Ronal Kayser: In the Dark

Is was a tale of sheer horror that old Asa Gregg poured into the dictaphone

The watchman's flashlight printed a white circle on the frosted-glass, black-lettered door:

GREGG CHEMICAL CO., MFRS.

ASA GREGG, PRES.

PRIVATE

The watchman's hand closed on the knob, rattled the door in its frame. Queer, but tonight the sound had seemed to come from in there.... But that couldn't be. He knew that Mr. Gregg and Miss Carruthers carried the only keys to the office, so any intruder would have been forced to smash the lock.

Maybe the sound came from the storage room. The watchman clumped along the rubber-matted corridor, flung his weight against that door. It opened hard, being of ponderous metal fitted into a cork casing. The room was an air-tight, fire-proof vault, really. His shoes gritted on the concrete floor as he prowled among the big porcelain vats. The flashlight bored through bluish haze to the concrete walls. Acid fumes escaping under the vat lids made the haze and seared the man's throat.

He hurried out, coughing and wiping his eyes. It was damn funny. Every night lately he heard the same peculiar noise somewhere in this wing of the building.... like a body groaning and turning in restless sleep, it was. It scared him. He didn't mention the mystery to anyone, though. He was an old man, and he didn't want Mr. Gregg to think he was getting too old for the job.

"Asa'd think I was crazy, if I told him about it," be mumbled.

Ángel Olgoso: Árboles al pie de la cama

Volvía del trabajo, al anochecer, cansado, casi enfebrecido, cuando se me ocurrió que me gustaría ser un animalillo silvestre, que sabría administrar esa vida simple, limpia de la confusión y el alboroto de las preocupaciones, que podría acomodar con facilidad mi conciencia a ese estado ideal. Como una bendición, alguien, lejos de escamotear mi deseo, me dio la forma de una criatura peluda y diminuta y me soltó en el bosque. Era, como vi después, una vida descorazonadora: no sentía interés por otra cosa que no fuera acarrear alimentos, avariciosa e infatigablemente, hasta mi agujero al pie del tronco de un árbol podrido; los límites de cada territorio desencadenaban continuos litigios entre los habitantes de la fronda; las voces de los pájaros me ensordecían; los parásitos habían invadido mi pelambre; los apareamientos resultaban tan gravosos como los espulgos; y mis ojos revolaban de pánico en sus órbitas cada vez que presentía a los rapaces. Aquel desconsuelo, por fortuna, no duró demasiado. Un día se acercó con sigilo un trozo de oscuridad y, aunque husmeé su hedor a distancia y oí luego las pisadas y los furiosos ladridos, apenas tuve tiempo de entrever sus dientes cerrándose sobre mí.

Norman Partridge: In Beauty, Like The Night

The beach was deserted.

Somehow, they knew enough to stay out of the sun.

Nathan Grimes rested his elbows on the balcony and peered through his binoculars. As he adjusted the focus knob, the smooth, feminine mounds that bordered the crescent-shaped beach became nets of purslane and morning glory, and the green blur that lay beyond sharpened to a crazy quilt of distinct colors—emerald, charcoal, glimpses of scarlet—a dark panorama of manchineel trees, sea grapes, and coconut palms.

Nathan scanned the shadows until he found the golden-bronze color of her skin. Naked, just out of reach of the sun's rays, she leaned against the gentle curve of a coconut palm, curling a strand of singed blonde hair around the single finger that remained on her left hand. Her fingertip was red—with nail polish, not blood—and she thrust it into her mouth and licked both finger and hair, finally releasing a spit curl that fought the humid Caribbean breeze for a moment and then drooped in defeat.

Kara North, Miss December.

Nathan remembered meeting Kara at the New Orleans Mansion the previous August. She'd posed in front of a bountifully trimmed Christmas tree for Teddy Ching's centerfold shot, and Nathan—fresh off a plane from the Los Angeles offices of Grimesgirl magazine—had walked in on the proceedings, joking that the holiday decorations made him feel like he'd done a Rip Van Winkle in the friendly skies.

