Hipólito G. Navarro: Meditación del vampiro

En el campo amanece siempre mucho más temprano.

Eso lo saben bien los mirlos.

Pero tiene que pasar un buen rato desde que surge la primera luz hasta que aparece definitivamente el sol. Manda siempre el astro en avanzadilla una difusa claridad para que vaya explorando el terreno palmo a palmo, para que le informe antes de posibles sobresaltos o altercados. Luego, cuando ya tiene constancia de que todo está en orden, tal como quedó en la tarde previa, se atreve por fin a salir. Su buen trabajo le cuesta después recoger toda la claridad que derramó primero. Por eso se ve obligado a subir tan alto antes de caer, para que le dé tiempo a absorber toda esa luz y no dejar ninguna descarriada cuando se vuelva a hundir por el oeste.

Luego en el campo, paradójicamente, se hace de noche también muy pronto.

Los mirlos apagan sus picos naranjas y se confunden con el paisaje.

Y agradecido yo, me descuelgo y salgo.

Lisa Morton: Children of the Long Night

Dracula finds himself ever more disgusted with humanity and what it is becoming...

“C’MON, TET, YOU know you can’t spend the night here.”

The ragged man in filthy combat fatigues looked up from under his thin stringy hair. His real name was John Douglas Black, but he’d earned his street name by begging passers-by to “spare some change for a vet, man, I was in the Tet Offensive, had the skin on my back torched by napalm.” Tet didn’t appear to have any war injuries, but, on the other hand, no one had ever seen his back, either.

Tet staggered to his feet, half-leaning against the wall beside him for support. The two beat cops eyed him with a mix of disgust and pity, then the female one leaped forward to steady him when he almost fell.

“You all right, Tet? We can take you to a clinic, get you some help ...”

Tet flinched away from her hand. “Already been. They couldn’t do shit for me.”

The cop reluctantly let her partner lead her back to their car, the game finished for tonight. It was always the same—they knew Tet was one of the harmless ones, didn’t really want to roust him, but if they didn’t some Yuppie on his busy way back from the video store would complain, then they’d have to arrest Tet. It was easier this way for everyone.

Except Tet really did need help. Something was wrong with him. Every morning he awoke feeling weaker, more feverish. He wondered if he’d caught some disease from a rat—there were bite marks on his wrists, small gaping pink spots standing out from the grime.

Tet reached the side street and turned the corner. There was an alley down here that was little more than a walkway and trash storage between buildings. Tet could store himself there with all the rest of the garbage and no one cared.

He stumbled past the first two dumpsters, then let himself collapse. He was almost asleep when he realized he wasn’t alone. He looked up blearily and made out a figure standing over him, a silhouette. Then the blackness was dropping beside Tet, and he heard a noise, a hideous noise like a cross between a guttural laugh and an animal snarl.

He realized he’d been hearing that sound every night for nearly a week.

Fernando Iwasaki: Monsieur le revenant

Todo comenzó viendo televisión hasta la medianoche, en uno de esos canales por cable que sólo pasan películas de terror de bajo presupuesto. Luego vinieron el desasosiego y los bares de mala muerte, las borracheras vertiginosas y las cofradías siniestras de la madrugada. Por eso perdí mi trabajo, porque dormía de día hasta resucitar en la noche, insomne y hambriento.

No es fácil convertirse en un trasnochador cuando toda la vida has disfrutado del sol y de los horarios comerciales, pero la noche tiene sus propias leyes y también sus negocios. Así caí en aquella mafia de hombres decadentes y mujeres fatales. Malditos sean.

Siempre regreso temeroso de las primeras luces del alba para desmoronarme en la cama, donde despierto anochecido y avergonzado sobre vómitos coagulados. Tengo mala cara. Me veo en el espejo y me provoca llorar. Lo del espejo es mentira. Lo de los crucifijos también.

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: God save the Queen: Capriccio Steampunk

En el vigésimo aniversario de la publicación de Anno Dracula,
bajo la amenaza hecha realidad,
como humilde homenaje al visionario Kim Newman

Bajo la luz artificial del inflexible farol, la muchacha ofrece mecánicamente el gesto lascivo tantas veces ensayado. Está tan desmejorada que no parece una cálida.

La respiración afanosa de la desventurada acaba en un gemido sofocado. El sonido del impasible metal marca el final del acto, íntimo y sórdido al tiempo: las escasas monedas rebotan contra el empedrado. Ruedan aquí y allá, produciendo un sumiso tintineo. Yace tendida en el suelo, ojerosa, demacrada: tan débil que apenas puede arrastrarse para recogerlas. A medida que él penetraba la carne, su menudo cuerpo iba resbalando sobre la pared del patio en el que desempeña con discreción su oficio. La mente se ha deslizado también: ahora reposa en una indulgente inconsciencia, un lugar en el que no debe preocuparse por el alquiler del cuarto compartido, ni por los chulos para los que son obediente rebaño. Ni siquiera, por los clientes que las ordeñan a su antojo. Los caballeros se adentran en el East End sólo para saciar su apetito.

