Frederick George Loring: The Tomb of Sarah

My father was the head of a celebrated firm of church restorers and decorators about sixty years ago. He took a keen interest in his work, and made an especaal study of any old legends or family histories that came under his observation. He was necessarily very well read and thoroughly well posted in all questions of folklore and medieval legend. As he kept a careful record of every case he investigated the manuscripts he left at his death have a special interest. From amongst them I have selected the following, as being a particularly weird and extraordinary experience. In presenting it to the public I feel it is superfluous to apologize for its supernatural character.

MY FATHER'S DIARY

1841 .--June 17th. Received a commission from my old friend Peter Grant to enlarge and restore the chancel of his church at Hagarstone, in the wilds of the West Country.

July 5th. Went down to Hagarstone with my head man, Somers. A very long and tiring journey.

July 7th. Got the work well started. Be old church is one of special interest to the antiquarian, and I shall endeavour while restoring it to alter the existing arrangements as little as possible. One large tomb, however, must be moved bodily ten feet at least to the southward. Curiously enough, there is a somewhat forbidding inscription upon it in Latin, and I am sorry that this particular tomb should have to be moved. It stands amongst the graves of the Kenyons, an old family which has been extinct in these parts for centuries. The inscriptaon on it runs thus:

SARAH.

1630.

FOR THE SAKE OF THE DEAD AND THE WELFARE OF THE LIVING, LET THIS SEPULCHRE REMAIN UNTOUCHED AND ITS OCCUPANT UNDISTURBED TILL THE COMING OF CHRIST.

IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER, THE SON, AND THE HOLY GHOST.

July 8th. Took counsel with Grant concerning the 'Sarah Tomb'. We are both very loth to disturb it, but the ground has sunk so beneath it that the safety of the church is in danger; thus we have no choice. However, the work shall be done as reverently as possible under our own direction.

Grant says there is a legend in the neighbourhood that it is the tomb of the last of the Kenyons, the evil Countess Sarah, who was murdered in 1630. She lived quite alone in the old castle, whose ruins still stand three miles from here on the road to Bristol. Her reputation was an evil one even for those days. She was a witch or were-woman, the only companion of her solitude being a familiar in the shape of a huge Asiatic wolf. This creature was reputed to seize upon children, or failing these, sheep and other small animals, and convey them to the castle, where the Countess used to suck their blood. It was popularly supposed that she could never be killed. This, however, proved a fallacy, since she was strangled one day by a mad peasant woman who had lost two children, she declaring that they had both been seized and carried off by the Countess's familiar. This is a very interesting story, since it points to a local superstition very similar to that of the Vampire, existing in Slavonic and Hungarian Europe.

Israel Centeno: El dios de Livia

"Cantan en el retiro de la noche y
el sapo verdinegro danza en dos pies delante de una luna mortal".
El páramo, José Antonio Ramos Sucre.

Me he refugiado en el saber y así he perdido mi alma. Fui construyendo poco a poco una estructura flexible y vasta apuntalada por las ciencias y las artes. Hoy, deslindado en el mal, único lugar posible para la sublime práctica de la sensibilidad, cuestiono el saldo; la expulsión del mundo de mis semejantes, la certeza de no haber vivido y el desprecio hacia el otro, incapaz de reflejarme.

En Italia era un hombre ciertamente afortunado. Miembro de la casa de Saboya y primo del rey, copero de su majestad y caballero con derecho a estar cubierto delante de su alteza real; considerado emblema de hombría, portento de elegancia y buenos modales. Bien transcurría yo mis días en Florencia, exaltado por el portento de sus iglesias y disertando sobre las bellas artes o bien asistía en la escuela de medicina de Nápoles a la disección clandestina de cadáveres; así como también me perdía del mundo en las logias secretas y los tugurios de Roma tras la pista de los Césares abyectos, repitiendo sus desmanes.

Supe encontrar deleite en la lujuria, me asomé a los abismos de la perversión. Nada podía detenerme por entonces, pues era poseedor de una heredad que remontaba la historia. Sabio, culto, iniciado en las letras y la filosofía, no rendía cuenta a ningún mortal pues había traspasado las adyacencias de la medianía humana. Por aquellos tiempos, se sucedió en Roma una serie de asesinatos rituales en donde la víctima, luego de ser sometida a delicadas torturas, era desangrada y despellejada; su piel era expuesta al sol del día siguiente del sacrificio en las altas torres de las siete colinas. De inmediato, un edicto real dio inicio a las investigaciones.

