Tales of Mystery and Imagination

Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu: House to let

For a long time I had been sick and my doctor advised me that it would do me well to spendmy convalescence in some calm and sunny small town of the southern French coast, moving awayfrom the humid and foggy climate of my native Irish town.

Nothing special retained me in Dublin: without being rich, I had some savings that allowedme to live with certain affluence. For a lot of time I had no family, for what I decided, once I feltwith enough strength, to go aboard a ship for Marseilles.

My manservant, named Jones, accompanied me in this trip. A former sergeant in the Duke of Wellington's Spanish Armada, was, by then, a thin old man; energetic and of about sixty years old. Iappreciated him a lot, not only for the devotion that he testified me but, also, for the numerousqualities that made him extremely valuable.

In Marseilles where we arrive at the beginning of the year 1840, they indicated me that therewas a house to let in a small town of fishermen on the Provence coast. They insisted in that it was avery beautiful place, of panoramic pleasant and wonderful climate. Since the rent was very cheap, Iwillingly accepted, modifying somehow the projects that I had of settling down near Naples. Dayslater we arrive at the small town of fishermen. The house, the real state agent told me when hehanded me the keys, had belonged during certain time to a celebrated French sailor, the bailío of Suffren.

Once the door was shut, Jones looked at me and he told me, abruptly, with that militaryfrankness so peculiar in him that I admired:

—Sir, I don't like this house at all.

I began to laugh and answered:

-What is wrong with it? For my part, I consider it charming, exquisitely furnished, welllocated and very sunny.

Jones shrugged his shoulders, grunted something that I didn't understand as he prepared tocarry our baggage upstairs. My new residence was composed of a lower plant, in which werelocated the lobby, the living room, the dining room and an office, and of an upper story whereinwere three bedrooms for the gentlefolk and two for the servants.

The real state agent had arranged with me that a woman villager would come to make thecleaning and prepare the food. I sat down in an armchair of the office and began to contemplate thesea through the window, while I dreamed about the happy days that I would enjoy during my stay inthat place so beautiful. Instants later someone called to the door.

ﻗﺎﻟﺖ ﺿﻔﺪﻋﺔ ﻟﺮﻓﻴﻘﺘﻬﺎ ﻓﻲ ﻳﻮم ﻣﻦ أﻳﺎم اﻟﺼﻴﻒ : " أﻧﺎ أﺧﺸﻰ أن ﻧﺰﻋﺞ أوﻟﺌﻚ اﻟﻘﻮم اﻟﻠﺬﻳﻦ ﻳﻘﻴﻤﻮن ﻓﻲ ذﻟﻚ اﻟﺒﻴﺖ ﻋﻠﻰ اﻟﺸﺎﻃﺊ، ﺑﺄﻏﺎﻧﻴﻨﺎ اﻟﻠﻴﻠﻴﺔ ".

ﺟﺎﺑﺖ رﻓﻴﻘﺘﻬﺎ ﻗﺎﺋﻠﺔ: " ﺣﺴﻦ! وﻟﻜﻦ أﻻ ﺗﺠﺪﻳﻦ أﻧﻬﻢ ﻳﻌﻜﺮون ﺻﻤﺘﻨﺎ أﺛﻨﺎء اﻟﻨﻬﺎر ﺑﺜﺮﺛﺮﺗﻬﻢ ؟"

ﻗﺎﻟﺖ اﻟﻀﻔﺪﻋﺔ : " ﻳﺠﺐ أن ﻻ ﻳﻐﺮب ﻋﻦ ﺑﺎﻟﻨﺎ أﻧﻨﺎ ﻧﻜﺜﺮ اﻟﻐﻨﺎء، وﻧﻐﻠﻮ ﻓﻲ اﻹﻛﺜﺎر ﻣﻨﻪ، أﺛﻨﺎء اﻟﻠﻴﻞ! ". ﻗﺎﻟﺖ رﻓﻴﻘﺘﻬﺎ : "و ﻳﺠﺐ أن ﻻ ﻳﻐﺮب ﻋﻦ ﺑﺎﻟﻨﺎ أﻧﻬﻢ ﻳﻜﺜﺮون اﻟﻀﺠﻴﺞ واﻟﺜﺮﺛﺮة، وﻳﻐﺎﻟﻮن ﻓﻲ اﻟﻠﻔﻆ أﺛﻨﺎء اﻟﻨﻬﺎر ".

