Ambrose Bierce: One summer night

The fact that Henry Armstrong was buried did not seem to him to prove that he was dead: he had always been a hard man to convince. That he really was buried, the testimony of his senses compelled him to admit. His posture -- flat upon his back, with his hands crossed upon his stomach and tied with something that he easily broke without profitably altering the situation -- the strict confinement of his entire person, the black darkness and profound silence, made a body of evidence impossible to controvert and he accepted it without cavil.

But dead -- no; he was only very, very ill. He had, withal, the invalid's apathy and did not greatly concern himself about the uncommon fate that had been allotted to him. No philosopher was he -- just a plain, commonplace person gifted, for the time being, with a pathological indifference: the organ that he feared consequences with was torpid. So, with no particular apprehension for his immediate future, he fell asleep and all was peace with Henry Armstrong.

But something was going on overhead. It was a dark summer night, shot through with infrequent shimmers of lightning silently firing a cloud lying low in the west and portending a storm. These brief, stammering illuminations brought out with ghastly distinctness the monuments and headstones of the cemetery and seemed to set them dancing. It was not a night in which any credible witness was likely to be straying about a cemetery, so the three men who were there, digging into the grave of Henry Armstrong, felt reasonably secure.

Two of them were young students from a medical college a few miles away; the third was a gigantic negro known as Jess. For many years Jess had been employed about the cemetery as a man-of-all-work and it was his favourite pleasantry that he knew 'every soul in the place.' From the nature of what he was now doing it was inferable that the place was not so populous as its register may have shown it to be.

Outside the wall, at the part of the grounds farthest from the public road, were a horse and a light wagon, waiting.

Alejandro Jodorowsky: Después de la guerra

El último ser humano vivo lanzó la última paletada de tierra sobre el último muerto. En ese instante mismo supo que era inmortal, porque la muerte sólo existe en la mirada del otro.

Howard Chaykin: I couldn’t believe

I couldn’t believe she’d shoot me.

Juan Benet: Fábula novena

El criado, en estado de intenso azoramiento, llegó al mediodía a casa de su amo, un rico comerciante, y con las siguientes palabras le vino a explicar el trance, por el que había pasado:

_Señor, esta mañana mientras paseaba por el mercado de telas para comprarme un nuevo sudario, me he topado con la Muerte, que me ha preguntado por ti. Me ha preguntado también si acostumbras a estar en casa por la tarde, pues en breve piensa hacerte una visita. He pensado, señor, si no será mejor que lo abandonemos todo y huyamos de esta casa a fin de que no nos pueda encontrar en el momento en que se le antoje.

El comerciante quedó muy pensativo.

_¿Te ha mirado a la cara, has visto sus ojos? _preguntó el comerciante, sin perder su habitual aplomo.

_No, señor. Llevaba la cara cubierta con un paño de hilo, bastante viejo por cierto.

_¿Y además se tapaba la boca con un pañuelo?

_Sí, señor. Era un pañuelo barato y bastante sucio, por cierto.

_Entonces no hay duda, es ella _dijo el comerciante, y tras recapacitar unos minutos añadió_: Escucha, no haremos nada de lo que dices; mañana volverás al mercado de telas y recorrerás los mismos almacenes y si te es dado encontrada en el mismo o parecido sitio procura saludada a fin de que te aborde. En modo alguno deberás sentirte amedrentado. Y si te aborda y pregunta por mí en los mismos o parecidos términos, le dirás que siempre estoy en casa a última hora de la tarde y que será un placer para mí recibida y agasajada como toda dama de alcurnia se merece.

Hízolo así el criado y al mediodía siguiente estaba de nuevo en casa de su amo, en un estado de irreprimible zozobra.

_Señor, de nuevo he encontrado a la Muerte en el mercado de telas y le he transmitido tu recado que, por lo que he podido observar, ha recibido con suma complacencia. Me ha confesado que suele ser recibida con tan poca alegría que nunca

Will McIntosh: Dry Bite

Josephine had been up all night, her heart pounding, thinking about this day, about whether she would survive it. Now, out on the road and exposed on all sides, she was so scared she could barely breathe.

“Down,” Bella hissed.

Josephine dropped into the weeds lining the road. She stayed perfectly still, except for her chest, which was rising and falling as quickly as a butterfly flapping its wings. Bella’s face was inches from hers, the barrel of her M16 between them. “On the hill,” she whispered. She moved her eyes to the right, to indicate direction.