Yo estaba en los arreglos palaciegos del protocolo para consumar mi casamiento con la Condesa X, la corte vivía un continuo sobresalto ante la inminencia de mi boda, las labores exigían llevarse a cabo con extrema pulcritud, ningún detalle debería manchar el acontecimiento. Mi primo, el rey en persona se encargó de la lista de invitados, de la regia iluminación del palacio y de la apertura de las fronteras.

Todo marchaba tal cual lo indicaba el ceremonial. Llegado el día de la boda, me enteré por mi mayordomo sobre los indicios incriminatorios manejados por la guardia de palacio sobre mis implicaciones en los últimos asesinatos. En ningún momento me dejé ganar por la confusión y el miedo; no me habían detenido en procura de evitar el escándalo, obviamente me brindaban una oportunidad para encontrar la adecuada salida. Llamé a un compañero de juerga y éste alquiló el carruaje y sin pérdida de tiempo nos dirigimos a un club secreto en las cercanías del Quirinal. Allí me abandoné a una apuesta desenfrenada en el juego de dados, bebía absenta y fumaba opio, millones de liras salieron de mis arcas y así el tiempo transcurrió dejando a la Condesa X suntuosamente trajeada a la espera del novio que nunca llegaría.

El escándalo había estallado, era una elaboración exclusiva: el primo del rey incumpliendo su palabra ponía en evidencia la desvergüenza y el deshonor de la familia con su desenfreno, nada me libraría de la ira, nadie podría salvarme de mi destino. Fui capturado al amanecer y puesto en el primer barco que zarpaba rumbo a las Américas. Supe, al llegar al puerto de La Guayra, la suerte de la secta a la cual pertenecía, junto a nobles varones. Descubrieron a tres condes en el ritual del desollamiento de una bella dama de sociedad en el Coliseo, lugar elegido para extender su piel a las luminarias solares.

Kahlil Gibran ( جبران خليل جبران )

ﻗﺎﻟﺖ ﻣﺤﺎرة ﻟﻤﺤﺎرة ﺗﺠﺎورﻫﺎ: "إن ﺑﻲ أﻟﻤﺎ ﺟﺪ ﻋﻈﻴﻢ ﻓﻲ داﺧﻠﻲ. إﻧﻪ ﺛﻘﻴﻞ وﻣﺴﺘﺪﻳﺮ وأﻧﺎ ﻣﻌﻪ ﻓﻲ ﺑﻼء وﻋﻨﺎء". وردت اﻟﻤﺤﺎرة اﻷﺧﺮى ﺑﺎﻧﺸﺮاح ﻓﻴﻪ اﺳﺘﻌﻼء: " اﻟﺤﻤﺪ ﻟﻠﺴﻤﺎوات واﻟﺒﺤﺎر. ﻻ أﺷﻌﺮ ﻓﻲ ﺳﺮي ﺑﺄي أﻟﻢ. أﻧﺎ ﺑﺨﻴﺮ وﻋﺎﻓﻴﺔ داﺧﻼ وﺧﺎرﺟﺎ". وﻣﺮ ﻓﻲ ﺗﻠﻚ اﻟﻠﺤﻈﺔ ﺳﺮﻃﺎن ﻣﺎﺋﻲ، وﺳﻤﻊ اﻟﻤﺤﺎرﺗﻴﻦ وﻫﻤﺎ ﺗﺘﺴﺎﻗﻄﺎن اﻟﺤﺪﻳﺚ. وﻗﺎل ﻟﻠﺘﻲ ﻫﻲ ﺑﺨﻴﺮ وﻋﺎﻓﻴﺔ داﺧﻼ وﺧﺎرﺟﺎ: " ﻧﻌـﻢ أﻧﺖ ﺑﺨﻴﺮ وﻋﺎﻓﻴﺔ. وﻟﻜﻦ اﻷﻟﻢ اﻟﺬي ﺗﺤﻤﻠﻪ ﺟﺎرﺗﻚ ﻓﻲ داﺧﻠﻬﺎ، إﻧﻤﺎ ﻫﻮ ﻟﺆﻟﺆة ذات ﺟﻤﺎل ﻻ ﺣﺪ ﻟﻪ".