ﻗﺎﻟﺖ اﻟﻀﻔﺪﻋﺔ: "ﻣﺎ اﻟﻘﻮل ﻓﻲ ﻓﺤﻞ اﻟﻀﻔﺎدع اﻟﺬي ﻳﺰﻋﺞ اﻟﺠﻴﺮان ﻛﻠﻬﻢ ﺑﻬﺪﻳﺮه اﻟﻤﺤﺮم؟ ". أﺟﺎﺑﺖ رﻓﻴﻘﺘﻬﺎ : "ﻧﻌﻢ! وﻣﺎ ﺗﻘﻮﻟﻴﻦ ﻓﻲ اﻟﺴﻴﺎﺳﻲ واﻟﻜﺎﻫﻦ واﻟﻌﺎﻟﻢ اﻟﺬﻳﻦ ﻳﺮﺗﺎدون ﻫﺬا اﻟﺸﺎﻃﺊ وﻳﻤﻸون اﻟﻬﻮاء ﺑﻀﻮﺿﺎء ﻻ روي ﻟﻬﺎ وﻻ إﻳﻘﺎﻋﺎً؟".

ﻗﺎﻟﺖ اﻟﻀﻔﺪﻋﺔ: " ﺣﺴﻦ! ﻓﻠﻨﻜﻦ أﻓﻀﻞ ﻣﻦ ﻫﺬه اﻟﻜﺎﺋﻨﺎت اﻟﺒﺸﺮﻳﺔ. ﻟﻨﻬﺪأ ﻓﻲ اﻟﻠﻴﻞ، وﻟﻨﺤﺘﻔﻆ ﺑﺄﻏﺎﻧﻴﻨﺎ ﻓﻲ ﻗﻠﻮﺑﻨﺎ، ﺣﺘﻰ وإن ﺗﺎق اﻟﻘﻤﺮ إﻟﻰ أﻧﻐﺎﻣﻨﺎ، وﺗﻄﻠﻌﺖ اﻟﻨﺠﻮم إﻟﻰ إﻳﻘﺎﻋﻨﺎ، ﻟﻨﺼﻤﺖ ﻟﻴﻠﺔ أو ﻟﻴﻠﺘﻴﻦ ﻋﻠﻰ اﻷﻗﻞ، وﺣﺘﻰ ﺛﻼث ﻟﻴﺎل ﻣﺘﻮاﻟﻴﺎت ". ﻗﺎﻟﺖ رﻓﻴﻘﺘﻬﺎ : " ﺣﺴﻦ ﺟﺪاً! أﻧﺎ أواﻓﻖ. وﺳﻨﺮى ﻣﺎ ﺳﻴﻨﺠﻢ ﻋﻦ ﻃﻴﺒﺔ ﻗﻠﺒﻚ ".

وﻣﺮت ﺗﻠﻚ اﻟﻠﻴﻠﺔ، واﻟﻀﻔﺎدع ﺻﺎﻣﺘﺔ، وﺻﻤﺘﺖ أﻳﻀﺎً ﻓﻲ اﻟﻠﻴﻠﺔ اﻟﺘﻲ ﺗﻠﺖ، ﺛﻢ ﻓﻲ اﻟﻠﻴﻠﺔ اﻟﺜﺎﻟﺜﺔ. وﻛﺎن أﻏﺮب ﻣﺎ ﺟﺮى أن اﻟﻤﺮأة اﻟﺜﺮﺛﺎرة اﻟﺘﻲ ﻛﺎﻧﺖ ﺗﻘﻴﻢ ﻓﻲ اﻟﺒﻴﺖ اﻟﻘﺎﺋﻢ ﺑﺠﺎﻧﺐ اﻟﺒﺤﻴﺮة، ﻧﺰﻟﺖ ﻓﻲ اﻟﻴﻮم اﻟﺜﺎﻟﺚ ﺗﺘﻨﺎول ﻓﻄﻮرﻫﺎ، وﺻﺎﺣﺖ ﻟﺰوﺟﻬﺎ : " وﻣﺮت اﻟﻠﻴﺎﻟﻲ اﻟﺜﻼث اﻟﻤﺎﺿﻴﺔ ﻟﻢ أذق ﺧﻼﻟﻬﺎ ﻃﻌﻢ اﻟﻨﻮم، ﻟﻘﺪ ﻛﻨﺖ أﻏﻔﻮ ﻋﻠﻰ ﻧﻘﻴﻖ اﻟﻀﻔﺎدع وﻻ ﺑﺪ ﻣﻦ أن ﻳﻜﻮن ﻫﻨﺎﻟﻚ ﺷﻴﺊ ﻗﺪ ﺣﺪث، ﻓﺈﻧﻲ ﻟﻢ أﺳﻤﻊ ﻟﻬﺎ ﺻﻮﺗﺎً ﻣﻨﺬ ﻟﻴﺎل ٍ ﺛﻼث، وﻳﻜﺎد ﺟﻨﻮﻧﻲ ﻳﺠﻦ ﻣﻦ اﻷرق ".