Nathan smiled at the memory. There were several elegantly wrapped packages under the tree that August day, but each one was empty, just a prop for Teddy's photo shoot. Kara had discovered that sad fact almost immediately, and they'd all had a good laugh about her mercenary attitude while Teddy shot her with a little red Santa cap on her head and sassy red stockings on her feet and nothing but golden-bronze flesh in between.

José Víctor Martínez Gil: Bella

Quería estar más bella que nunca. Por eso tejía en su cabellera la trenza más perfecta, más larga y elaborada. Cuando la terminó, observó con detenimiento lo que ella consideraba su obra maestra. Al llegar la noche acudió a verlo. Más guapa que nunca, más radiante que nunca, más entregada que nunca, a pesar de que él no la merecía en absoluto. A la mañana siguiente, ella, delicadamente deshizo su trenza y se marchó. Y a él lo encontraron, ahorcado, sin que pudiera determinarse el arma del crimen.

Enzo Fileno Carabba: Il buio

"I Miti e i morti popolano questo giardino notturno fatto di vento e di portentosa oscurità. Non so dire da quanto tempo è buio, né ricordo la ragione di questo: o se esiste un motivo. Da quanti anni il mio sguardo non incontra la luce del sole; cos e in fondo la luce del sole; esisteva veramente?

"Alcuni, quando capirono che il sole non tornava, che era iniziata una notte senza stelle di cui i più, fra noi, non avrebbero visto la fine, furono colti da un terrore soprannaturale. Molti si suicidarono, augurandosi di non andare incontro a una nuova oscurità. Molti uccisero i loro cari, o anche i meno cari. Certi impazzirono. Altri tuttora rantolano dementi nelle caverne, persi in qualche delirio luminoso che è soltanto il frutto del buio, una delle sue forme.

"Per parte mia, dopo un periodo di smarrimento e di angoscia, intuii il lato vitale dell'oscurità. Nel buio raggiungo un raccoglimento che mi inebria. Non reprimo più i miei istinti di cacciatore. Il buio è il labirinto che mi imprigiona e in cui mi nascondo. Vago nel grande giardino ordinato, guardo il ruscello che stilla dalla parete di muschio; la mia lunga veste struscia contro i fiori notturni. La città, laggiù, c'è, ma io non posso vederla. So che ci sono altre creature in agguato nel blu cupo, so che potrebbero saltar fuori da un momento all'altro, prendermi e portarmi via, nessuno sa dove.

Certo è che quando m'acquatto negli angoli muschiosi, non sempre rammento se lo faccio per salvarmi o per aggredire. A volte ho il dubbio di essere io stesso qualcosa di spaventoso.

"Questo buio, questa paura, questa gioia, questa soli tudine. A pensarci mi viene da ridere. A tratti, nel giardino, mi sembra di vedere angeli senza luce che mi esortano a andare dove il buio è più folto: perché lì è l'oscurità benefica. Sarei tentato. Ma temo gli inganni. Intravedo un camice da infermiere, o da veterinario assassino. Sonò scaltro. Non cedo all'invito.

Robert Louis Stevenson: Markheim

 Robert Louis Stevenson by Count Girolamo Nerli

'YES,' said the dealer, 'our windfalls are of various kinds. Some customers are ignorant, and then I touch a dividend on my superior knowledge. Some are dishonest,' and here he held up the candle, so that the light fell strongly on his visitor, 'and in that case,' he continued, 'I profit by my virtue.'

Markheim had but just entered from the daylight streets, and his eyes had not yet grown familiar with the mingled shine and darkness in the shop. At these pointed words, and before the near presence of the flame, he blinked painfully and looked aside.

