblo a merced del infierno. Y cuando nos abandonaron supimos que algo horrible había empezado.

Joe R. Lansdale: Deadman's Road

The evening sun had rolled down and blown out in a bloody wad, and the white, full moon had rolled up like an enormous ball of tightly wrapped twine. As he rode, the Reverend Jebidiah Rains watched it glow above the tall pines. All about it stars were sprinkled white-hot in the dead-black heavens.

The trail he rode on was a thin one, and the trees on either side of it crept toward the path as if they might block the way, and close up behind him. The weary horse on which he was riding moved forward with its head down, and Jebidiah, too weak to fight it, let his mount droop and take its lead. Jebidiah was too tired to know much at that moment, but he knew one thing. He was a man of the Lord and he hated God, hated the sonofabitch with all his heart.

And he knew God knew and didn't care, because he knew Jebidiah was his messenger. Not one of the New Testament, but one of the Old Testament, harsh and mean and certain, vengeful and without compromise; a man who would have shot a leg out from under Moses and spat in the face of the Holy Ghost and scalped him, tossing his celestial hair to the wild four winds.

It was not a legacy Jebidiah would have preferred, being the bad man messenger of God, but it was his, and he had earned it through sin, and no matter how hard he tried to lay it down and leave it be, he could not. He knew that to give in and abandon his God-given curse, was to burn in hell forever, and to continue was to do as the Lord prescribed, no matter what his feelings toward his mean master might be. His Lord was not a forgiving Lord, nor was he one who cared for your love. All he cared for was obedience, servitude and humiliation. It was why God had invented the human race. Amusement.

Rubén Sánchez Trigos: Padre

Padre se cambia la escopeta de mano por segunda vez en los últimos minutos. No creo que le pese. Padre es fuerte, como el abuelo y el tío. Oigo voces que proceden del salón. Creo que medio pueblo está en casa. ¿Han venido para verme a mí? Sospecho que sí, como a cualquier enfermo. En las últimas horas he dejado de sentir el brazo, es lo que mamá llama un miembro fantasma. Creo también que he dejado de sangrar, pero no tengo valor para mirarlo. Nunca me ha gustado observar las heridas de los demás, mucho menos las mías. Sé que es limpia y con eso me basta. Aquel mendigo loco, que caminaba como un borracho, sólo tuvo tiempo de morderme una vez antes de que tío Alberto lo apartara. ¿Cuánto tiempo ha pasado desde entonces? No puedo calcularlo. Sólo sé que desde que el párroco vino a verme, padre espera a los pies de mi cama, con la escopeta apoyada entre las piernas, la mirada húmeda y el gesto serio. Tengo fiebre. Y miedo. Los adultos saben algo y no me lo quieren decir

Michael A. Burstein: Lifeblood

Lincoln Kliman burst into the synagogue, causing the cantor at the front of the room to halt his chanting momentarily. Lincoln panted, catching his breath, and the congregants turned to look at him. He knew his disheveled appearance would not endear him to them, and he noticed one or two of the congregants scowling.

The cantor resumed his Hebrew chant, and Lincoln took a moment to study the synagogue. It wasn't a synagogue really, just a small room where these particular Jews gathered to pray. There were three rows of folding chairs set up, mostly empty of people, which gave the room an aura of despair, at least for Lincoln. He was used to much more elaborate synagogues, but then again, he hadn't been in one for over fifteen years.

He counted the number of congregants. Ten men, exactly the minimum number of Jews required for a minyan. Technically, Lincoln 's presence made the number eleven.

He approached a man sitting alone in the back row, bent over and murmuring to himself.

"Pardon me," he said, "but-"

The man looked up from his siddur, his prayer book, and waved his hand to quiet Lincoln. "Shush," he said. "Put on a yarmulka."

Lincoln nodded and went to the back of the room to don a skullcap, another thing he hadn't done in a very long time. He sat down next to the man and said, as quietly as he could, "I must speak with the cantor. It's important."

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: Ad Delendum Universam Carnem

Quien perdona todo ha debido perdonarse todo
Antonio Porchia

“Esta noche el resfriado habrá pasado” −evita el beso de despedida−. Pero la mancha negra de su antebrazo asegura lo contrario. Apenas sale por la puerta, ella marca el número que aparece en pantalla desde que comenzó la terrible epidemia. “A alguien se le ha ido de las manos”, murmura. Como casi todos, sospecha que esa pandemia mundial ha sido provocada por un virus de laboratorio, un arma química.