ﺳﻤﻌﺖ اﻟﻀﻔﺪﻋﺔ ﻫﺬا اﻟﻜﻼم، ودارت ﻧﺤﻮ رﻓﻴﻘﺘﻬﺎ، وﻗﺎﻟﺖ وﻫﻲ ﺗﻐﻤﺰ ﺑﻄﺮف ﻋﻴﻨﻬﺎ : "و ﻧﺤﻦ ﻛﺪﻧﺎ ﻧﺠﻦ ﻣﻦ اﻟﺼﻤﺖ. أﻟﻢ ﺗﻜﺪ ﻧﺠﻦ ؟". أﺟﺎﺑﺖ رﻓﻴﻘﺘﻬﺎ : " أﺟﻞ! ﻛﺎن ﺻﻤﺖ اﻟﻠﻴﻞ ﺛﻘﻴﻼً ﻋﻠﻴﻨﺎ. وﻗﺪ أﺻﺒﺢ ﻓﻲ ﻣﺴﺘﻄﺎﻋﻲ اﻵن أن أدرك أن ﻻ ﺣﺎﺟﺔ ﺑﻨﺎ إﻟﻰ اﻻﻧﻘﻄﺎع ﻋﻦ اﻟﻐﻨﺎء، ﺗﺮﻓﻴﻬﺎً ﻋﻦ أوﻟﺌﻚ اﻟﺬﻳﻦ ﻳﻤﻸون ﻓﺮاغ ﻧﻔﻮﺳﻬﻢ ﺑﺎﻟﻀﺠﻴﺞ ".

Cavan Scott - Mark Wright: Doctor Who: The Feast of the Stone

The scream had sliced through the silence like a knife through flesh. As the vibrations echoed from crag to crag, something deep within stirred, its sleep disturbed. Yet it couldn't sleep now. A scream hadn't been heard here for centuries, and the cries of the past had never sounded like that. That had been a bellow, a roar as if the very fabric of reality had been ripped apart, not the shriek of a terrified child. And the cave wasn't empty any more. Dust that had lain for eons had been displaced by the arrival of a tall, blue box, dancing in the light from the fiery beacon that pulsed atop the structure. The low, resonating hum that cocooned the box was fascinating, and the something deep within reached out, only to find its consciousness touched, pricked by another presence. A presence the like of which it had never felt before. A presence it found appealing.

Something deep within awoke and felt the hunger gnawing

The TARDIS door slammed, leaving the Doctor standing alone, staring out into the vast darkness that lay beyond. He stepped forward, footsteps echoing away into nothing. The chamber he was in must be enormous.

He sniffed the air as he walked forward a few more feet. "Rank," he said to himself, coming to a stop at a sheer rock wall. "Nobody's been in here for centuries." He ran his hand down the wall, feeling the grain. It was warm and wet.

The Doctor looked back towards the TARDIS and sighed.

"I guess I'd better go after him," Alison said, to break the awkward silence. The Master stood opposite, arms folded.

"Well," he shrugged, "I can hardly do that, can I my dear?"

Alison moved to grab her jacket from the back of an armchair. "Do you think I should apologise to him then?"

"And now we add guidance counsellor to my ever growing list of new duties." The Master placed both hands wearily against the controls. "Miss Cheney, you will do what you will do." He flicked a switch and the doors swung open. Alison said nothing. Instead she turned and walked the length of the control chamber and disappeared into the square of darkness framed by the doors.

El Consejo del Mundo Humano avanzó por la Catedral, rodeando las capillas cerradas que guardaban celosamente con rejas oxidadas su interior oscuro y vacío de sacras figuras. Las vidrieras en lo alto habían sido, o bien sustituidas por cristal de rubí veteado, o bien teñidas de sangre fresca. La última posibilidad aguijoneó algunos estómagos y apartó rápidamente algunas miradas demasiado atrevidas. El grupo se deslizó un poco más rápido.