Ever so slowly, Josephine lifted her head, looked past the brush and scattered trees toward the top of the hill.

There were five of them, just standing there, looking around as if they were out admiring the view. Two were men, or had been when they were alive. One had foot-long yellow spines where his fingers and toes had been. The back of his head was a huge bald dome. The other man was stretched, maybe eight feet tall, and most of his body was covered in thorns. The three women weren’t any easier to look at. At least, thank God, none of them had wings.

Josephine couldn’t help but study their faces. She’d lived in Burlington her entire life, so, often, she recognized someone among the stingers. They were never who she was looking for, though; never Stan or Michael.

And what if one time they were? Would that be a good thing? No, it would be a nightmare. Yet she couldn’t help looking.

One of the stingers squatted, grabbed some vines, and started sliding down the steep slope leading to the road. The others followed, their movements fluid, almost graceful.

“Shit,” Josephine whispered.

Bella looked up the hill. “I say we run for it. This isn’t great cover, and it’ll take them a few minutes to get down that slope, so we’ll have a head start.”

“Okay.” It wasn’t a hard decision; every cell in Josephine’s body was telling her to run.

José Luis Zárate: Declaración

...fui yo. ¿Quién más hay en esta maldita luna? Fue tan sencillo manipular los tanques de oxigeno. Ya no soportaba más, los silencios, los reproches, la feroz indiferencia, y cuando le pedía un poco de atención, un par de minutos de charla, siempre, siempre, se colocaba la dichosa escafandra, ponía una esclusa entre nosotros y antes de salir me dirigía las únicas palabras del día:

—¿Sabes? Necesito salir a tomar aire...

Dino Buzzati: Una cosa che comincia per elle

Arrivato al paese di Sisto e sceso alla solita locanda, dove soleva capitare due tre volte all'anno, Cristoforo Schroder, mercante in legnami, andò subito a letto, perché non si sentiva bene. Mandò poi a chiamare il medico dottor Lugosi, ch'egli conosceva da anni. Il medico venne e sembrò rimanere perplesso. Escluse che ci fossero cose gravi, si fece dare una bottiglietta di orina per esaminarla e promise di tornare il giorno stesso.

Il mattino dopo lo Schroder si sentiva molto meglio, tanto che volle alzarsi senza aspettare il dottore. In maniche di camicia stava facendosi la barba quando fu bussato all'uscio. Era il medico. Lo Schroder disse di entrare. " Sto benone stamattina" disse il mercante senza neppure voltarsi, continuando a radersi dinanzi allo specchio. " Grazie di essere venuto, ma adesso potete andare." "Che furia, che furia!" disse il medico, e poi fece un colpettino di tosse a esprimere un certo imbarazzo. " Sono qui con un amico, questa mattina. "

Lo Schroder si voltò e vide sulla soglia, di fianco al dottore, un signore sulla quarantina, solido, rossiccio in volto e piuttosto volgare, che sorrideva insinuante. Il mercante, uomo sempre soddisfatto di sé e solito a far da padrone, guardò seccato il medico con aria interrogativa.

"Un mio amico " ripeté il Lugosi " Don Valerio Melito. Più tardi dobbiamo andare insieme da un malato e così gli ho detto di accompagnarmi. "

" Servitor suo " fece lo Schroder freddamente. " Sedete, sedete."

" Tanto " proseguì il medico per giustificarsi maggiormente " oggi, a quanto pare, non c'è più bisogno di visita. Tutto bene, le orine. Solo vorrei farvi un piccolo salasso. "

" Un salasso? E perché un salasso? "

" Vi farà bene" spiegò il medico. " Vi sentirete un altro, dopo. Fa sempre bene ai temperamenti sanguigni. E poi è questione di due minuti. "

Così disse e trasse fuori dalla mantella un vasetto di vetro contenente tre sanguisughe. L'appoggiò ad un tavolo e aggiunse: " Mettetevene una per polso. Basta tenerle ferme un momento e si attaccano subito. E vi prego, di fare da voi. Cosa volete che vi dica? Da vent'anni che faccio il medico, non sono mai stato capace di prendere in mano una sanguisuga ".

" Date qua " disse lo Schroder con quella sua irritante aria di superiorità. Prese il vasetto, si sedette sul letto e si applicò ai polsi le due sanguisughe come se non avesse fatto altro in vita sua.