Alertado por el ruido, al no recibir respuesta, decide entrar. El cliente está en el suelo, muerto pero sonriente. No me extraña, se dice: sobre la mesa, dinero, diamantes, lingotes de oro… Y una urna cerámica con forma de trono, antiquísima e irresistible. A un lado, Eva ofreciendo la manzana; al otro, Pandora. En las caras restantes, querubines.

Sólo quiere curiosear un poco, echar un breve vistazo al contenido. La tapa encaja perfectamente... Para su sorpresa, en el interior no hay nada. El morador ha huido precipitadamente; demasiado tiempo encerrado. Eso le ha vuelto aún más irascible y virulento: quiere venganza. El Ángel de la Muerte recuerda su primera misión, aquella en Egipto… La vieja anécdota parecerá una broma comparado con lo que se avecina.

Garth Nix: Infestation

They were the usual motley collection of freelance vampire hunters. Two men, wearing combinations of jungle camouflage and leather. Two women, one almost indistinguishable from the men though with a little more style in her leather armour accessories, and the other looking like she was about to assault the south face of a serious mountain. Only her mouth was visible, a small oval of flesh not covered by balaclava, mirror shades, climbing helmet and hood.

They had the usual weapons: four or five short wooden stakes in belt loops; snap-holstered handguns of various calibers, all doubtless chambered with Wood-N-Death® low-velocity timber-tipped rounds; big silver-edged bowie or other hunting knife, worn on the hip or strapped to a boot; and crystal vials of holy water hung like small grenades on pocket loops.

Protection, likewise, tick the usual boxes. Leather neck and wrist guards; leather and woven-wire reinforced chaps and shoulder pauldrons over the camo; leather gloves with metal knuckle plates; Army or climbing helmets.

And lots of crosses, oh yeah, particularly on the two men. Big silver crosses, little wooden crosses, medium-sized turned ivory crosses, hanging off of everything they could hang off.

In other words, all four of them were lumbering, bumbling mountains of stuff that meant that they would be easy meat for all but the newest and dumbest vampires.

Matías Candeira: Exploradores

Naturalmente, esta clase de cosas ocurren de noche, cuando gimotea el fonógrafo y las bombillas pintadas proyectan demenciales sombras.

Truman Capote

Ha delirado y ha gritado su nombre a la oscuridad del sótano y ahora, por fin, lo sé. Le he esposado una mano al saliente de la bañera. Al mirarle fijamente intento que me parezca un ani­mal, moribundo, lo intento con todas mis fuerzas, una criatu­ra sin posibilidades ante lo que vamos a hacerle. Por eso trato de visualizar alguna otra imagen para no sentir tristeza. Que él es, si me esfuerzo, el cráneo blanco y limpio de un caimán o una cría que morirá sumergida en una ciénaga o puede (tengo que conseguirlo) que un oso atravesado por la herida de un cazador, desangrándose en mitad del hielo. Vuelvo a contem­plar su cuerpo (un bulto, es un bulto) y él delira, susurra su nombre una vez más, Langdoc, creo que es Langdoc, y yo ima­gino y deseo que llegue el momento en que mi propio nom­bre se desvela, ese segundo furtivo en que me siento, quizás,

más cerca de mi padre y sus ojos como alas de insecto, en lar­gas noches cuidando juntos el árbol. El visitante susurra su nombre, Lang..., ojos cerrados, agonía, un hilo de sangre oscura empapándole los párpados, pero los nombres no se pueden decir a la ligera. Necesito acercarme y limpiarle la cara. Eso hago, le reclino la cabeza hacia atrás para que respire mejor, y creo que ya me siento más tranquilo. No mucho, si soy sincero.

Según mi padre, no se puede venir sin invitación a nuestra casa. No se puede pisar la hierba seca ni subir al árbol de las manzanas a robarnos uno de nuestros tesoros. En la parte tra­sera, hace sólo unas horas, susurró: «Hay alguien en el árbol de las manzanas». La noche llegaba hasta la casa y sus muros derruidos. Me fijé en que lo decía así, con ansia, levemente su labio se abrió en la penumbra y empezaron a aflorar con pere­za, islas, esos dientes enormes. Mi padre saca los dientes y entonces uno sabe que tiene un hambre espantosa.

Valerio Evangelisti: Cicci di Scandicci

Quando ero in vita mi hanno chiamato Cicci, Cicci di Scandicci. Ora, vorrei che provaste a guardare una mia fotografia, e poi a dirmi se potevo chiamarmi Cicci. Quello è un nome da finocchi. Io finocchio non lo sono mai stato. Mi piaceva la passera. Anche troppo, forse, ma in una maniera sana, schietta, popolare. Come si usa dalle mie parti, dove l’aria è buona e la vita è genuina. O almeno lo era, prima che arrivassero i cinghiali.