El gran órgano comenzó a quejarse cuando las figuras se apresuraron bajo él. Sus lamentos vibraron dentro de los oídos, en los pulmones agitados, bajo las pieles, recorrieron el trayecto hacia los nodos del árbol del miedo. El sonido de metal sincronizó con las redes nerviosas y aumentó las señales de histeria que habían comenzado a producir. Nadie pulsaba el teclado del órgano ni manipulaba sus registros. Ellos lo sabían.

Bailaba arriba y abajo la mancha oscura de los ropajes del Chambelán, encabezando el grupo, rozando desagradablemente el suelo descarnado. De vez en cuando saltaba torpe alguna de las pulidas losas de mármol negro que habían sobrevivido al saqueo, jadeando baboso al caer. Casi nunca miraba hacia atrás. Se le agradecía. Su rostro de lepra permanecía oculto bajo la capucha manchada de putridez.

El Consejo del Mundo Humano avanzó por la Catedral hasta llegar frente al altar, que ahora era el trono dorado de la Emperatriz, y continuó observando, pues poco más podía hacer.

El mantel blanco yacía sobre los brazos del supremo asiento. Una estola trazaba su franja púrpura sobre la perfecta palidez, acariciando el suelo polvoriento con sus flecos rubios. Los símbolos circulares eran interrumpidos por uno de los hombros nacarados, hombros que no acusaban la respiración, hombros cubiertos de oro derretido uno, y de hostias enhebradas en cabellos azabache el otro, hombros que parecían no necesitar músculos para demostrar poder.

Sobre los hombros crecía la terrible belleza del cuello esbelto, el mentón aguzado, los labios sorprendentemente carnosos, la nariz fina, los ojos de plata o mar ensombrecidos por las cejas gruesas, los cabellos libres en su exagerada longitud, ocultando el resto.

El Consejo del Mundo Humano se detuvo frente a la Emperatriz, Magna Viperia Morphis. En ese momento se percataron del delicado e irreductible sabor del néctar de miedo.

—Su Majestad, el Consejo.

El Chambelán sorbió ruidosamente y se alejó del grupo, resquebrajando la única barrera que los había separado de la Dama. Pronto se hizo evidente que ni siquiera esa tenue membrana había llegado a ser real. Se hallaban en el reino de la ilusión, Imperio Víbora.

Far away in the deep heart of a lonely country there was an old solitary churchyard. People were no longer buried there, for it had fulfilled its mission long, long ago, and its rank grass now fed a few vagrant goats that clambered over its ruined wall and roamed through the sad wilderness of graves. It was bordered all round with willows and gloomy cypresses; and the rusty iron gate, seldom if ever opened, shrieked when the wind stirred it on its hinges as if some lost soul, condemned to wander in that desolate place forever, was shaking its bars and wailing at the terrible imprisonment.

In this churchyard there was one grave unlike all the rest. The stone which stood at the head bore no name, but instead the curious device, rudely sculptured of a sun uprising out of the sea.

The grave was very small and covered with a thick growth of dock and nettle, and one might tell by its size that it was that of a little child.

Not far from the old churchyard a young boy lived with his parents in a dreary cottage; he was a dreamy, dark-eyed boy, who never played with the children of the neighbourhood, but loved to wander in the fields and lie by the banks of rivers, watching the leaves fall and the waters ripple, and the lilies sway their white heads on the bosom of the current. It was no wonder that his life was solitary and sad, for his parents were wild, wicked people who drank and quarrelled all day and all night, and the noises of their quarrels where heard in calm summer nights by the neighbours that lived in the village under the brow of the hill.

They boy was terrified at all this hideous strife, and his young soul shrank within him when he heard the oaths and the blows echoing through the dreary cottage, so he used to fly out into the fields where everything looked so calm and pure, and talk with the lilies in a low voice as if they were his friends.

In this way he came to haunt the old churchyard, roaming through its half-buried headstones, and spelling out upon them the names of people that had gone from earth years and years ago.

Planejei miticulosamente o assassinato de Manoel Soares. Podia fazê-lo com as próprias mãos; preferi, porém, contratar um pistoleiro.