El cielo del gueto hierve de rudimentarios ingenios voladores, de alas membranosas. Únicamente las gafas de visión nocturna evitan las colisiones. Funesta bandada eclipsa la pálida luna. Su sombra se proyecta amenazadora, avanza imparable. Aunque la clase humilde es prolífica, en pocos años esas criaturas desnutridas no podrán alimentar a los aristócratas y burgueses que viven de ellas, a los miles de devotos neonatos y a los pocos fríos antiguos ‒las ávidas sanguijuelas de rancio linaje‒.

Cuando la epidemia comenzó a extenderse, aceptó convertirse en hagiógrafo de los Padres Oscuros. Así logró eludir los campos para no bautizados. El escritor acelera el paso. Procura no mirar al cielo. Ni al suelo. Pero la tentación vence a la prudencia: los orificios en el cuello de la muchacha, unos ojos que se clavan en él acusadores, lo hipnotizan. Recuerda su Irlanda natal ‒abusada por los corsarios ingleses‒, los siniestros cuentos durante la eterna convalecencia infantil... Ahora los monstruos de su madre parecen seres inocentes. Es la era del hombre: ¡Dios salve a la reina!

Bram Stoker: Crooken Sands

Mr. Arthur Fernlee Markam, who took what was known as the Red House above the Mains of Crooken, was a London merchant, and being essentially a cockney, thought it necessary when he went for the summer holidays to Scotland to provide an entire rig-out as a Highland chieftain, as manifested in chromolithographs and on the music-hall stage. He had once seen in the Empire the Great Prince-"The Bounder King"-bring down the house by appearing as "The MacSlogan of that Ilk," and singing the celebrated Scotch song.

"There's naething like haggis to mak a mon dry!" and he had ever since preserved in his mind a faithful image of the picturesque and warlike appearance which he presented. Indeed, if the true inwardness of Mr. Markam's mind on the subject of his selection of Aberdeenshire as a summer resort were known, it would be found that in the foreground of the holiday locality which his fancy painted stalked the many hued figure of the MacSlogan of that Ilk. However, be this as it may, a very kind fortune-certainly so far as external beauty was concerned-led him to the choice of Crooken Bay. It is a lovely spot, between Aberdeen and Peterhead, just under the rock-bound headland whence the long, dangerous reefs known as The Spurs run out into the North Sea. Between this and the "Mains of Crooken"-a village sheltered by the northern cliffs-lies the deep bay, backed with a multitude of bent-grown dunes where the rabbits are to be found in thousands. Thus at either end of the bay is a rocky promontory, and when the dawn or the sunset falls on the rocks of red syenite the effect is very lovely. The bay itself is floored with level sand and the tide runs far out, leaving a smooth waste of hard sand on which are dotted here and there the stake nets and bag nets of the salmon fishers. At one end of the bay there is a little group or cluster of rocks whose heads are raised something above high water, except when in rough weather the waves come over them green. At low tide they are exposed down to sand level; and here is perhaps the only little bit of dangerous sand on this part of the eastern coast. Between the rocks, which are apart about some fifty feet, is a small quicksand, which, like the Goodwins, is dangerous only with the incoming tide. It extends outwards till it is lost in the sea, and inwards till it fades away in the hard sand of the upper beach. On the slope of the hill which rises beyond the dunes, midway between the Spurs and the Port of Crooken, is the Red House. It rises from the midst of a clump of fir-trees which protect it on three sides, leaving the whole sea front open. A trim, old-fashioned garden stretches down to the roadway, on crossing which a grassy path, which can be used for light vehicles, threads a way to the shore, winding amongst the sand hills.

When the Markam family arrived at the Red House after their thirty-six hours of pitching on the Aberdeen steamer Ban Righ from Blackwall, with the subsequent train to Yellon and drive of a dozen miles, they all agreed that they had never seen a more delightful spot. The general satisfaction was more marked as at that very time none of the family were, for several reasons, inclined to find favourable anything or any place over the Scottish border. Though the family was a large one, the prosperity of the business allowed them all sorts of personal luxuries, amongst which was a wide latitude in the way of dress. The frequency of the Markam girls' new frocks was a source of envy to their bosom friends and of joy to themselves.

Marcio Veloz Maggiolo: El soldado

Había perdido en la guerra brazos y piernas. Y allí estaba, colocado dentro de una bolsa con sólo la cabeza fuera. Los del hospital para veteranos le compadecían, mientras él, en su bolsa, pendía del techo y oscilaba como un péndulo medidor de tragedias. Pidió que lo declarasen muerto y su familia recibió, un mal día, el telegrama del Army: "Sargento James Tracy, Viet-Nam. Murió en combate".