Edgar Allan Poe: The Man of the Crowd

IT WAS well said of a certain German book that "er lasst sich nicht lesen"-it does not permit itself to be read. There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes-die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed. Now and then, alas, the conscience of man takes up a burden so heavy in horror that it can be thrown down only into the grave. And thus the essence of all crime is undivulged.

Not long ago, about the closing in of an evening in autumn, I sat at the large bow-window of the D--Coffee-House in London. For some months I had been ill in health, but was now convalescent, and, with returning strength, found myself in one of those happy moods which are so precisely the converse of ennui-moods of the keenest appetency, when the film from the mental vision departs-achlus os prin epeen- and the intellect, electrified, surpasses as greatly its everyday condition, as does the vivid yet candid reason of Leibnitz, the mad and flimsy rhetoric of Gorgias. Merely to breathe was enjoyment; and I derived positive pleasure even from many of the legitimate sources of pain. I felt a calm but inquisitive interest in every thing. With a cigar in my mouth and a newspaper in my lap, I had been amusing myself for the greater part of the afternoon, now in poring over advertisements, now in observing the promiscuous company in the room, and now in peering through the smoky panes into the street.

This latter is one of the principal thoroughfares of the city, and had been very much crowded during the whole day. But, as the darkness came on, the throng momently increased; and, by the time the lamps were well lighted, two dense and continuous tides of population were rushing past the door. At this particular period of the evening I had never before been in a similar situation, and the tumultuous sea of human heads filled me, therefore, with a delicious novelty of emotion. I gave up, at length, all care of things within the hotel, and became absorbed in contemplation of the scene without.

At first my observations took an abstract and generalizing turn. I looked at the passengers in masses, and thought of them in their aggregate relations. Soon, however, I descended to details, and regarded with minute interest the innumerable varieties of figure, dress, air, gait, visage, and expression of countenance.

Alberto Chimal: El juego más antiguo

Y pasó que en la tierra de Mundarna, en un cruce de caminos, una tarde de invierno, se encontraron dos brujas. Una se llamaba Antazil, la otra Bondur. Eran expertas en sus artes y sobre todo en el de la transformación, que permite a sus adeptos mudar de apariencia y de naturaleza. Venían de lugares lejanos, igualmente distantes, y se odiaban.

La causa no es tan importante: los conflictos de los poderosos son los nuestros, igual de terribles o de mezquinos, por más que ellos se empeñen en pintarlos dignos de más atención, de horror o maravilla, de arrastrar pueblos y naciones. Básteme decir que habían conversado, por medios mágicos, y decidido: que ninguna podía tolerar más la existencia de la otra, y que allí, lejos de miradas indiscretas, lejos de cualquiera que pudiese sufrir daño, resolverían sus diferencias de una vez.

Una llegó por el norte, caminando. La otra por el sur. Cuando estuvieron cerca, a unos palmos de tierra fría la una de la otra, se detuvieron. Se miraron, y no dijeron nada.

Pero Antazil se convirtió en águila, grande y majestuosa, de garras y pico de acero, y se arrojó sobre Bondur para sacarle los ojos. Y Bondur se volvió una serpiente constrictora, de piel gruesa y verde, y se enroscó en el águila para estrangularla. Y Antazil se volvió agua para escapar de la serpiente, y Bondur se volvió tierra para absorber el agua, y Antazil se volvió lombriz para devorar la tierra. Luego Bondur se volvió pájaro para comerse a la lombriz…

Era el juego más antiguo, como a veces lo llaman, y el que juega pierde cuando no atina a repeler un ataque, cuando no puede hallar una nueva forma, cuando demora demasiado. Pero quien juega casi nunca lo hace más que con palabras, con la imaginación, y en cambio la lombriz se transformó en gato y atacó al pájaro, que se volvió perro y persiguió al gato, que se volvió rabia e hizo enfermar al perro, que se volvió tiempo, que cura o que mata. La rabia se convirtió en clepsidra para aprisionar al tiempo; el tiempo se convirtió en piedra para romper la clepsidra, que se convirtió en pico para romper la piedra, que se volvió hacha para cortar el mango del pico…

Algernon Blackwood: The Kit Bag

When the words ‘Not Guilty’ sounded through the crowded courtroom that dark December afternoon, Arthur Wilbraham, the great criminal KC, and leader for the triumphant defence, was represented by his junior; but Johnson, his private secretary, carried the verdict across to his chambers like lightning.