Para que Isabel não sofra, ou não sofra tanto, é imprescindível tirá-lo do caminho. Se eu próprio o matasse, o complexo de culpa iria atormentá-la, tornando impossível o grande e mais intenso amor de sua vida, fogo em que se tem consumido lentamente (emagrece e chora em silêncio, tem os olhos ardidos e o corpo trêmulo), e entre um gemido e outro de prazer eles haveriam de ouvir seu riso sarcástico e maldoso.

Mas pra eliminá-lo da face da terra, arrancá-lo da cidade como se fosse uma erva maldita, foi preciso antes que eu o odiasse. Por isso, dia após dia – somos colegas de repartição -, procurei descobrir nele atitudes dissimuladas, falsidades, orgulho, mesquinharias que dessem motivação para levar adiante o meu intento. O ódio foi se alimentando do conhecimento. Hoje pela manhã atingiu o limite máximo quando entreguei ao pistoleiro a quantia estipulada para o crime.

– Exatamente às vinte horas, todas às noites, ele sai de seu apartamento à rua G, prédio 203. Hoje é segunda-feira, portanto estará vestido de calça de linho branco, camisa azul-marinho e chapéu de feltro. Preste atenção ao chapéu. É um dos últimos homens a usá-lo nesta cidade. Atire assim que atravessar a porta de vidro do edifício.

O pistoleiro recuou e, sem dizer sequer uma palavra, saiu da sala.

Os muitos anos de convívio, e o plano longamente arquitetado, me possibilitaram conhecer todos os hábitos de Manoel Soares. Sim, não há possibilidade de engano. Exatamente às vinte horas estará na calçada, tirará o chapéu e baterá com a mão no feltro, como que a retirar o pó, olhará indeciso para ambos os lados e, enfim, optará pelo direito, caminhará quarenta e cinco minutos, ora fumando, ora assobiando uma velha canção portuguesa, e depois retornará ao apartamento. Suponho que antes de dormir mergulhe a dentadura postiça num copo d'água, displicentemente.

A Petrone le gustó el hotel Cervantes por razones que hubieran desagradado a otros. Era un hotel sombrío, tranquilo, casi desierto. Un conocido del momento se lo recomendó cuando cruzaba el río en el vapor de la carrera, diciéndole que estaba en la zona céntrica de Montevideo. Petrone aceptó una habitación con baño en el segundo piso, que daba directamente a la sala de recepción. Por el tablero de llaves en la portería supo que había poca gente en el hotel; las llaves estaban unidas a unos pesados discos de bronce con el número de habitación, inocente recurso de la gerencia para impedir que los clientes se las echaran al bolsillo.

El ascensor dejaba frente a la recepción, donde había un mostrador con los diarios del día y el tablero telefónico. Le bastaba caminar unos metros para llegar a la habitación. El agua salía hirviendo, y eso compensaba la falta de sol y de aire. En la habitación había una pequeña ventana que daba a la azotea del cine contiguo; a veces una paloma se paseaba por ahí. El cuarto de baño tenía una ventana más grande, que se habría tristemente a un muro y a un lejano pedazo de cielo, casi inútil. Los muebles eran buenos, había cajones y estantes de sobra. Y muchas perchas, cosa rara.

El gerente resultó ser un hombre alto y flaco, completamente calvo. Usaba anteojos con armazón de oro y hablaba con la voz fuerte y sonora de los uruguayos. Le dijo a Petrone que el segundo piso era muy tranquilo, y que en la única habitación contigua a la suya vivía una señora sola, empleada en alguna parte, que volvía al hotel a la caída de la noche. Petrone la encontró al día siguiente en el ascensor. Se dio cuenta de que era ella por el número de la llave que tenía en la palma de la mano, como si ofreciera una enorme moneda de oro. El portero tomó la llave y la de Petrone para colgarlas en el tablero, y se quedó hablando con la mujer sobre unas cartas. Petrone tuvo tiempo de ver que era todavía joven, insignificante, y que se vestía mal como todas las orientales.

