Some people see things that others cannot. Tales of Mystery and Imagination. “The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown” (H.P. Lovecraft).

Seabury Quinn: Restless Souls

Seabury Quinn, Restless Souls, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Tales of mystery


“TEN THOUSAND small green devils! What a night; what an odious night!” Jules de Grandin paused beneath the theater’s porte-cochère and scowled ferociously at the pelting rain.
“Well, summer’s dead and winter hasn’t quite come,” I reminded soothingly. “We’re bound to have a certain
amount of rain in October. The autumnal equinox—” “May Satan’s choicest imps fly off with the autumnal
equinox!” the little Frenchman interrupted. “Morbleu, it is that I have seen no sun since God alone knows when; besides that, I am most abominably hungry!” “That condition, at least, we can remedy,” I promised,
nudging him from the awning’s shelter toward my parked car. “Suppose we stop at the Café Bacchanale? They usually have something good to eat.”
“Excellent, capital,” he agreed enthusiastically, skipping nimbly into the car and rearranging the upturned collar of his raincoat. “You are a true philosopher, mon vieux. Always you tell me that which I most wish to hear.”
They were having an hilarious time at the cabaret, for it was the evening of October 31, and the management had put on a special Halloween celebration. As we passed the velvet rope that looped across the entrance to the dining room a burst of Phrygian music greeted us, and a dozen agile young women in abbreviated attire were performing intricate gyrations under the leadership of an apparently boneless damsel whose costume was principally composed of strands of jangling hawk-bells threaded round her neck and wrists and ankles.
“Welsh rabbit?” I suggested. “They make a rather tasty one here.” He nodded almost absent-mindedly as he
surveyed a couple eating at a nearby table. At last, just as the waiter brought our bubbling-hot refreshment: “Regard them, if you will, Friend Trowbridge,” he whispered. “Tell me what, if anything, you make of them.”
The girl was, as the saying goes, “a knockout.” Tall, lissome, lovely to regard, she wore a dinner dress of simple black without a single hint of ornament except a single strand of small matched pearls about her slim and rather long throat. Her hair was bright chestnut, almost coppercolored, and braided round her small head in a Grecian coronal, and in its ruddy frame her face was like some strange flower on a tall stalk. Her darkened lids and carmined mouth and pale cheeks made an interesting combination.
As I stole a second glance at her it seemed to me she had a vague yet unmistakable expression of invalidism. Nothing definite, merely the combination of certain factors which pierced the shell of my purely masculine admiration and stock response from my years of experience as a medical practitioner — a certain blueness of complexion which meant “interesting pallor” to the layman but spelled imperfectly oxidized blood to the physician; a slight tightening of the muscles about the mouth which gave her lovely pouting lips a pathetic droop; and a scarcely perceptible retraction at the junction of cheek and nose which meant fatigue of nerves or muscles, possibly both.

Noel Clarasó: Más allá de la muerte

Noel Clarasó, Más allá de la muerte, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Tales of mystery


Es muy difícil saber lo que somos, pero el problema no se acaba aquí; hay lo que hemos sido antes y lo que seremos después.
El dueño del hotel, un hombre alto, de aire despectivo e indiferente, acababa de explicar el caso a algunos hombres de los que acuden a beber. El hotel tiene también café y taberna.
Se trata de dos recién casados que llegaron hace algunos días. Él aseguró que conocía las montañas de otra vez que estuvo en Salardú. Pero el dueño del hotel no le recuerda. Dijo que quería subir al Beciberri y ayer por la noche pidió que le prepararan la comida. La mujer dice que ha salido solo, de madrugada, y que le ha prometido que antes de la siete de la tarde estaría de vuelta. Y ya son las diez de la noche...
Los hombres consultan sus grandes relojes de bolsillo. Uno tiene las diez menos cuarto, otro las diez y cinco, otro las diez menos siete. Cada uno defiende su hora y su reloj, pero para el caso da lo mismo. Uno de ellos pregunta:
-¿Al Beciberri?
Son lentos y no comprenden bien el sentido de las cosas hasta la tercera vez que las oyen.
-Sí.
-Pues ya debería estar de regreso.
Otro, que es un poco cazador, saca la cuenta del tiempo:
-Siete horas para subir y cinco para bajar, son doce. Si ha salido a la madrugada tiene tiempo de sobra.
Un viejo que ya es incapaz de arriesgarse por las pendientes abruptas, pregunta:
—¿Conoce el terreno?
—Él dijo que sí.
De ella sólo saben que se llama Eulalia y que está de pie, en el comedor, junto a la ventana, y mira incesantemente hacia las cumbres. Pero la noche ha cerrado ya y no se ve nada. Ella no deja de mirar, con los ojos quietos. Tiene la forma -el paisaje por donde él ha de venir marcado en los ojos.
Los otros huéspedes no se atreven a acercarse a ella. No la conocen. La han visto allí tres días pero ninguno le ha hablado. Ellos no tomaban parte en la conversación general. Ella pregunta siempre, como un tic, casi sin desviar los ayos de la oscuridad:
-¿Qué hora es?
Lo ha empezado a preguntar a las ocho y le han dicho que son las ocho, que son las nueve, y ahora ya nadie se atreve a decirle que son las diez. Ella pregunta sin dirigirse a nadie:
-¿A qué hora podía estar de vuelta?
"Nadié le contesta. Algunos no lo saben y los que lo saben no lo quieren decir, hombres ya hablan de hacer algo. Pero todos tienen pereza. Ninguno se ide. El dueño del hotel manda un chiquillo a Artíes a buscar al guía, por si acaso. Allí hay un guía. En Salardú, no.
Todos los huéspedes han cenado ya pero no se atreven a acostarse. Ella no ha comido ni se ha sentado a la mesa. La dueña del hotel le ha rogado dos o tres veces que tomara alguna cosa y ella ha dicho siempre que quería esperar a su marido. A las diez y media la dueña se le acerca y ya no le dice que coma sino que se acueste. Pero ella la mira con insolencia, como si la hubiese insultado.
—¿Qué hora es? —le pregunta.
—Las diez y media.
—¿A qué hora podía estar aquí?
—No lo sé. No puede tardar.
—Le esperaré.
—Quizá se ha extraviado y se ha quedado a pasar la noche en la montaña.
Eulalia clava sus ojos duros en la dueña del hotel y le pregunta:
—¿Por qué no van a buscarlo?