The dealer chuckled. 'You come to me on Christmas Day,' he resumed, 'when you know that I am alone in my house, put up my shutters, and make a point of refusing business. Well, you will have to pay for that; you will have to pay for my loss of time, when I should be balancing my books; you will have to pay, besides, for a kind of manner that I remark in you to-day very strongly. I am the essence of discretion, and ask no awkward questions; but when a customer cannot look me in the eye, he has to pay for it.' The dealer once more chuckled; and then, changing to his usual business voice, though still with a note of irony, 'You can give, as usual, a clear account of how you came into the possession of the object?' he continued. 'Still your uncle's cabinet? A remarkable collector, sir!'

And the little pale, round-shouldered dealer stood almost on tip- toe, looking over the top of his gold spectacles, and nodding his head with every mark of disbelief. Markheim returned his gaze with one of infinite pity, and a touch of horror.

José María Latorre: Instantáneas

El flash disparado por el mecanismo fotográfico oculto en las entrañas de la máquina le deslumbró más de lo habitual cuan­do descargó sobre su rostro los cuatro relámpagos seguidos. Luego le pareció recordar vagamente que una de las veces había entrecerrado los ojos o fruncido el ceño, pero eso no justificaba el hecho de que las cuatro fotografías ofrecidas en una tira de cartulina barata todavía húmeda, que había sido literalmente vomitada por una de las aberturas de la máquina, mostraran el rostro de un hombre distinto: no se reconoció ni en las facciones, ni en el cabello canoso, ni en la expresión asus­tada de la persona de las fotografías. Tampoco lo explicaba la molesta sensación, mezcla de asco, angustia y temor, que había experimentado al sentarse en el taburete y hacerlo girar para adecuar su elevada estatura a la altura de la flecha negra que había marcada al lado de las instrucciones para el uso de la máquina. Ni el olor repugnante, anormal, que le había agredi­do al entrar en la cabina y que le había perturbado tanto como, creía, perturban los olores de las habitaciones que se abren des­pués de llevar cerradas varios años y el peculiar olor de los cementerios en verano. Olía como se figuraba que debían de

oler los viejos panteones y las viejas criptas. Un olor absurdo, inexplicable, porque el interior de aquella cabina de fotografía instantánea estaba continuamente ventilado, pues sólo una cortinilla de tela negra aislaba el interior del exterior, y porque no era verano sino invierno. Casi sonrió al pensar que tampo­co estaba en un cementerio, en una cripta o en un panteón. Pero olía a rancio, a polvo acumulado y a materias orgánicas en descomposición. Y las cuatro fotografías que le había entre­gado la máquina tras una especie de gruñido no eran las suyas. La única explicación posible era que pertenecieran al anterior usuario, ya que en esos aparatos automáticos las fotografías tardan cierto tiempo en salir; a veces, incluso, muchos minu­tos: a él mismo le había sucedido años atrás; un defecto del mecanismo, le dijeron. Quizás el anterior usuario, el propieta­rio de aquella cara envejecida, asustada, se había marchado, cansado de esperar unas fotografías que no recibía y pensando que debería efectuar una reclamación al nombre y al teléfono indicados en una pequeña placa metálica. Hay máquinas defectuosas y otras que se averían, pensó Elías, y ésta era una de ellas, lo cual podía significar que sus fotografías no saldrían o, en el mejor de los casos, que aún tardarían varios minutos en salir. Esperaría; no tenía prisa. Por unos momentos, la situa­ción le pareció divertida, pensando en la posibilidad de que la avería o el defecto de la máquina estuviera obsequiando a dia­rio a unos clientes con las fotografías de otros.

Leonid Andreyev ( Леонид Николаевич Андреев ): Андреев (Lazarus)