Intanto il visitatore estraneo, senza togliersi l'ampio mantello, aveva deposto sul tavolo il cappello e un pacchetto oblungo che mandò un rumore metallico. Lo Schroder notò, con un senso di vago malessere, che l'uomo si era seduto quasi sulla soglia come se gli premesse di stare lontano da lui.

" Don Valerio, voi non lo immaginate, ma vi conosce già " disse allo Schroder il medico, sedendosi pure lui, chissà perché, vicino alla porta.

Manuel Peyrou: La confesión

En la primavera de 1232, cerca de Aviñón, el caballero Gontran D'Orville mató por la espalda al odiado conde Geoffroy, señor del lugar. Inmediatamente confesó que había vengado una ofensa, pues su mujer lo engañaba con el Conde.

Lo sentenciaron a morir decapitado, y diez minutos antes de la ejecución le permitieron recibir a su mujer, en la celda.

-¿Por qué mentiste? -preguntó Giselle D'Orville-. ¿Por qué me llenas de vergüenza?

-Porque soy débil -repuso-. De este modo simplemente me cortarán la cabeza. Si hubiera confesado que lo maté porque era un tirano, primero me torturarían.

Alice Munro: Free radicals

At first, people kept phoning, to make sure that Nita was not too depressed, not too lonely, not eating too little or drinking too much. (She had been such a diligent wine drinker that many forgot that she was now forbidden to drink at all.) She held them off, without sounding nobly grief-stricken or unnaturally cheerful or absent-minded or confused. She said that she didn’t need groceries; she was working through what she had on hand. She had enough of her prescription pills and enough stamps for her thank-you notes.

Her closer friends probably suspected the truth—that she was not bothering to eat much and that she threw out any sympathy note she happened to get. She had not even informed the people who lived at a distance, to elicit such notes. Not Rich’s ex-wife in Arizona or his semi-estranged brother in Nova Scotia, though those two might have understood, perhaps better than the people near at hand, why she had proceeded with the non-funeral as she had done.

Rich had told her that he was going to the village, to the hardware store. It was around ten o’clock in the morning, and he had just started to paint the railing of the deck. That is, he’d been scraping it to prepare for the painting, and the old scraper had come apart in his hand.

She hadn’t had time to wonder about his being late. He’d died bent over the sidewalk sign that stood in front of the hardware store offering a discount on lawnmowers. He hadn’t even managed to get into the store. He’d been eighty-one years old and in fine health, aside from some deafness in his right ear. His doctor had checked him over only the week before. Nita was to learn that the recent checkup, the clean bill of health, cropped up in a surprising number of the sudden-death stories that she was now presented with. “You’d almost think that such visits ought to be avoided,” she’d said.

She should have spoken like this only to her close and fellow bad-mouthing friends, Virgie and Carol, women around her own age, which was sixty-two. Her younger friends found this sort of talk unseemly and evasive. At first, they had crowded in on Nita. They had not actually spoken of the grieving process, but she had been afraid that at any moment they might start.

Gabriel García Márquez: Diálogo del espejo

El hombre de la estancia anterior, después de haber dormido largas horas como un santo, ol­vidado de las preocupaciones y desasosiegos de la madrugada reciente, despertó cuando el día era alto y el rumor de la ciudad invadía —to­tal— el aire de la habitación entreabierta. De­bió pensar —de no habitarlo otro estado de alma— en la espesa preocupación de la muer­te, en su miedo redondo, en el pedazo de barro —arcilla de sí mismo— que tendría su her­mano debajo de la lengua. Pero el sol regocija do que clarificaba el jardín le desvió la atención hacia otra vida más ordinaria, más terre­nal y acaso menos verdadera que su tremenda existencia interior. Hacia su vida de hombre corriente, de animal cotidiano, que le hizo re­cordar —sin contar para ello con su sistema nervioso, con su hígado alterable— la irreme­diable imposibilidad de dormir como un bur­gués. Pensó —y había allí, por cierto, algo de matemática burguesa en el trabalenguas de ci­fras— en los rompecabezas financieros de la oficina.

