Fredric Brown: Naturally

Henry Blodgett looked at his wrist watch and saw that it was two o’clock in the morning. In despair, he slammed shut the textbook he’d been studying and let his head sink onto his arms on the table in front of him. He knew he’d never pass that examination tomorrow; the more he studied geometry the less he understood it. Mathematics in general had always been difficult for him and now he was finding that geometry was impossible for him to learn.

And if he flunked it, he was through with college; he’d flunked three other courses in his first two years and another failure this year would, under college rules, cause automatic expulsion.

He wanted that college degree badly too, since it was indispensable for the career he’d chosen and worked toward. Only a miracle could save him now.

He sat up suddenly as an idea struck him. Why not try magic? The occult had always interested him. He had books on it and he’d often read the simple instructions on how to conjure up a demon and make it obey his will. Up to now, he’d always figured that it was a bit risky and so had never actually tried it. But this was an emergency and might be worth the slight risk. Only through black magic could he suddenly become an expert in a subject that had always been difficult for him.

From the shelf he quickly took out his best book on black magic, found the right page and refreshed his memory on the few simple things he had to do.

Enthusiastically, he cleared the floor by pushing the furniture against the walls. He drew the pentagram figure on the carpet with chalk and stepped inside it. He then said the incantations.

José Vicente Ortuño: Mis vecinas

Vivo en un pueblo adosado al casco urbano de Valencia cuyo nombre, por seguridad, prefiero mantener en el anonimato. A poco de mudarme comencé a observar a dos mujeres que vivían frente a mi casa y que se comportaban de forma un tanto extravagante. En aquel momento no les di demasiada importancia, pero más tarde comencé a recelar de su comportamiento y acabé convencido de que escondían algo oscuro. Desgraciadamente estaba muy lejos de sospechar la auténtica verdad. Si entonces hubiese sabido la gravedad de lo que se desarrollaba tan cerca de mí, tal vez habría actuado de otra forma. Pero de haber contado a alguien mis sospechas, nadie me hubiese creído y habría hecho el ridículo más espantoso. Pero mejor empezaré por el principio.

Por la edad que representaban parecían ser madre e hija y el parecido entre ellas no dejaba ninguna duda al respecto. Las dos eran muy delgadas, tenían la nariz prominente, los ojos azules y medían un metro cuarenta aproximadamente. Llevaban siempre el pelo muy corto. Vestían ropas disparejas de colores muy chillones y se adornaban con sombreros, bolsos o pañuelos estrafalarios. Para cualquier observador habrían pasado por un par de chifladas con síndrome de Diógenes. Como ya he dicho, al verlas la primera vez no les di importancia, pero tuve un presentimiento extraño que me hizo observarlas cuando me cruzaba con ellas, o al verlas pasar bajo mi balcón. Mis recelos aumentaron cuando comencé a coincidir con ellas en la calle al salir a trabajar muy temprano o cuando volvía a casa de madrugada. Observé que dibujaban un itinerario extraño, como si realizasen un ritual arcano. Cada noche salían y recorrían las calles parloteando en una jerga extraña, sin ropas de abrigo, a pesar de las inclemencias del húmedo invierno valenciano. A veces una de ellas se quedaba parada en una esquina mirando al infinito, mientras tanto la otra se iba hacia la siguiente y hacía lo mismo; después se hablaban a gritos de esquina a esquina. Las conversaciones parecían ser en castellano, pero nunca fui capaz de comprender lo que decían. Daba la impresión de que esperaban la llegada de alguien que, noche tras noche, no llegaba.

Durante el día también salían, paseaban por el barrio mirando escaparates, charlando o discutiendo entre ellas, como si fuesen dos vecinas más. La gente comentaba que eran dos locas y que su casa olía muy mal porque la tenían llena de trastos y basura.

