Howard Phillips Lovecraft: The Terrible Old Man

It was the design of Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva to call on the Terrible Old Man. This old man dwells all alone in a very ancient house on Water Street near the sea, and is reputed to be both exceedingly rich and exceedingly feeble; which forms a situation very attractive to men of the profession of Messrs. Ricci, Czanek, and Silva, for that profession was nothing less dignified than robbery.

The inhabitants of Kingsport say and think many things about the Terrible Old Man which generally keep him safe from the attention of gentlemen like Mr. Ricci and his colleagues, despite the almost certain fact that he hides a fortune of indefinite magnitude somewhere about his musty and venerable abode. He is, in truth, a very strange person, believed to have been a captain of East India clipper ships in his day; so old that no one can remember when he was young, and so taciturn that few know his real name. Among the gnarled trees in the front yard of his aged and neglected place he maintains a strange collection of large stones, oddly grouped and painted so that they resemble the idols in some obscure Eastern temple. This collection frightens away most of the small boys who love to taunt the Terrible Old Man about his long white hair and beard, or to break the small-paned windows of his dwelling with wicked missiles; but there are other things which frighten the older and more curious folk who sometimes steal up to the house to peer in through the dusty panes. These folk say that on a table in a bare room on the ground floor are many peculiar bottles, in each a small piece of lead suspended pendulum-wise from a string. And they say that the Terrible Old Man talks to these bottles, addressing them by such names as Jack, Scar-Face, Long Tom, Spanish Joe, Peters, and Mate Ellis, and that whenever he speaks to a bottle the little lead pendulum within makes certain definite vibrations as if in answer.

Those who have watched the tall, lean, Terrible Old Man in these peculiar conversations, do not watch him again. But Angelo Ricci and Joe Czanek and Manuel Silva were not of Kingsport blood; they were of that new and heterogeneous alien stock which lies outside the charmed circle of New England life and traditions, and they saw in the Terrible Old Man merely a tottering, almost helpless grey-beard, who could not walk without the aid of his knotted cane, and whose thin, weak hands shook pitifully. They were really quite sorry in their way for the lonely, unpopular old fellow, whom everybody shunned, and at whom all the dogs barked singularly. But business is business, and to a robber whose soul is in his profession, there is a lure and a challenge about a very old and very feeble man who has no account at the bank, and who pays for his few necessities at the village store with Spanish gold and silver minted two centuries ago.

Edgar Allan Poe: The Sphinx

DURING the dread reign of the Cholera in New York, I had accepted the invitation of a relative to spend a fortnight with him in the retirement of his cottage ornee on the banks of the Hudson. We had here around us all the ordinary means of summer amusement; and what with rambling in the woods, sketching, boating, fishing, bathing, music, and books, we should have passed the time pleasantly enough, but for the fearful intelligence which reached us every morning from the populous city. Not a day elapsed which did not bring us news of the decease of some acquaintance. Then as the fatality increased, we learned to expect daily the loss of some friend. At length we trembled at the approach of every messenger. The very air from the South seemed to us redolent with death. That palsying thought, indeed, took entire posession of my soul. I could neither speak, think, nor dream of any thing else. My host was of a less excitable temperament, and, although greatly depressed in spirits, exerted himself to sustain my own. His richly philosophical intellect was not at any time affected by unrealities. To the substances of terror he was sufficiently alive, but of its shadows he had no apprehension.

His endeavors to arouse me from the condition of abnormal gloom into which I had fAllan, were frustrated, in great measure, by certain volumes which I had found in his library. These were of a character to force into germination whatever seeds of hereditary superstition lay latent in my bosom. I had been reading these books without his knowledge, and thus he was often at a loss to account for the forcible impressions which had been made upon my fancy.

A favorite topic with me was the popular belief in omens-a belief which, at this one epoch of my life, I was almost seriously disposed to defend. On this subject we had long and animated discussions-he maintaining the utter groundlessness of faith in such matters,-I contending that a popular sentiment arising with absolute spontaneity- that is to say, without apparent traces of suggestion-had in itself the unmistakable elements of truth, and was entitled to as much respect as that intuition which is the idiosyncrasy of the individual man of genius.

Óscar Acosta: El vengador

El cacique Huantepeque asesinó a su hermano en la selva, lo quemó y guardó sus cenizas calientes en una vasija. Los dioses mayas le presagiaron que su hermano saldría de la tumba a vengarse, y el fratricida, temeroso, abrió dos años después el recipiente para asegurarse que los restos estaban allí. Un fuerte viento levantó las cenizas, cegándolo para siempre.

John Fante: Mama's dream

MAMA ANDRILLI SAT at the kitchen table preparing lunch. The hot white sun of the Sacramento Valley hurst into the room from the south windows

— big cascades of sunshine over the red linoleum floor where slept Papa's cats, Philomina and Costanza. Both were males, but Papa recognized only one sex in cats.

In less than an hour he would be home from work. Papa was seventy now, and worse than ever; except for a weakening of his eyes, he still laid brick and stone as fast as a young mason. But the years — no matter how blasphemous his denials

— had taken their toll, and by now Mama had given up all hope of a quiet old age.