Las ocho y doce. Definitivamente llegaré tar­de. Paseó la yema de los dedos por la mejilla. La piel áspera, sembrada de troncos retoñados, le dejó la impresión del pelo duro por las ante. nas digitales. Después, con la palma de la mano entreabierta, se palpó el rostro distraído, cuida­dosamente; con la serena tranquilidad del ciru­jano que conoce el núcleo del tumor, y de la superficie blanda fue surgiendo hacia adentro la dura sustancia de una verdad que, en oca­siones, le había blanqueado la angustia. Allí, bajo las yemas —y después de las yemas, hueso contra hueso—, su irrevocable condición ana­tómica había sepultado un orden de compues­tos, un apretado universo de tejidos, de mundos menores, que lo venían soportando, levantan. do su armadura carnal hacia una altura me­nos duradera que la natural y última posición de sus huesos.

Sí. Contra la almohada, hundida la cabeza en la blanda materia, tumbando el cuerpo sobre el reposo de sus órganos, la vida tenía un sabor horizontal, un mejor acomodamiento a sus pro­pios principios. Sabía que, con el esfuerzo mínimo de cerrar los párpados, esa larga, esa fati­gante tarea que le aguardaba empezaría a re­solverse en un clima descomplicado, sin com­promisos con el tiempo ni con el espacio: sin necesidad de que, al realizarla, esa aventura quí­mica que constituía su cuerpo sufriera el más ligero menoscabo. Por lo contrario, así, con los párpados cerrados, había una economía total de recursos vitales, una ausencia absoluta de or­gánicos desgastes. Su cuerpo, hundido en el agua de los sueños, podría moverse, vivir, evolucio­nar hacia otras formas existenciales en las que su mundo real tendría, para su necesidad ínti­ma, una idéntica densidad de emociones —si no mayor— con las que la necesidad de vivir que­daría completamente satisfecha sin detrimento de su integridad física. Sería —entonces— mu­cho más fácil la tarea de convivir con los seres, las cosas, actuando, sin embargo, en igual forma que en el mundo real. Las tareas de ra­surarse, de tomar el ómnibus, de resolver las ecuaciones de la oficina, serían simples y des­complicadas en su sueño, y le producirían, a la postre, la misma satisfacción interior.

Aidan Doyle: Ghost River Red

Akamiko arrived three days before the anniversary of the Lady of All Colors’ death. The village held a small market filled with stalls selling fish and vegetables, and a bathhouse stood by the river. It was hard to imagine the Lady of All Colors growing up here.

It was still too early to perform the ceremony, but Akamiko wanted to make sure she could find the grave. She started along the path leading to the village’s hilltop cemetery. She had only taken a few steps when a chill wrapped itself around her. The sun was strong in the sky, but the air grew cold enough that she could see her breath. She drew her red sword, but the chill did not dissipate. Specks of ice appeared at the tip of her blade and she backed away in surprise. The cold air did not relinquish its grasp until she left the path.

She had to learn what was wrong with the cemetery.

The younger villagers would still be at work in the fields. The bathhouse would give Akamiko a chance to talk to some of the village’s seniors. Secrets were harder to hide when you were naked.

Some villages had mixed bathing, but she was pleased this one had separate baths. She unstrapped the wooden frame she carried on her back. It held her seven swords and the urn with the Lady of All Colors’ ashes. She missed her full palette, but swordwriters were permitted to travel with at most seven swords. Red, green, blue, yellow, purple, orange, and white. Even swordwriters needed special permission to travel with a black blade.

A young attendant helped her store the swords and frame. She gave the girl double the fee. “Take good care of my swords,” she instructed.

The girl hesitated and then asked, “Are you a swordwriter?”

Marcelo Maluf: A Bruxa corsária

Não faz tanto tempo assim, vivia na pequena cidade de Oito Ruivos uma velha bruxa Corsária. A última de sua espécie, meio bruxa, meio pirata, filha do encontro de saqueadores portugueses dos oceanos com feiticeiras índias. Uma legítima bruxa brasileira. Corsária tinha um hobbie muito suspeito. Colecionava olhos de crianças. Não era à toa que Oito Ruivos também era conhecida como a cidade das crianças caolhas.

Qual era a finalidade de colecionar os olhos das crianças? Bem, uma coleção não tem uma razão específica, colecionamos por colecionar, para juntar num mesmo lugar objetos de que gostamos, para dizer que temos mais, para ficar olhando, para ter algo que é só nosso etc. Mas no caso da bruxa Corsária era diferente. Ela colecionava os olhos para ver o futuro neles. Eram como bolas de cristal ─ só as bruxas corsárias e os seus descendentes é que tem o dom de ver o futuro nos olhos – e não tinha que ser olho de criança, não, para a coisa dar certo. Mas essa Corsária, preferia que fosse. E não bastava só um olho, precisava de muitos.