‘It’s what we expected, I think,’ said the barrister, without emotion; ‘and, personally, I am glad the case is over.’ There was no particular sign of pleasure that his defence of John Turk, the murderer, on a plea of insanity, had been successful, for no doubt he felt, as everybody who had watched the case felt, that no man had ever better deserved the gallows.

‘I’m glad too,’ said Johnson. He had sat in the court for ten days watching the face of the man who had carried out with callous detail one of the most brutal and cold-blooded murders of recent years.

Be counsel glanced up at his secretary. They were more than employer and employed; for family and other reasons, they were friends. ‘Ah, I remember; yes,’ he said with a kind smile, ‘and you want to get away for

Christmas? You’re going to skate and ski in the Alps, aren’t you? If I was your age I’d come with you.’

Johnson laughed shortly. He was a young man of twenty-six, with a delicate face like a girl’s. ‘I can catch the morning boat now,’ he said; ‘but that’s not the reason I’m glad the trial is over. I’m glad it’s over because I’ve seen the last of that man’s dreadful face. It positively haunted me. Bat white skin, with the black hair brushed low over the forehead, is a thing I shall never forget, and the description of the way the dismembered body was crammed and packed with lime into that–’

‘Don’t dwell on it, my dear fellow,’ interrupted the other, looking at him curiously out of his keen eyes, ‘don’t think about it. Such pictures have a trick of coming back when one least wants them.’ He paused a moment. ‘Now go,’ he added presently, ‘and enjoy your holiday. I shall want all your energy for my Parliamentary work when you get back. And don’t break your neck skiing.’

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: Regusto Añejo / Stale Aftertaste

Dedicado a todas las víctimas de la voracidad desmedida

Los tiempos han cambiado mucho: ahora incluso los de su posición pueden caer en desgracia. Contempla las paredes desconchadas del pequeño apartamento. De la antigua gloria sólo le quedan los títulos, el acento extranjero y su siervo, fiel a pesar de no haber cobrado jamás un sueldo. Lloraría. No de pena, sino de rabia; este mundo insolente no nutre respeto por nada. Lejos del temor reverencial de antaño, ya sólo se le reserva indiferencia y olvido. Lloraría, pero “los hombres nunca lloran”, decía su padre. Y según sospecha él, tampoco lo hacen los monstruos. Así que bebe para olvidar, más que por verdadera gula. Le hastía la vida: el tiempo es una cárcel para quien no tiene con qué llenarlo.

–Renfield… –llama mientras le tiende el lujoso cáliz recuerdo de familia.

El líquido denso abandona el cuerpo de la muchacha. La devolverá a las calles donde la encontró después, cuando nada le quede por ofrecer. Vagabundas, drogadictas, prostitutas… Gentes perfectamente prescindibles. Es consciente de la imprudencia que comete, pero no están los tiempos para escrúpulos.

Piensa en su amado tokay y en todos los reputados caldos que disfrutó en esa otra vida cálida que ya casi no recuerda. De todas las cosas que nunca volverá a saborear, es el vino lo que más añora. Vendería su alma a cambio de poder abandonar la repugnante dieta a la que se ve sometido. Pero él ya no tiene alma que vender. Más de quinientos años consumiendo esta porquería, se dice sin poder reprimir una mueca de disgusto. Mientras, contempla hipnotizado cómo, en la pantalla de un televisor casi tan obsoleto como él, la mujer sin color descorcha una botella. Todos brindan con entusiasmo inconsciente por el nuevo año.

–¿Basta ya? –pregunta su siervo, confuso por el equivoco gesto.