Al verlas tan a menudo el presentimiento de que algo ominoso se cernía sobre nosotros se fue fortaleciendo. Poco a poco mis sospechas aumentaron y comencé a vigilarlas en secreto. Cuando me iba a trabajar salía un rato antes y me quedaba escondido escuchándolas, intentando comprender sus chácharas y anotando sus movimientos, a fin de encontrarle sentido a sus idas y venidas por las calles. Al poco tiempo creí descubrir su estrategia, un plan sutil y probablemente despiadado. Fui madurando la teoría de que eran dos brujas y que realizaban encantamientos malignos. Me las imaginaba añadiendo exóticos ingredientes a una gran olla hirviente, tal vez preparando una poción maligna para hechizar niños incautos y atraerlos a su guarida para devorarlos vivos. Según leí una vez, se puede distinguir a una bruja por una marca que llevan en un ojo, pero no me atreví a acercarme tanto como para comprobarlo. Todo eso me preocupaba tanto que comencé a padecer insomnio.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft: The cats of Ulthar

It is said that in Ulthar, which lies beyond the river Skai, no man may kill a cat; and this I can verily believe as I gaze upon him who sitteth purring before the fire. For the cat is cryptic, and close to strange things which men cannot see. He is the soul of antique Aegyptus, and bearer of tales from forgotten cities in Meroe and Ophir. He is the kin of the jungle’s lords, and heir to the secrets of hoary and sinister Africa. The Sphinx is his cousin, and he speaks her language; but he is more ancient than the Sphinx, and remembers that which she hath forgotten.

In Ulthar, before ever the burgesses forbade the killing of cats, there dwelt an old cotter and his wife who delighted to trap and slay the cats of their neighbors. Why they did this I know not; save that many hate the voice of the cat in the night, and take it ill that cats should run stealthily about yards and gardens at twilight. But whatever the reason, this old man and woman took pleasure in trapping and slaying every cat which came near to their hovel; and from some of the sounds heard after dark, many villagers fancied that the manner of slaying was exceedingly peculiar. But the villagers did not discuss such things with the old man and his wife; because of the habitual expression on the withered faces of the two, and because their cottage was so small and so darkly hidden under spreading oaks at the back of a neglected yard. In truth, much as the owners of cats hated these odd folk, they feared them more; and instead of berating them as brutal assassins, merely took care that no cherished pet or mouser should stray toward the remote hovel under the dark trees. When through some unavoidable oversight a cat was missed, and sounds heard after dark, the loser would lament impotently; or console himself by thanking Fate that it was not one of his children who had thus vanished. For the people of Ulthar were simple, and knew not whence it is all cats first came.

One day a caravan of strange wanderers from the South entered the narrow cobbled streets of Ulthar. Dark wanderers they were, and unlike the other roving folk who passed through the village twice every year. In the market-place they told fortunes for silver, and bought gay beads from the merchants. What was the land of these wanderers none could tell; but it was seen that they were given to strange prayers, and that they had painted on the sides of their wagons strange figures with human bodies and the heads of cats, hawks, rams and lions. And the leader of the caravan wore a headdress with two horns and a curious disk betwixt the horns.

Arturo Ledrado: Premeditación y alevosía

Cuando salió del bar, llovía copiosamente. Sonrió

Al menos hoy al llegar a casa podrá anotar en su diario dos hechos. El primero- a título informativo-, la sorpresiva lluvia. (Ciertos meteoros dan mucho de sí: los reflejos sobre el asfalto mojado; el ruido de los canalones; las carreras de los transeúntes en busca de un taxi; el mendigo de la Plaza de santa Ana, cubierto con un plástico transparente). Nada como la lluvia para exaltar la metáfora.

La segunda anotación, escrita por supuesto, requerirá para su redacción un tacto especial y no más de cinco o seis palabras. Los detalles habrán de recuperarlos otros. A él le basta con marcar el suceso: “Esta tarde he asesinado a Laura”.

Después, una cena ligera y un libro.

Sonrió mientras bajaba muy despacio la escalera del aparcamiento.

Poppy Z. Brite: Oh Death, where is thy spatula ?

The main thing you need to know about me is that I love eating more than anything else in the world. More than sex, more than tropical vacations, more than reading, more than any drug I’ve ever tried. I’m not fat—I’m actually quite slender—but I can’t take credit for any kind of willpower or exercise regimen. The truth is, I’m not fat because I only finish eating things that are really, really good, and there just aren’t that many of them in my opinion. I love eating, as I say, but I’m picky as hell. A French pastry, ethereal manifestation of butter, custard, and chocolate, designed like a little piece of modern architecture? I’m there. A slice of cold pizza? I might nibble at it until my hunger headache goes away, but no more.

So, for the tale I’m about to relate, this food-love is the central fact of my being. I have a job (coroner of New Orleans), five purebred Oriental Shorthair cats, a mixed-breed husband (Irish and Jewish; wire-haired; his name is Reginald, but I never thought that suited him, so I call him Seymour), a house, and a hell of a lot of books, but none of that is terribly important here. What’s important is that you understand how much I love to eat.