El contrato con los fabricantes de mosaicos llevaría más o menos una semana. Por la tarde Petrone acomodó la ropa en el armario, ordenó sus papeles en la mesa, y después de bañarse salió a recorrer el centro mientras se hacía hora de ir al escritorio de los socios. El día se pasó en conversaciones, cortadas por un copetín en Pocitos y una cena en casa del socio principal. Cuando lo dejaron en el hotel era más de la una. Cansado, se acostó y se durmió en seguida. Al despertarse eran casi las nueve, y en esos primeros minutos en que todavía quedan las sobres de la noche y del sueño, pensó que en algún momento lo había fastidiado el llanto de una criatura. Antes de salir charló con el empleado que atendía la recepción y que hablaba con acento alemán. Mientras se informaba sobre líneas de ómnibus y nombres de calles, miraba distraído la enorme sala en cuyo extremo estaban la puerta de su habitación y la de la señora sola. Entre las dos puertas había un pedestal con una nefasta réplica de la Venus de Milo. Otra puerta, en la pared lateral daba a una salida con los infaltables sillones y revistas. Cuando el empleado y Petrone callaban el silencio del hotel parecía coagularse, caer como cenizas sobre los muebles y las baldosas. El ascensor resultaba casi estrepitoso, y lo mismo el ruido de las hojas de un diario o el raspar de un fósforo.

On the day Louis Steig received a call from his sister saying that their mother had collapsed and been admitted to a Denver hospital with a diagnosis of cancer, he promptly jumped into his Camaro, headed for Denver at high speed, hit a patch of black ice on the Boulder Turn-pike, flipped his car seven times, and ended up in a coma from a fractured skull and a severe concussion. He was unconscious for nine days. When he awoke he was told that a minute sliver of bone had actually penetrated the left frontal lobe of his brain. He remained hospitalized for eighteen more daysт-not even in the same hospital as his motherт-and when he left it was with a headache worse than anything he had ever imagined, blurred vision, word from the doctors that there was a serious chance that some brain damage had been suffered, and news from his sister that their mother's cancer was terminal and in its final stages.

The worst had not yet begun.

It was three more days before Louis was able to visit his mother. His headaches remained and his vision re-tained a slightly blurred qualityт-as with a television channel poorly tunedт-but the bouts of blinding pain and uncontrolled vomiting had passed. His sister Lee drove and his fiancee Debbie accompanied him on the twenty mile ride from Boulder to Denver General Hospital.

"She sleeps most of the time but it's mostly the drugs," said Lee. "They keep her heavily sedated. She probably won't recognize you even if she is awake." "I understand," said Louis.

"The doctors say that she must have felt the lump ... understood what the pain meant... for at least a year. If she had only ... It would have meant losing her breast even then, probably both of them, but they might have been able to..." Lee took a deep breath. "I was with her all morning. I just can't ... can't go back up there again today,

Louis. I hope you understand."

"Yes," said Louis.

"Do you want me to go in with you?" asked Debbie.

"No," said Louis.

En 2050 entré a la casa y la presencia de las moscas no podía más que predecir una desgracia. La puerta estaba abierta, pero el residuo de antiguas alegrías se había diluido como el sopor de la sopa lejana que era ahora el recuerdo de un vaho húmedo y musgoso. Sólo había cáscaras olvidadas por la Parca, que siempre recuerda. La que fuera una mano yacía despojada de sus nervios, de sus poros, de sus líneas premonitorias que acaso presagiaran mi presencia, la extinción del viejo y las moscas que sobrevolaban los huesos, tal vez hasta el anillo que jugaba en la falange, oscurecido a pura sombra. Las cerdas grises, largas y ralas, vueltas sobre sí, se escurrían sobre las baldosas también grises. Un libro de Anouilh hundía las costillas; recuerdo ese libro que aún no leí. Las moscas no tenían un pretexto salvo el cuchicheo, ningún propósito más que la curiosidad múltiple de sus múltiples ojos. La podredumbre había terminado años atrás, cuando la soledad del anciano empezó a disimularse en una masa quieta, primero esponjosa, brillante después y finalmente cenicienta y seca. Ni rastros de los sueños de aquel hombre ni trazas de sus trazos ni visos de su vicio; ninguna pista de la dicha de los posteriores gusanos, sólo la presunción de algunas bacterias inertes entre olores muertos. Y las moscas siguieron riendo mientras me iba, ignorando el veneno del futuro, diluido, sí, pero pronto a reunirse. Salí de mi casa y volví a 2010.