Francisco Tario: La noche de los cincuenta libros

De pequeño era yo esmirriado, granujiento y lastimoso. Tenía los pies y las manos desmesuradamente largos; el cuello, muy flaco; los ojos, vibrantes, metálicos; los hombros, cuadrados, pero huesosos, como los brazos de un perchero; la cabeza, pequeña, sinuosa. Mis cabellos eran ralos y crespos y mis dientes amarillos, si no negros. Mi voz, excesivamente chillona, irritaba a mis progenitores, a mis hermanos, a los profesores de la escuela y aun a mí mismo. Cuando tras un prolongado silencio —en una reunión de familia, durante las comidas, etcétera—, rompía yo a hablar, todos saltaban sobre sus asientos, cual si hubieran visto al diablo. Después, por no seguir escuchándome, producían el mayor ruido posible, bien charlando a gritos o removiendo los cubiertos sobre la mesa, los vasos, la loza…

Tenía yo una hermanita que ha muerto y que solía importunarme siete u ocho veces diarias:

—Roberto, ¿por qué me miras así?

Recuerdo sus ojazos claros, redondos, como dos cuentas de vidrio, y sus rodillitas en punta, siempre cubiertas de costras.

Yo objetaba entonces, viéndola temblar de miedo:

—¡Bah, no sé cómo quieres que te mire si no sé hacerlo de otro modo!

Y ella echaba a correr, deteniéndose los bucles, en busca de la madrecita. Se arrojaba sobre sus faldas, rompía a gimotear del modo más cómico, y prorrumpía, señalándome con el dedo:

—¡Roberto me ha mirado! ¡Roberto me ha mirado!

La madrecita, al punto, le secaba los carrillos, haciéndole la cruz en la nuca. Había cumplido yo los once años, me encaminaba precozmente hacia la adolescencia y aún no tenía un solo amigo en la comarca. Era mi voluntad. Gustaba, en cambio, de internarme a solas por el bosque, atrapando mariposas y otros volátiles, para triturarlos después a pedradas. Cuando lograba cazar un pajarito, me sentaba cómodamente a la sombra de un árbol y le arrancaba una a una las plumitas, hasta que lo dejaba por completo en cueros. Si sobrevivía, lo soltaba sobre la hierba, con un sombrero de papel en la cabeza. A continuación, volvía a echarle mano y me lo llevaba al río. Allí lo sumergía cuantas veces se me antojaba, ahogándolo por fin en las ondas tumultuosas de la corriente. Acto seguido, me tumbaba sobre cualquier pradera y me masturbaba frenéticamente.

Fitz-James O'Brien: The pot od tulips

TWENTY-EIGHT years ago I went to spend the summer at an old Dutch villa which then lifted its head from the wild country that, in present days, has been tamed down into a site for a Crystal Palace. Madison Square was then a wilderness of fields and scrub oak, here and there diversified with tall and stately elms. Worthy citizens who could afford two establishments rusticated in the groves that then flourished where ranks of brown-stone porticos now form the landscape ; and the locality of Fortieth Street, where my summer palace stood, was justly looked upon as at an enterprising distance from the city.

I had an imperious desire to live in this house ever since I can remember. I had often seen it when a boy,

and its cool verandas and quaint garden seemed, whenever I passed, to attract me irresistibly. In after years, when I grew up to man's estate, I was not sorry, therefore, when one summer, fatigued with the labors of my business, I beheld a notice in the papers intimating that it was to be let furnished. I hastened to my dear friend, Jaspar Joye, painted the delights of this rural retreat in the most glowing colors, easily obtained his assent to share the enjoyments and the expense with me, and a month afterward we were taking our ease in this new paradise.