All right—the fact that I am the coroner of New Orleans is somewhat important too, but I don’t want to put you off right away. Just store that information for future reference.

People think New Orleans is a world-class food city. Possibly it is, but only in a very narrow sense. There’s a saying that we have a lot of great food but only about five recipes. Gumbo—etouffee—jambalaya—oysters Rockefeller—and I don’t even know what the fifth one is supposed to be. Maybe breaded, deep-fried seafood, because we certainly have plenty of that. I see arteries full of it on my tables every day.

Perhaps I’m being unfair. There are, in fact, a lot of good restaurants here. But most of them … well, did you ever see that episode of “Frasier” where Frasier asks Niles, “What’s the one thing better than a flawless meal?” and Niles answers, “A great meal with one tiny flaw we can pick at all night”? Most of the places here are like that, except the flaws aren’t tiny. I can easily think of twenty places with excellent appetizers, terrific entrees, and dessert lists dull enough to plunge me into despair (apple tart, bread pudding, the eternal Death By Chocolate). There’s a good French restaurant on Magazine Street where, even though I always pay with my credit card, the waiters refuse to acknowledge my existence—“May I clear that for you, sir?” they say, gazing lovingly at Seymour as they whisk away my salad plate. There’s a simple neighborhood place where they used to have perfect fried chicken livers, but they hired a new fry cook, and now (no matter how I beg) the lovely little livers resemble nothing so much as deep-fried pencil erasers. I don’t even want to talk about who and what you have to know to get a decent meal at the old-line venues like Antoine’s.

Leopoldo Berdella de la Espriella: Las manos

Cinco, diez, doce, muchos días —no recordaba cuántos, puesto que ya no tenía memoria sino para su propio miedo—, llevaba en el mismo trajín. Dos manos misteriosas salían intempestivamente de la penumbra de su habitación, y trataban de estrangularlo. Cuando ya toda resistencia le parecía inútil y empezaba a experimentar los primeros síntomas de asfixia, accionaba el interruptor. Un calor desconocido lo empapaba entonces desde la mollera hasta el último recoveco de su existencia, sumiéndolo en la incertidumbre y el desconcierto.

Esa noche, preocupado, se propuso sorprenderlas. Bebió agua de azúcar y masticó hojitas tiernas de toronjil para reforzar el sueño, leyó las dos primeras páginas de la primera parte de El extranjero de Camus, apagó la luz, y se acostó con la última campanada de las once. Al rato, cuando ya el mundo era silencio, cantos de pájaros nocturnos y ruidos esporádicos de grillos y de sapos, sintió que las manos se acercaban decididas, apartando recuerdos que él mismo había repartido durante mucho tiempo en cuotas mínimas de miedo por el cielo raso y las hendiduras en las paredes, el piso de las tablas y los rincones más oscuros de la habitación.

Fuertemente, con el terror convertido en un coraje sin precedentes, agarró las manos asesinas por las muñecas, y las inmovilizó en el aire. Forcejeó, luchó, jadeó. Y maldijo. Poco después, cuando creyó haberlas dominado, trató de soltarlas con brusquedad para buscar el interruptor, pero sus manos estaban tensas, inmóviles, intentando zafarse a toda costa de una fuerza extraña que no les permitía acercarse a su garganta.

Janet Asimov: Another Alice Universe

I suspected nothing when Aunt Alice gave me one of her down coats, not even after I put it on, glanced into the hall mirror, and immediately felt dizzy. I didn't report this to my aunt, who was standing by looking slightly anxious, because I was afraid she'd stop me from going out.

The coat was white, with tight-fitting sleeves that puffed at the shoulder seams. The top was molded to the chest, but from the waist down it descended stiffly outward, for the down padding had been sewn into bulging horizontal rings.

"Thank you," I said, to be polite. "I won't be cold now."

Aunt Alice nodded. "You Californians always arrive during a Manhattan winter wearing only thin raincoats bought, no doubt, for those years your rainy season lives up to its name. This coat is warm, and you are so young that it doesn't make you look like the White Queen. In fact, it's probable that the coat won't give someone like you any trouble."

I didn't ask her to explain what she meant because Dad had warned me that his oldest sister—who has always been a bit strange, especially since she was widowed—was given to odd remarks that create suspense, perhaps because she makes a living writing peculiar novels.