Leonid Andreyev by Repin

I

Когда Елеазар вышел из могилы, где три дня и три ночи находился он под загадочною властию смерти, и живым возвратился в свое жилище, в нем долго не замечали тех зловещих странностей, которые со временем сделали страшным самое имя его. Радуясь светлой радостью о возвращенном к жизни, друзья и близкие ласкали его непрестанно и в заботах о пище и питье и о новой одежде утоляли жадное внимание свое. И одели его пышно в яркие цвета надежды и смеха, и когда он, подобно жениху в брачном одеянии, снова сидел среди них за столом, и снова ел, и снова пил, они плакали от умиления и звали соседей, чтобы взглянуть на чудесно воскресшего. Приходили соседи и радовались умиленно; приходили незнакомые люди из дальних городов и селений и в бурных восклицаниях выражали свое поклонение чуду — точно пчелы гудели над домом Марии и Марфы.
И то, что появилось нового в лице Елеазара и движениях его, объясняли естественно, как следы тяжелой болезни и пережитых потрясений. Очевидно, разрушительная работа смерти над трупом была только остановлена чудесной властью, но не уничтожена совсем; и то, что смерть уже успела сделать с лицом и телом Елеазара, было как неоконченный рисунок художника под тонким стеклом. На висках Елеазара, под его глазами и во впадинах щек лежала густая землистая синева; так же землисто-сини были длинные пальцы рук, и у выросших в могиле ногтей синева становилась багровой и темной. Кое-где на губах и на теле лопнула кожа, вздувшаяся в могиле, и на этих местах оставались тонкие, красноватые трещинки, блестящие, точно покрытые прозрачной слюдой. И тучен он стал. Раздутое в могиле тело сохранило эти чудовищные размеры, эти страшные выпуклости, за которыми чувствуется зловонная влага разложения. Но трупный, тяжелый запах, которым были пропитаны погребальные одежды Елеазара и, казалось, самое тело его, вскоре исчез совершенно, а через некоторое время смягчилась синева рук и лица и загладились красноватые трещинки кожи, хотя совсем они никогда не исчезли. С таким лицом предстал он людям во второй своей жизни; но оно казалось естественным тем, кто видел его погребенным.

Guy de Maupassant: Sur l'eau

J'avais loué, l'été dernier, une petite maison de campagne au bord de la Seine, à plusieurs lieues de Paris, et j'allais y coucher tous les soirs. Je fis, au bout de quelques jours, la connaissance d'un de mes voisins, un homme de trente à quarante ans, qui était bien le type le plus curieux que j'eusse jamais vu. C'était un vieux canotier, mais un canotier enragé, toujours près de l'eau, toujours sur l'eau, toujours dans l'eau. Il devait être né dans un canot, et il mourra bien certainement dans le canotage final.

Un soir que nous nous promenions au bord de la Seine, je lui demandai de me raconter quelques anecdotes de sa vie nautique. Voilà immédiatement mon bonhomme qui s'anime, se transfigure, devient éloquent, presque poète. Il avait dans le coeur une grande passion, une passion dévorante, irrésistible : la rivière.

“ Ah ! me dit-il, combien j'ai de souvenirs sur cette rivière que vous voyez couler là près de nous ! Vous autres, habitants des rues, vous ne savez pas ce qu'est la rivière. Mais écoutez un pêcheur prononcer ce mot. Pour lui, c'est la chose mystérieuse, profonde, inconnue, le pays des mirages et des fantasmagories, où l'on voit, la nuit, des choses qui ne sont pas, où l'on entend des bruits que l'on ne connaît point, où l'on tremble sans savoir pourquoi, comme en traversant un cimetière: et c'est en effet le plus sinistre des cimetières, celui où l'on n'a point de tombeau.

“La terre est bornée pour le pêcheur et dans l'ombre, quand il n'y a pas de lune, la rivière est illimitée. Un marin n'éprouve point la même chose pour la mer. Elle est souvent dure et méchante, c'est vrai, mais elle crie, elle hurle, elle est loyale, la frande mer ; tandis que la rivière est silencieuse et perfide. E le ne gronde pas, elle coule toujours sans bruit et ce mouvement éternel de l'eau qui coule est plus effrayant pour moi que les hautes vagues de l'Océan. “ Des rêveurs prétendent que la mer cache dans son sein d'immenses pays bleuâtres, où les noyés roulent parmi les grands poissons, au milieu d'étranges forêts et dans des grottes de cristal. La rivière n'a que des profondeurs noires où l'on pourrit dans la vase. Elle est belle pourtant quand elle brille au soleil levant et qu'elle clapote doucement entre ses berges couvertes de roseaux qui murmurent.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft: The Moon-Bog

Somewhere, to what remote and fearsome region I know not, Denys Barry has gone. I was with him the last night he lived among men, and heard his screams when the thing came to him; but all the peasants and police in County Meath could never find him, or the others, though they searched long and far. And now I shudder when I hear the frogs piping in swamps, or see the moon in lonely places.