Algernon Blackwood: The sacriffice

Limasson was a religious man, though of what depth and quality were unknown, since no trial of ultimate severity hid yet tested him. An adherent of no particular creed, he yet had his gods; and his self-discipline was probably more rigorous than his friends conjectured. He was so reserved. Few guessed, perhaps, the desires conquered, the passions regulated, the inner tendencies trained and schooled—not by denying their expression, but by transmuting them chemically into nobler channels. He had in him the makings of an enthusiastic devotee, and might have become such but for two limitations that prevented. He loved his wealth, labouring increase it to the neglect of other interests; and, secondly, instead of following up one steady line of search, he scattered himself upon many picturesque theories, like an actor who ants to play all parts rather than concentrate on one. And the more picturesque the part, the more he was attracted. Thus, though he did his duty unshrinkingly and with a touch of love, he accused himself sometimes of merely gratifying a sensuous taste in spiritual sensations. There was this unbalance in him that argued want of depth.

As for his gods—in the end he discovered their reality by first doubting, then denying their existence.

It was this denial and doubt that restored them to their thrones, converting his dilettante skirmishes into genuine, deep belief; and the proof came to him one summer in early June when he was making ready to leave town for his annual month among the mountains.

With Limasson mountains, in some inexplicable sense, were a passion almost, and climbing so deep a pleasure that the ordinary scrambler hardly understood it. Grave as a kind of worship it was to him; the preparations for an ascent, the ascent itself in particular, involved a concentration that seemed symbolical as of a ritual. He not only loved the heights, the massive grandeur, the splendour of vast proportions blocked in space, but loved them with a respect that held a touch of awe. The emotion mountains stirred in him, one might say, was of that profound, incalculable kind that held kinship with his religious feelings, half realised though these were. His gods had their invisible thrones somewhere among the grim, forbidding heights. He prepared himself for this annual mountaineering with the same earnestness that a holy man might approach a solemn festival of his church.

And the impetus of his mind was running with big momentum in this direction, when there fell upon him, almost on the eve of starting, a swift series of disasters that shook his being to its last foundations, and left him stunned among the ruins. To describe these is unnecessary. People said, ‘One thing after another like that! What appalling luck! Poor wretch!’ then wondered, with the curiosity of children, how in the world he would take it. Due to no apparent fault of his own, these disasters were so sudden that life seemed in a moment shattered, and his interest in existence almost ceased. People shook their heads and thought of the emergency exit. But Limasson was too vital a man to dream of annihilation. Upon him it had a different effect—he turned and questioned what he called his gods. They did not answer or explain. For the first time in his life he doubted. A hair’s breadth beyond lay definite denial.

The ruin in which he sat, however, was not material; no man of his age, possessed of courage and a working scheme of life, would permit disaster of a material order to overwhelm him. It was collapse of a mental, spiritual kind, an assault upon the roots of character and temperament. Moral duties laid suddenly upon him threatened to crush. His personal existence was assailed, and apparently must end. He must spend the remainder of his life caring for others who were nothing to him. No outlet showed, no way of escape, so diabolically complete was the combination of events that rushed his inner trenches. His faith was shaken. A man can but endure so much, and remain human. For him the saturation point seemed reached. He experienced the spiritual equivalent of that physical numbness which supervenes when pain has touched the limit of endurance. He laughed, grew callous, then mocked his silent gods.

El fantasma amante de los récords se ejercitó en lograr el mayor número de apariciones en el menor tiempo… y cuando logró aparecer sesenta veces por minuto descubrió con terror que se había vuelto un hombre vivo.

Laurell K. Hamilton: The girl who was infatuated with death

IT was five days before Christmas, a quarter 'til midnight. I should have been a snooze in my bed dreaming of sugarplums, whatever the hell they were, but I wasn't. I was sitting across my desk sipping coffee and offering a box of Kleenexes to my client, Ms. Rhonda Mackenzie. She'd been crying for nearly the entire meeting, so that she'd wiped most of her careful eye makeup away, leaving her eyes pale and unfinished, younger, like what she must have looked like when she was in high school. The dark, perfect lipstick made the eyes look emptier, more vulnerable.

"I'm not usually like this, Ms. Blake. I am a very strong woman." Her voice took on a tone that said she believed this, and it might even be true. She raised those naked brown eyes to me and there was fierceness in them that might have made a weaker person flinch. Even I, tough-as-nails vampire-hunter that I am, had trouble meeting the rage in those eyes.

"It's alright, Ms. Mackenzie, you're not the first client that's cried. It's hard when you've lost someone."

She looked up startled. "I haven't lost anyone, not yet."