Besides, I assumed she meant that the coat was lightweight enough to be carried easily, which I found to be the case as I went through various museums.

I also found it hard to concentrate on the museums, for I kept thinking about Aunt Alice and her mention of the White Queen. My aunt's real name is Alicia, but no one's called her that since childhood, when she had long, straight blonde hair like the girl in Lewis Carroll's book. I was named after her, and I also have long, straight blonde hair. But there, I used to think, the resemblance ended.

I have always prided myself on being as logically rational as my dad. We don't read much fiction. For us, down-to-earth reality is enough, and we always keep our cool.

That is, I did until a couple of months ago when I heard that my ex-boyfriend had married someone else. I guess Mom and Dad got tired of seeing me mope around the house, suffering over the permanence of my loss, and not getting at applications for business school. When Aunt Alice suggested that I visit her, my parents handed me an airline ticket and wished me well.

Víctor Miguel Gallardo Barragán: Lo que significa tu nombre

I.

Puedo saltar hacia el socavón de mi izquierda justo a tiempo. Evito la explosión, evito la mortífera metralla, pero no logro burlar a la muerte. Cuando vuelvo a mi posición, Toni no existe, y a Joseph le falta la mitad inferior de su cuerpo.

―¿Qué ha pasado? ―grita entre sollozos―. ¿Qué ha sido eso?

Pobre diablo. ¿Qué más te da? Estás muriéndote, Joseph. ¿Eres consciente de que te acaban de matar? Te quedan unos interminables minutos de vida, aunque eso puedo evitarlo también. Mi teniente se asoma por la galería, echa un vistazo, asiente y vuelve por donde ha venido; yo cojo mi pistola, remato a mi amigo muerto y sigo a mi oficial.

Las cosas no están demasiado bien tampoco en esta trinchera. Hay heridos apoyados en el parapeto, y el capellán castrense no sabe donde acudir primero. Un chaval de unos dieciséis llora junto a un cabo con barba al que le falta un ojo y parte de la cabeza. Franqueo el paso a un zapador cubierto de barro y desciendo a la sala (caverna) de oficiales. Mi teniente me ofrece una taza de café. Me siento en un banco de madera adosado a la pared.

―Bruselas ha caído ―dice el coronel Gianella, y a mí se me cae el mundo encima, por enésima vez en lo que va de semana. Caer significa dejar de existir, evaporarse: ellos no conquistan, sólo destruyen.

Mi teniente abofetea al teniente Gómez, que se ha puesto a llorar y a pedir clemencia a un enemigo imaginario que, en su cabeza, debe estar justo junto a Gianella. Le doy un sorbo a mi café.

―Bruselas ha caído ―repite el oficial al mando como un autómata. Noto un deje de melancolía en él. Ya está echando de menos la sede del gobierno, la academia de cadetes, el Hospital Militar Central, la cerveza de Deux Moulins y las fiestas de la primavera. Y los tulipanes de importación. Y los turistas franceses en pantalón corto.

―Qué haremos. ―No es una pregunta. El sargento Wilcox, mi camarada, el que desvirgó mi cerebro con sus drogas, nunca hace preguntas, se limita a obedecer. Sopesa un último momento su pitillera y la deja caer en su regazo. Yo vuelvo a concentrar mi atención aparente en el café, mientras pienso en el pobre Wilcox. Nadie puede ordenarle nada ahora. Nos han descabezado, y ninguno de los oficiales puede mandarle al frente, o a la retaguardia, o a cualquier otro sitio, con la conciencia tranquila ahora que no hay nadie arriba a quien obedecer, ahora que la guerra parece definitivamente perdida.

Ojalá nos obligaran a echarnos en el suelo y dejarnos morir. Wilcox lo haría con gusto, y yo también.

Mi café se ha acabado.

―La tropa aún sigue luchando ―comento, y mis palabras vienen de muy lejos. Es como si mi padre, allá en Granada, las hubiera dicho desde su sillón de orejas.

―La tropa seguirá luchando hasta que Mando Táctico diga lo contrario ―afirma el coronel―. Se ha trasladado a Le Havre. Esperaremos órdenes.

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.

Kahlil Gibran ( جبران خليل جبران ) : Frogs (اﻟﻀﻔﺎدع)

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.

Juan Antonio Fernández Madrigal: Magna Viperia Morphis (La disidente)

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.

Fitz-James O'Brien: The child who loved a tomb

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.

Charles Kiefer: O chapéu

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.