I had known Denys Barry well in America, where he had grown rich, and had congratulated him when he bought back the old castle by the bog at sleepy Kilderry. It was from Kilderry that his father had come, and it was there that he wished to enjoy his wealth among ancestral scenes. Men of his blood had once ruled over Kilderry and built and dwelt in the castle, but those days were very remote, so that for generations the castle had been empty and decaying. After he went to Ireland, Barry wrote me often, and told me how under his care the gray castle was rising tower by tower to its ancient splendor, how the ivy was climbing slowly over the restored walls as it had climbed so many centuries ago, and how the peasants blessed him for bringing back the old days with his gold from over the sea. But in time there came troubles, and the peasants ceased to bless him, and fled away instead as from a doom. And then he sent a letter and asked me to visit him, for he was lonely in the castle with no one to speak to save the new servants and laborers he had brought from the North.

The bog was the cause of all these troubles, as Barry told me the night I came to the castle. I had reached Kilderry in the summer sunset, as the gold of the sky lighted the green of the hills and groves and the blue of the bog, where on a far islet a strange olden ruin glistened spectrally. That sunset was very beautiful, but the peasants at Ballylough had warned me against it and said that Kilderry had become accursed, so that I almost shuddered to see the high turrets of the castle gilded with fire. Barry’s motor had met me at the Ballylough station, for Kilderry is off the railway. The villagers had shunned the car and the driver from the North, but had whispered to me with pale faces when they saw I was going to Kilderry. And that night, after our reunion, Barry told me why.

Rafael Llopis Paret: Una visión de la muerte

El señor ministro dio un salto en el asiento del coche oficial en que viajaba y agitó la maño por la ventanilla. —¡Me ha visto, estoy seguro de que me ha visto! —dijo—. Fue mi mejor amigo cuando éramos niños. Le he reconocido al instante. Ver su cara me ha traído mil recuerdos olvidados, todo el aroma de una época de mi vida. ¡Dios mío, qué maravilla! Nunca le había vuelto a ver. Tengo su imagen metida en el corazón, sé que hemos sido íntimos amigos, realmente él ha sido mi único amigo en la vida...Pero qué curioso, no consigo recordar ni cuándo ni dónde le conocí. Ni siquiera me acuerdo de su nombre.Éstas fueron las últimas palabras del señor ministro.

Richard Garnett: Demon Pope

"So you won't sell me your soul?" said the devil.

"Thank you," replied the student, "I had rather keep it myself, if it's all the same to you."

"But it's not all the same to me. I want it very particularly. Come, I'll be liberal. I said twenty years. You can have thirty."

The student shook his head.

"Forty!"

Another shake.

"Fifty!"

As before.

"Now," said the devil, "I know I'm going to do a foolish thing, but I cannot bear to see a clever, spirited young man throw himself away. I'll make you another kind of offer. We won't have any bargain at present, but I will push you on in the world for the next forty years. This day forty years I come back and ask you for a boon; not your soul, mind, or anything not perfectly in your power to grant. If you give it, we are quits; if not, I fly away with you. What say you to this?"

The student reflected for some minutes. "Agreed," he said at last.

Scarcely had the devil disappeared, which he did instantaneously, ere a messenger reined in his smoking steed at the gate of the University of Cordova (the judicious reader will already have remarked that Lucifer could never have been allowed inside a Christian seat of learning), and, inquiring for the student Gerbert, presented him with the Emperor Otho's nomination to the Abbacy of Bobbio, in consideration, said the document, of his virtue and learning, well-nigh miraculous in one so young. Such messengers were frequent visitors during Gerbert's prosperous career. Abbot, bishop, archbishop, cardinal, he was ultimately enthroned Pope on April 2, 999, and assumed the appellation of Silvester the Second. It was then a general belief that the world would come to an end in the following year, a catastrophe which to many seemed the more imminent from the election of a chief pastor whose celebrity as a theologian, though not inconsiderable, by no means equalled his reputation as a necromancer.