Independent of early associations, other interests attached me to this house. It was somewhat historical, and had given shelter to George Washington on the occasion of one of his visits to the city. Furthermore, I knew the descendants of the family to whom it had originally belonged. Their history was strange and mournful, and it seemed to me as if their individuality was somehow shared by the edifice. It had been built by a Mr. Van Koeren, a gentleman of Holland, the younger son of a rich mercantile firm at the Hague, who had emigrated to this country in order to establish a branch of his father's business in New York, which even then gave indications of the prosperity it has since reached with such marvellous rapidity. He had brought with him a fair young Belgian wife ; a loving girl, if I may believe her portrait, with soft brown eyes, chestnut hair, and a deep, placid contentment spreading over her fresh and innocent features. Her son, Alain Van Koeren, had her picture an old miniature in a red gold frame as well as that of his father \ and in truth, when looking on the two, one could not conceive a greater contrast than must have existed between husband and wife. Mr. Van Koeren must have been a man of terrible will and gloomy temperament. His face in the picture is dark and austere, his eyes deep-sunken, and burning as if with a slow, inward fire. The lips are thin and compressed, with much determination of purpose ; and his chin, boldly salient, is brimful of power and resolution. When first I saw those two pictures I sighed inwardly and thought, " Poor child ! you must often have sighed for the sunny meadows of Brussels, in the long, gloomy nights spent in the company of that terrible man ! "

Horacio Quiroga: El espectro

Todas las noches, en el Grand Splendid de Santa Fe, Enid y yo asistimos a los estrenos cinematográficos. Ni borrascas ni noches de hielo nos han impedido introducirnos, a las diez en punto, en la tibia penumbra del teatro. Allí, desde uno u otro palco, seguimos las historias del film con un mutismo y un interés tales, que podrían llamar sobre nosotros la atención, de ser otras las circunstancias en que actuamos.

Desde uno u otro palco, he dicho; pues su ubicación nos es indiferente. Y aunque la misma localidad llegue a faltarnos alguna noche, por estar el Splendid en pleno, nos instalamos, mudos y atentos siempre a la representación, en un palco cualquiera ya ocupado. No estorbamos, creo; o, por lo menos, de un modo sensible. Desde el fondo del palco, o entre la chica del antepecho y el novio adherido a su nuca, Enid y yo, aparte del mundo que nos rodea, somos todo ojos hacia la pantalla. Y si en verdad alguno, con escalofríos de inquietud cuyo origen no alcanza a comprender, vuelve a veces la cabeza para ver lo que no puede, o siente un soplo helado que no se explica en la cálida atmósfera, nuestra presencia de intrusos no es nunca notada; pues preciso es advertir ahora que Enid y yo estamos muertos.

De todas las mujeres que conocí en el mundo vivo, ninguna produjo en mí el efecto que Enid. La impresión fue tan fuerte que la imagen y el recuerdo mismo de todas las mujeres se borró. En mi alma se hizo de noche, donde se alzó un solo astro imperecedero: Enid. La sola posibilidad de que sus ojos llegaran a mirarme sin indiferencia, deteníame bruscamente el corazón . Y ante la idea de que alguna vez podía ser mía, la mandíbula me temblaba. ¡Enid!

Tenía ella entonces, cuando vivíamos en el mundo, la más divina belleza que la epopeya del cine ha lanzado a miles de leguas y expuesto a la mirada fija de los hombres. Sus ojos, sobre todo, fueron únicos; y jamás terciopelo de mirada tuvo un marco de pestañas como los ojos de Enid; terciopelo azul, húmedo y reposado, como la felicidad que sollozaba en ella.

La desdicha me puso ante ella cuando ya estaba casada.

No es ahora del caso ocultar nombres. Todos recuerdan a Duncan Wyoming, el extraordinario actor que, comenzando su carrera al mismo tiempo que William Hart, tuvo, como éste y a la par de éste, las mismas hondas virtudes de interpretación viril. Hart ha dado al cine todo lo que podíamos esperar de él, y es un astro que cae. De Wyoming, en cambio, no sabemos lo que podíamos haber visto, cuando apenas en el comienzo de su breve y fantástica carrera creó -como contraste con el empalagoso héroe actual- el tipo de varón rudo, áspero, feo, negligente y cuanto se quiera, pero hombre de la cabeza a los pies, por la sobriedad, el empuje y el carácter distintivos del sexo.

Hart prosiguió actuando y ya lo hemos visto.