Io ero buono quanto l’aria che respiravo. Gran lavoratore, tutto il giorno sui campi, la sera in famiglia. Da noi la famiglia vuole ancora dire qualcosa. Abbiamo vissuto alla stessa maniera per secoli, nel nostro piccolo villaggio sulle colline (non era Scandicci, anche se era lì vicino). Si zappava la terra, si beveva un pochetto e si stava in armonia, con i nostri cari. E’ così che si diventa artisti. Perché noi si era tutti un po’ artisti. No, non ridete.

In città la famiglia finisce tra le mura di casa. Da noi, in campagna, tutto il paese è un po’ una famiglia. Si sa tutto di tutti. Non sempre ci si vuole bene, è vero, ma è perché ci si conosce troppo. Ci si somiglia. E allora si litiga come tra fratellini. Però poi si beve un bicchiere e si va a far merenda assieme. Non con tutti, certo. Con gli amici. Gli altri, se li frequenti troppo, ti fanno carognate. L’ideale è starsene in casa propria, con i tuoi, e uscire solo di tanto in tanto, per le merende.

E’ così che nascono gli artisti: stando tra la gente che conosci e godendoti il paesaggio da casa tua o dal tuo campo. La gente pensa che l’arte non sia per i contadini. Sono pregiudizi. Io coloravo i disegni che trovavo sui giornali. Inoltre impagliavo gli animali.

Impagliare è un’arte vera. Bisogna aprire la pancia alla bestiolina quel tanto che basta a fare uscire le budella, senza rovinare il pellame. Poi si pulisce il sangue, si infila la paglia e si ricuce. Non è mica facile.

Molti animaletti che tagliavo li rovinavo. Però i cinghiali no, quelli mi venivano bene. Sarà perché io i cinghiali li odio. Mi piaceva tagliarli. Li avrei tagliati vivi.

David Barr Kirtley: The Skull-Faced Boy

It was past midnight, and Jack and Dustin were driving along a twisted path through the woods. Jack was at the wheel. He was arguing with Dustin over Ashley.

Jack had always thought she had a pretty face—thin, arching eyebrows, a slightly upturned nose, a delicate chin. She'd dated Dustin in college for six months, until he got possessive and she got restless. Now, Jack thought, maybe she was interested in him.

But Dustin insisted, «She'll give me another chance. Someday.»

«Not according to her,» Jack said, with a pointed look.

He turned his eyes back to the road, and in the light of the high beams he saw a man stumble into the path of the car. Without thinking, Jack swerved.

The car bounced violently, and then its left front side smashed into a tree. The steering column surged forward, like an ocean wave, and crushed Jack's stomach. Dustin wasn't wearing a seatbelt. He flew face-first through the windshield, rolled across the hood, and tumbled off onto the ground.

Jack awoke, disoriented.

A man was pounding on the side of the car, just beyond the driver's side window, which was cracked and foggy and opaque. Jack pushed at the door, which creaked open just enough for him to make out the man's face. The man stared at Jack, then turned and started to walk off.

Jack shouted, «Call for help.»

But the man didn't respond. He wandered toward the woods.

«Hey!» Jack screamed. He brushed aside a blanket of shattered glass and released his seatbelt. He pushed his seat backward, slowly extricating his bleeding stomach from the steering column, then dragged himself out the door and onto the ground, and he crawled after the man, who continued to walk away.

Ángel Olgoso: Los buenos caldos

En la anochecida, cuando el extraño pasó a nuestro lado, le abrimos el cráneo con el grueso sarmiento que usamos en estas ocasiones. Un solo golpe, certero y sin rabia, nada más. El sombrero que el desconocido llevaba requintado en la cabeza rodó como a diez pasos. Mi hermano lo levantó del almagre y se lo puso en la suya. Sería un buen año aquel. Encendimos el candil. Su luz hizo rebrillar las palas. Nos remangamos y estudiamos con curiosidad el cuerpo durante unos segundos antes de enterrarlo al pie de una cepa, primorosamente, bien encamado en la hondura, como manda la tradición en vísperas de vendimia, para que su sangre retinte las uvas, para que su cecina nutra las raíces y rice los pámpanos, para que sus huesos den vigor a esta tierra requemada por la calígine y pongan a crecer el viñedo hasta que corran los jugos, nobles, únicos, virtuados por su secreto fermento.