Cada olho tinha um tempo de vida de no máximo cinco ou seis dias, e um tinha um jeito diferente de ver o futuro. A magia só funcionava se a criança ficasse com um olho, para que houvesse uma conexão entre o olho que estava com a bruxa e o olho da criança na hora de ler os destinos.

Por conta disso, poucas crianças com dois olhos ainda restavam na cidade. Entre elas estavam Fernando e Clarice. Duas criaturinhas minúsculas e magricelas, abandonadas, esfomeadas e sujas. Nunca tiveram notícias dos seus pais. Haviam se conhecido nas ruas da pequena cidade e dormiam numa carcaça de carro num terreno baldio. Sobreviviam graças à generosidade de alguns moradores.

A velha bruxa nunca quis saber dos olhos deles, pois “que futuro poderão me mostrar esses dois desamparados?”, ela pensava. Mas devido à escassez de olhos bons, os dois acabaram entrando na lista da Corsária, e logo ficaram sabendo da novidade:

─ E agora, Fernando, o que faremos? – Clarice estava desesperada.

Luis Mateo Díez: El sicario

Los datos estaban cambiados y maté a un hombre que no era el previsto. Estos trabajos tan rápidos, tan secretos, con frecuencia te llevan a cometer errores irremediables.

Recuerdo una lejana ocasión en que el error se repitió tres veces. Todas las víctimas me miraron con sorpresa y sólo la verdadera lo hizo con aplomo.

–Te esperaba –musitó cuando le clave el puñal.

Como siempre, cuando concluyo un trabajo, fui a emborracharme y días después, repuesto de la resaca, regresé a casa y encontré una carta remitida la misma fecha de la muerte.

–Te perdono por lo que vas a hacer –decía–, pero te maldigo por lo mal que lo has hecho. Un muerto que cuesta tres muertes no es un muerto inocente. Además de matarme me has hecho sentir culpable y profundamente desgraciado.

Henry Kuttner: I, the Vampire

1. Chevalier Futaine

The party was dull. I had come too early. There was a preview that night at Grauman’s Chinese, and few of the important guests would arrive until it was over. Jack Hardy, ace director at Summit Pictures, where I worked as assistant director, hadn’t arrived—yet—and he was the host. But Hardy had never been noted for punctuality.

I went out on the porch and leaned against a coctail and looking down at the lights of Hollywood. Hardy’s place was on the summit of a hill overlooking the film capital, near Falcon Lair, Valentino’s famous turreted castle. I shivered a little. Fog was sweeping in from Santa Monica, blotting out the lights to the west.

Jean Hubbard, who was an ingenue at Summit, came up beside me and took the glass out of my hand.

“Hello, Mart,” she said, sipping the liquor. “Where’ve you been?”

“Down with the Murder Desert troupe, on location in the Mojave,” I said. “Miss me, honey?” I drew her close.

She smiled up at me, her tilted eyebrows lending a touch of diablerie to the tanned, lovely face. I was going to marry Jean, but I wasn’t sure just when.

“Missed you lots,” she said, and held up her lips. I responded.

After a moment I said, “What’s this about the vampire man?”

She chuckled. “Oh, the Chevalier Futaine. Didn’t you read Lolly Parsons’, write-up in Script'? Jack Hardy picked him up last month in Europe. Silly rot. Bill it’s good publicity.”

“Three cheers for publicity,” I said. “Look what it did for Birth of a Nation. But where does the vampire angle come in?”

“Mystery man. Nobody can take a picture of him, scarcely anybody can meet him. Weird tales are told about his former life in Paris. Going to play in Jack , Red Thirst. The kind of build-up Universal gave Karloff for Frankenstein. Our Chevalier Futaine”—she rolled out the words with amused relish—“is probably a singing waiter from a Paris cafe. I haven’t seen him—but the deuce with him, anyway. Mart, I want you to do something for me. For Deming.”

“Hess Deming?” I raised my eyebrows in astonishment. Hess Deming, Summit’s biggest box-office star, whose wife, Sandra Colter, had died two day before. She, too, had been an actress, although never the great star her husband was. Hess loved her, I knew—and now I guessed what the trouble was. I said, “I noticed he was a bit wobbly.”

“He’ll kill himself,” Jean said, looking worried. “I—I feel responsible for him somehow, Mart. After all, he gave me my start at Summit. And he’s due for the DTs any time now.”