Howard Phillips Lovecraft: The Alchemist

High up, crowning the grassy summit of a swelling mound whose sides are wooded near the base with the gnarled trees of the primeval forest, stands the old chateau of my ancestors. For centuries its lofty battlements have frowned down upon the wild and rugged countryside about, serving as a home and stronghold for the proud house whose honoured line is older even than the moss-grown castle walls. These ancient turrets, stained by the storms of generations and crumbling under the slow yet mighty pressure of time, formed in the ages of feudalism one of the most dreaded and formidable fortresses in all France. From its machicolated parapets and mounted battlements Barons, Counts, and even Kings had been defied, yet never had its spacious halls resounded to the footsteps of the invader.

But since those glorious years all is changed. A poverty but little above the level of dire want, together with a pride of name that forbids its alleviation by the pursuits of commercial life, have prevented the scions of our line from maintaining their estates in pristine splendour; and the falling stones of the walls, the overgrown vegetation in the parks, the dry and dusty moat, the ill-paved courtyards, and toppling towers without, as well as the sagging floors, the worm-eaten wainscots, and the faded tapestries within, all tell a gloomy tale of fallen grandeur. As the ages passed, first one, then another of the four great turrets were left to ruin, until at last but a single tower housed the sadly reduced descendants of the once mighty lords of the estate.

It was in one of the vast and gloomy chambers of this remaining tower that I, Antoine, last of the unhappy and accursed Comtes de C——, first saw the light of day, ninety long years ago. Within these walls, and amongst the dark and shadowy forests, the wild ravines and grottoes of the hillside below, were spent the first years of my troubled life. My parents I never knew. My father had been killed at the age of thirty-two, a month before I was born, by the fall of a stone somehow dislodged from one of the deserted parapets of the castle; and my mother having died at my birth, my care and education devolved solely upon one remaining servitor, an old and trusted man of considerable intelligence, whose name I remember as Pierre. I was an only child, and the lack of companionship which this fact entailed upon me was augmented by the strange care exercised by my aged guardian in excluding me from the society of the peasant children whose abodes were scattered here and there upon the plains that surround the base of the hill. At the time, Pierre said that this restriction was imposed upon me because my noble birth placed me above association with such plebeian company. Now I know that its real object was to keep from my ears the idle tales of the dread curse upon our line, that were nightly told and magnified by the simple tenantry as they conversed in hushed accents in the glow of their cottage hearths.

Steven Millhauser: Miracle Polish

I should have said no to the stranger at the door, with his skinny throat and his black sample case that pulled him a little to the side, so that one of his jacket cuffs was higher than the other, a polite no would have done the trick, no thanks, I’m afraid not, not today, then the closing of the door and the heavy click of the latch, but I’d seen the lines of dirt in the black shoe creases, the worn-down heels, the shine on the jacket sleeves, the glint of desperation in his eyes. All the more reason, I said to myself, to send him on his way, as I stepped aside and watched him move into my living room. He looked quickly around before setting his case down on the small table next to the couch. I’d made up my mind to buy something from him, anything, a hairbrush, the Brooklyn Bridge, buy it and get him out of there, I had better things to do with my time, but there was no hurrying him as he slowly undid each clasp with his bony fingers and explained in a mournful voice that this was my lucky day. In the suddenly opened case I saw six rows of identical dark-brown glass bottles, each a bit smaller than a bottle of cough medicine. Two things struck me: the case must have been very heavy, and he must not have sold anything in a long time. The product was called Miracle Polish. It cleaned mirrors with one easy flick of the wrist. He seemed surprised, even suspicious, when I said I’d take one, as if he had wandered the earth for years with the same case filled to bursting with unsold bottles. I tried not to imagine what would drive a man to go from house to house in a neighborhood like this one, with porches and old maples and kids playing basketball in driveways, a neighborhood where Girl Scouts sold you cookies and the woman across the street asked you to contribute to the leukemia drive, but no strangers with broken-down shoes and desperate eyes came tramping from door to door lugging heavy cases full of brown bottles called Miracle Polish. The name exasperated me, a child could have done better than that, though there was something to be said for the way it sat there flaunting its fraudulence. “Don’t trust me!” it shouted for all to hear. “Don’t be a fool!”