I sat my coffee cup back down without drinking from it and stared at her. "I'm an animator, Ms. Mackenzie. I raise the dead if the reason is good enough. I assumed this amount of grief was because you'd come to ask me to raise someone close to you."

She shook her head, her deep brown curls in disarray around her face as if she'd been running her hands through what was once a perfect perm. "My daughter, Amy, is very much alive and I want her to stay that way."

Now I was just plain confused. "I raise the dead and am a legal vampire executioner, Ms. Mackenzie. How do either of those jobs help you keep your daughter alive?"

"I want you to help me find her before she commits suicide."

I just stared at her, my face professionally blank, but inwardly, I was cursing my boss. He and I had had discussions about exactly what my job description was, and suicidal daughters weren't part of that description.

"Have you gone to the police?" I asked.

El siguiente en caer dentro de la zanja fue su hermano mayor. Ambos habían estado cenando con el resto de la familia hacía un rato, recordando trastadas de la niñez, y ahora gritaban al unísono con todas sus fuerzas mientras se dejaban las uñas escalando sin éxito la tierra húmeda, removida.

Un ruido les hizo girarse de golpe y descubrieron con horror a Coco, el caniche enano de su hermana. Lo habían lanzado dentro y el animal parecía malherido, temblaba de dolor.

Esto ya era demasiado. De acuerdo que era una broma original colocar un montón de hojas secas ocultando una zanja en mitad del jardín el Día de los Inocentes, pero el perro gemía inconsolable. Tenían que sacarlo de allí.

Estuvieron voceando durante horas, insultaron a toda la familia, uno por uno, acusándoles de tan macabra idea. Cuando nombraban a su hermana, y haciendo honor al rey de Roma, apareció al borde del agujero la menuda silueta de la pequeña de la familia.

Extendieron los brazos, atropellándose por ver quién era el primero en salir mientras ella estiraba su cuerpo todo lo que podía, y cuando ya casi rozaba las manos de sus hermanos alguien le propinó un puntapié en el trasero y fue a caer de cabeza al fondo del pozo.

I saw a month or two ago in an Italian paper that the Villa Cascana, in which I once stayed, had been pulled down, and that a manufactory of some sort was in process of erection on its site.

There is therefore no longer any reason for refraining from writing of those things which I myself saw (or imagined I saw) in a certain room and on a certain landing of the villa in question, nor from mentioning the circumstances which followed, which may or may not (according to the opinion of the reader) throw some light on or be somehow connected with this experience.

The Villa Cascana was in all ways but one a perfectly delightful house, yet, if it were standing now, nothing in the world — I use the phrase in its literal sense — would induce me to set foot in it again, for I believe it to have been haunted in a very terrible and practical manner.

Most ghosts, when all is said and done, do not do much harm; they may perhaps terrify, but the person whom they visit usually gets over their visitation. They may on the other hand be entirely friendly and beneficent. But the appearances in the Villa Cascana were not beneficent, and had they made their "visit" in a very slightly different manner, I do not suppose I should have got over it any more than Arthur Inglis did.

The house stood on an ilex-clad hill not far from Sestri di Levante on the Italian Riviera, looking out over the iridescent blues of that enchanted sea, while behind it rose the pale green chestnut woods that climb up the hillsides till they give place to the pines that, black in contrast with them, crown the slopes. All round it the garden in the luxuriance of mid-spring bloomed and was fragrant, and the scent of magnolia and rose, borne on the salt freshness of the winds from the sea, flowed like a stream through the cool vaulted rooms.

On the ground floor a broad pillared loggia ran round three sides of the house, the top of which formed a balcony for certain rooms of the first floor. The main staircase, broad and of grey marble steps, led up from the hall to the landing outside these rooms, which were three in number, namely, two big sitting-rooms and a bedroom arranged en suite. The latter was unoccupied, the sitting-rooms were in use. From these the main staircase was continued to the second floor, where were situated certain bedrooms, one of which I occupied, while from the other side of the first-floor landing some half-dozen steps led to another suite of rooms, where, at the time I am speaking of, Arthur Inglis, the artist, had his bedroom and studio. Thus the landing outside my bedroom at the top of the house commanded both the landing of the first floor and also the steps that led to Inglis' rooms. Jim Stanley and his wife, finally (whose guest I was), occupied rooms in another wing of the house, where also were the servants' quarters.