El padre lloró amargamente y pensó para sí: "Hubiera yo preferido parirlo sin brazos ni piernas; así jamás habría tenido que ir a un campo de batalla".

Ambrose Bierce: The Man and the Snake

It is of veritabyll report, and attested of so many that there be nowe of wyse and learned none to gaynsaye it, that y'e serpente hys eye hath a magnetick propertie that whosoe falleth into its svasion is drawn forwards in despyte of his wille, and perisheth miserabyll by y'e creature hys byte.

Stretched at ease upon a sofa, in gown and slippers, Harker Brayton smiled as he read the foregoing sentence in old Morryster's Marvells of Science. "The only marvel in the matter," he said to himself, "is that the wise and learned in Morryster's day should have believed such nonsense as is rejected by most of even the ignorant in ours."

A train of reflection followed—for Brayton was a man of thought—and he unconsciously lowered his book without altering the direction of his eyes. As soon as the volume had gone below the line of sight, something in an obscure corner of the room recalled his attention to his surroundings. What he saw, in the shadow under his bed, was two small points of light, apparently about an inch apart. They might have been reflections of the gas jet above him, in metal nail heads; he gave them but little thought and resumed his reading. A moment later something—some impulse which it did not occur to him to analyze—impelled him to lower the book again and seek for what he saw before. The points of light were still there. They seemed to have become brighter than before, shining with a greenish lustre that he had not at first observed. He thought, too, that they might have moved a trifle—were somewhat nearer. They were still too much in shadow, however, to reveal their nature and origin to an indolent attention, and again he resumed his reading. Suddenly something in the text suggested a thought that made him start and drop the book for the third time to the side of the sofa, whence, escaping from his hand, it fell sprawling to the floor, back upward. Brayton, half-risen, was staring intently into the obscurity beneath the bed, where the points of light shone with, it seemed to him, an added fire. His attention was now fully aroused, his gaze eager and imperative. It disclosed, almost directly under the foot-rail of the bed, the coils of a large serpent—the points of light were its eyes! Its horrible head, thrust flatly forth from the innermost coil and resting upon the outermost, was directed straight toward him, the definition of the wide, brutal jaw and the idiot-like forehead serving to show the direction of its malevolent gaze. The eyes were no longer merely luminous points; they looked into his own with a meaning, a malign significance.

José Fernández del Vallado: La grieta

Un hombre viejo, en el campo, con la cabeza cubierta por un sombrero Panamá, avanza despacio, con un saco de esparto ceñido al cinto. Con sus manos rugosas toma la pértiga y bastonea el olivo para desbrozarlo. Las aceitunas verdes van cayendo como una fina lluvia de simiente. Se yergue y estira los brazos para restablecer el flujo sanguíneo. Al fondo está el cauce del río, seco, con los cantos rodados y pulidos, y al otro lado las quebradas, presidiendo el horizonte como yelmos roídos. Y detrás, una valla de alambre roñoso. Antes no había zonas acotadas sino campo abierto, y hombres que se batían palmo a palmo por una libertad bajo amenaza. Entrecierra los párpados y traga la poca saliva que le queda; una gota de sudor se desliza por su rostro y humedece y sala sus labios.

Comenzó a ver a su madre de tarde en tarde, le acariciaba la nuca y le pedía que saliera a saludar a los hombres. Pero él no quería ver a nadie, ni comer, ni moverse, sólo distinguía a los milicianos en la grieta, cercados por el ejército fascista, sudando, sabedores de que si los descubrían, estaban listos. “No hay grieta ni milicias, hijo”. Ella no los veía. Él sí: era estrecha, como la abertura de una cremallera. “Huid” les decía. “Escapad” suplicaba. Pero la noche caía como una tela de tul y allí permanecían, esperando a la muerte o al día siguiente. Cuando la fiebre lo dejó en un estado de letargo, apareció en la puerta de la habitación, casi translúcido, el padre. “¿Los ves?” le preguntó el viejo a su viejo. La madre contuvo un sollozo. Acarreó una silla y se sentó en silencio. El padre negó una vez; fue suficiente. De nuevo Navidad. Había pavo, confites y turrón de Mazarrón, bizcochos borrachos, y borrachos tambaleándose en las calles. Dentro, un viejo solitario.

Lo supo esa Navidad, no antes; el doctor vino a verlo. Lo hizo pasar a la cabaña. Se sentó frente a él en la hamaca, lo miró a la cara y pidió un vino tinto. El viejo empezó a contarle cosas del campo, cómo decaían los olivos. “Habrá que remover la tierra y dejar rastrojo. Mis padres me ayudarán…”

—No hay padres, Don Fabián —lo censuró el doctor—. Son irreales, visiones suyas. Como lo de la grieta. Vendrá conmigo al hospital.

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.