When he tried to sell me a second bottle, he understood from my look that it was time to go. “You’ve made a wise choice,” he said solemnly, glancing at me and looking abruptly away. Then he clicked his case shut and hurried out the door, as if afraid I’d change my mind. Lifting a slat of the half-closed blinds, I watched him make his way along the front walk with the sample case pulling him to one side. At the sidewalk he stopped, put down his case next to the sugar maple, wiped his jacket sleeve across his forehead, and gazed up the block as if he were the new boy in school, getting ready to cross the school yard, where faces were already turning to stare at him. For a moment he looked back at my house. When he saw me watching him, he grinned suddenly, then frowned and jerked his head away. With a sharp snap I let the blind-slat drop.

Amparo Dávila: El espejo

CUANDO mi madre me contó lo que le sucedía, se apoderó de mí una tremenda duda y una preocupación que iba en aumento, aun cuando yo trataba de no pensar en ello.

Veinte días antes, mi madre se había fracturado una pierna al perder pie en la escalera de nuestra casa. Fue un verdadero triunfo conseguir una habitación en el Hospital de Santa Rosa, el mejor de todos los sanatorios de la ciudad. Como yo tenía urgente necesidad de salir de viaje, precisaba acomodar a mamá en un buen sitio donde disfrutara de toda clase de atenciones y cuidados. Sin embargo, yo experimentaba remordimientos por dejarla sola en un hospital, agobiada por el yeso y los dolores de la fractura. Pero mi trabajo en Tractors and Agricultural Machinery Co. me exigía ese viaje. Como inspector de ventas debía controlar, de tiempo en tiempo, las diferentes zonas que abarcaban los agentes viajeros, pues generalmente sucedía que algunos de los vendedores no trabajaban exhaustivamente sus plazas, en tanto que otros competidores realizaban magníficas ventas. Mi trabajo me gustaba y la compañía se había mostrado siempre muy generosa conmigo, "valioso elemento", según el criterio de los jefes. Me habían otorgado un magnífico sueldo y me dispensaban muchas consideraciones. En estas circunstancias, yo no podía negarme cuando me necesitaban. La única solución que hallé fue dejar a mi madre en un buen sanatorio, al cuidado de una enfermera especial.

Durante las tres semanas que duró mi viaje el Hospital me tuvo al tanto, diariamente, de la salud de mi madre. Las noticias que recibía eran bastante favorables, con excepción de "un aumento en la temperatura que se presenta después de media noche, acompañado de una marcada alteración nerviosa".

El día de mi regreso me presenté en la oficina tan sólo para avisar de mi llegada y corrí al Hospital a ver a mamá. Cuando ella me vio lanzó un extraño grito, que no era una exclamación de sorpresa ni de alegría. Era el grito que puede dar quien se encuentra en el interior de una casa en llamas y mira aparecer a un salvador. Así lo sentí yo. Era la hora de la comida. Con gran sorpresa comprobé que mamá casi no probaba bocado, no obstante que tenía enfrente su platillo favorito: chuletas de cerdo ahumadas y puré de espinacas. Estaba pálida, demacrada, y sus manos inquietas y temblorosas delataban el estado de sus nervios. Yo no me explicaba qué le había sucedido. Siempre había sido una mujer serena, controlada, optimista.

Theodore Sturgeon: The Silken Swift

There's a village by the Bogs, and in the village is a Great House. In the Great House lived a squire who had land and treasures and, for a daughter, Rita.

In the village lived Del, whose voice was a thunder in the inn when he drank there; whose corded, cabled body was golden-skinned, and whose hair flung challenges back to the sun.

Deep in the Bogs, which were brackish, there was a pool of purest water, shaded by willows and wide-wondering aspen, cupped by banks of a moss most marvellously blue. Here grew mandrake, and there were strange pipings in mid-summer. No one ever heard them but a quiet girl whose beauty was so very contained that none of it showed. Her name was Barbara.

There was a green evening, breathless with growth, when Del took his usual way down the lane beside the manor and saw a white shadow adrift inside the tall iron pickets. He stopped, and the shadow approached, and became Rita. "Slip around to the gate," she said, "and I'll open it for you."

She wore a gown like a cloud and a silver circlet round her head. Night was caught in her hair, moonlight in her face, and in her great eyes, secrets swam.

Del said, "I have no business with the squire."

"He's gone," she said. "I've sent the servants away. Come to the gate."