Edgar Allan Poe: Thou Art the Man

I WILL now play the Oedipus to the Rattleborough enigma. I will expound to you-as I alone can-the secret of the enginery that effected the Rattleborough miracle-the one, the true, the admitted, the undisputed, the indisputable miracle, which put a definite end to infidelity among the Rattleburghers and converted to the orthodoxy of the grandames all the carnal-minded who had ventured to be sceptical before.

This event-which I should be sorry to discuss in a tone of unsuitable levity-occurred in the summer of 18-. Mr. Barnabas Shuttleworthy-one of the wealthiest and most respectable citizens of the borough-had been missing for several days under circumstances which gave rise to suspicion of foul play. Mr. Shuttleworthy had set out from Rattleborough very early one Saturday morning, on horseback, with the avowed intention of proceeding to the city of-, about fifteen miles distant, and of returning the night of the same day. Two hours after his departure, however, his horse returned without him, and without the saddle-bags which had been strapped on his back at starting. The animal was wounded, too, and covered with mud. These circumstances naturally gave rise to much alarm among the friends of the missing man; and when it was found, on Sunday morning, that he had not yet made his appearance, the whole borough arose en masse to go and look for his body.

The foremost and most energetic in instituting this search was the bosom friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy-a Mr. Charles Goodfellow, or, as he was universally called, "Charley Goodfellow," or "Old Charley Goodfellow." Now, whether it is a marvellous coincidence, or whether it is that the name itself has an imperceptible effect upon the character, I have never yet been able to ascertain; but the fact is unquestionable, that there never yet was any person named Charles who was not an open, manly, honest, good-natured, and frank-hearted fellow, with a rich, clear voice, that did you good to hear it, and an eye that looked you always straight in the face, as much as to say: "I have a clear conscience myself, am afraid of no man, and am altogether above doing a mean action." And thus all the hearty, careless, "walking gentlemen" of the stage are very certain to be called Charles.

Laura Freixas: Final absurdo

Eran las ocho y media de la tarde, y el detective Lorenzo Fresnos estaba esperando una visita. Su secretaria acababa de marcharse; afuera había empezado a llover y Fresnos se aburría. Había dormido muy poco esa noche, y tenía la cabeza demasiado espesa para hacer nada de provecho durante la espera. Echó un vistazo a la biblioteca, legada por el anterior ocupante del despacho, y eligió un libro al azar. Se sentó en su sillón y empezó a leer, bostezando.

Le despertó un ruido seco: el libro había caído al suelo. Abrió los ojos con sobresalto y vio, sentada al otro lado de su escritorio, a una mujer de unos cuarenta años, de nariz afilada y mirada inquieta, con el pelo rojizo recogido en un moño. Al ver que se había despertado, ella le sonrió afablemente. Sus ojos, sin embargo, le escrutaban con ahínco.

Lorenzo Fresnos se sintió molesto. Le irritaba que la mujer hubiese entrado sin llamar, o que él no la hubiese oído, y que le hubiera estado espiando mientras dormía. Hubiera querido decir: «Encantado de conocerla, señora...» (era una primera visita) pero había olvidado el nombre que su secretaria le había apuntado en la agenda. Y ella ya había empezado a hablar.

—Cuánto me alegro de conocerle —estaba diciendo—. No sabe con qué impaciencia esperaba esta entrevista. ¿No me regateará el tiempo, verdad?

— Por supuesto, señora —replicó Fresnos, más bien seco. Algo, quizá la ansiedad que latía en su voz, o su tono demasiado íntimo, le había puesto en guardia—. Usted dirá.