When a man reaches seventy you would think he might mellow. But no: the past ten years, with their three sons married and gone, had been the worst. Now Papa would never soften and grow gentle. Until his last breath he would go raging and shouting, with Mama always there, patient to the end. It had been so for forty years, and now Mama was sixty-eight, with white hair and sometimes excruciating agony in her withered hands. Papa still had his red mustache and only traces of grey at his temples. He still pounded his chest with furious blows as he entreated God to strike him down and remove him from this valley of travail. Years ago, when she was young and strong, Mama took comfort in the thought that she would leave her noisy husband as soon as her children were grown. The notion was a tiny jewel she hoarded in secret. But it was lost now, misplaced in some teapot of the past, and Mama had forgotten it.

On the table stood a bowl of bell peppers, green and fat. Mama cut them into strips for frying and thought again of last night's dream. Papa had slept badly, his kidneys heckling him, tumbling him from bed half a dozen times. Naturally he blamed Mama. Not enough peppers in his diet. Papa was a sort of primitive medicine man with some ancient Italian notions about food. You ate fish for the brain, cheese for the teeth, eggplant for the blood, beans for the bowels, bread for the brawn, chicory for the nerves, garlic for purity, olive oil for strength, and peppers for the kidneys. Without these a man faced quick decay.

Javier García Sánchez: Duncan

Un día le contaron la historia de Duncan, y desde entonces vivió obsesionado. En cierto modo cambió su vida, aunque con frecuencia hablaría de ella en términos de fantasía, y a veces incluso de broma. Era la historia de alguien, un tal Duncan, que se tiró desde la azotea de un edificio con la intención de suicidarse, pero nunca llegó al suelo.

Años antes, el padre de Carlos entró cierta tarde en casa. Venía del trabajo. Entonces vivían en Madrid. Aquella tarde el padre dijo a su esposa nada más llegar: «Duncan se ha suicidado». Luego explicó los pormenores hasta donde él sabía. Al parecer, los hechos ocurrieron hacia media tarde. Duncan, como el padre de Carlos, trabajaba en una compañía norteamericana, unos grandes almacenes. Tenía un puesto importante, en concreto el de Gerente de Compras para España. Después de comer, Duncan llegó a los despachos situados en pleno Paseo de la Castellana. Fue hacia las tres y media, como todos los días, y al poco le dijo a su secretaria que pensaba acercarse hasta Coslada para supervisar perso-nalmente la llegada de cierto pedido procedente de la central de Chicago. En las oficinas se cruzó con varios ejecutivos y técnicos de la empresa, a los que saludó cor-tésmente, entre ellos el padre de Carlos. Después tomó su auto y, unos veinte minutos más tarde, llegó a esa zona periférica de la ciudad, no muy alejada del Aeropuerto de Barajas.

En el almacén de Coslada estuvo durante hora y media aproximadamente. Se mostró cordial con los empleados que había por allí, y también bastante ajetreado yendo de un sitio a otro. Incluso ayudó a descargar un material pesado. Fue hacia las cinco y cuarto cuando entró en uno de los despachos. Habían llamado por teléfono preguntando por él. Después se supo que se trataba de un hombre con acento inglés que se limitó a decir: «¿Mr. Duncan, por favor?» Duncan estuvo en aquel despacho apenas un minuto. Dos empleados pudieron observarle, serio el semblante pero en apariencia no especialmente preocupado. No hablaba, más bien parecía atender a lo que su interlocutor le decía. Sin embargo, otro empleado creyó oírle comentar una frase en inglés. La estructura acristalada de aquellos despachos permitía oír lo que se decía dentro si no sonaba ninguna máquina cerca, algo que era bastante usual.

Nathaniel Hawthorne: The Birth-mark

In the latter part of the last century there lived a man of science, an eminent proficient in every branch of natural philosophy, who not long before our story opens had made experience of a spiritual affinity more attractive than any chemical one. He had left his laboratory to the care of an assistant, cleared his fine countenance from the furnace smoke, washed the stain of acids from his fingers, and persuaded a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those days when the comparatively recent discovery of electricity and other kindred mysteries of Nature seemed to open paths into the region of miracle, it was not unusual for the love of science to rival the love of woman in its depth and absorbing energy. The higher intellect, the imagination, the spirit, and even the heart might all find their congenial aliment in pursuits which, as some of their ardent votaries believed, would ascend from one step of powerful intelligence to another, until the philosopher should lay his hand on the secret of creative force and perhaps make new worlds for himself. We know not whether Aylmer possessed this degree of faith in man's ultimate control over Nature. He had devoted himself, however, too unreservedly to scientific studies ever to be weaned from them by any second passion. His love for his young wife might prove the stronger of the two; but it could only be by intertwining itself with his love of science, and uniting the strength of the latter to his own.

Such a union accordingly took place, and was attended with truly remarkable consequences and a deeply impressive moral. One day, very soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his wife with a trouble in his countenance that grew stronger until he spoke.

"Georgiana," said he, "has it never occurred to you that the mark upon your cheek might be removed?"

"No, indeed," said she, smiling; but perceiving the seriousness of his manner, she blushed deeply. "To tell you the truth it has been so often called a charm that I was simple enough to imagine it might be so."

"Ah, upon another face perhaps it might," replied her husband; "but never on yours. No, dearest Georgiana, you came so nearly perfect from the hand of Nature that this slightest possible defect, which we hesitate whether to term a defect or a beauty, shocks me, as being the visible mark of earthly imperfection."

"Shocks you, my husband!" cried Georgiana, deeply hurt; at first reddening with momentary anger, but then bursting into tears. "Then why did you take me from my mother's side? You cannot love what shocks you!"

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.