Clark Ashton Smith: The Dweller in the Gulf

Clark Ashton Smith, The Dweller in the Gulf, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Tales of mystery


Swelling and towering swiftly, like a genie loosed from one of Solomon's bottles, the cloud rose on the planet's rim. A rusty and colossal column, it strode above the dead plain, through a sky that was dark as the brine of desert seas that have ebbed down to desert pools.

"Looks like a blithering sandstorm," commented Maspic.

"It can't very well be anything else," agreed Bellman rather curtly. "Any other kind of storm is unheard of in these regions. It's the sort of hell-twister that the Aihais call the zoorth—and it's coming our way, too. I move that we start looking for shelter. I've been caught in the zoorth before, and I don't recommend a lungful of that ferruginous dust."

"There's a cave in the old river bank, to the right," said Chivers, the third member of the party, who had been searching the desert with restless, falconlike eyes.

The trio of earthmen, hard-bitten adventurers who disdained the services of Martian guides, had started five days before from the outpost of Ahoom, into the uninhabited region called the Chaur. Here, in the beds of great rivers that had not flowed for cycles, it was rumored that the pale, platinum-like gold of Mars could be found lying in heaps, like so much salt. If fortune were propitious, their years of somewhat unwilling exile on the red planet would soon be at an end. They had been warned against the Chaur, and had heard some queer tales in Ahoom regarding the reasons why former prospectors had not returned. But danger, no matter how dire or exotic, was merely a part of their daily routine. With a fair chance of unlimited gold at the journey's end they would have gone down through Hinnom.

Their food-supplies and water-barrels were carried on the backs of three of those curious mammals called vortlups, which, with their elongated legs and necks, and horny-plated bodies, might seemingly have been some fabulous combination of llama and saurian. These animals, though extravagantly ugly, were tame and obedient, and were well adapted to desert travel, being able to go without water for months at a time.

For the past two days they had followed the mile-wide course of a nameless ancient river, winding among hills that had dwindled to mere hummocks through aeons of exfoliation. They had found nothing but worn boulders, pebbles and fine rusty sand. Heretofore the sky had been silent and stirless; and nothing moved on the river-bottom, whose stones were bare even of dead lichen. The malignant column of the zoorth, twisting and swelling toward them, was the first sign of animation they had discerned in that lifeless land.

Alejandro Jodorowsky: Misterios del tiempo

Alejandro Jodorowsky, Misterios del tiempo, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Tales of mystery


Cuando el viajero miró hacia atrás y vio que el camino estaba intacto, se dio cuenta de que sus huellas no lo seguían, sino que lo precedían.

Sax Rohmer: The Mysterious Mummy

Sax Rohmer, The Mysterious Mummy, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Tales of mystery


It was about five o'clock on a hot August afternoon, that a tall, thin man, wearing a weedy beard, and made conspicuous by an ill-fitting frock-coat and an almost napless silk hat, walked into the entrance hall of the Great Portland Square Museum. He carried no stick, and, looking about him, as though unfamiliar with the building, he ultimately mounted the principal staircase, walking with a pronounced stoop, and at intervals coughing with a hollow sound.

His gaunt figure attracted the attention of several people, among them the attendant in the Egyptian room. Hardened though he was to the eccentric in humanity, the man who hung so eagerly over the mummies of departed kings and coughed so frequently, nevertheless secured his instant attention. Visitors of the regulation type were rapidly thinning out, so that the gaunt man, during the whole of the time he remained in the room, was kept under close surveillance by the vigilant official. Seeing him go in the direction of the stairs, the attendant supposed the strange visitor to be about to leave the Museum. But that he did not immediately do so was shown by subsequent testimony.

The day's business being concluded, the staff of police who patrol nightly the Great Square Museum duly filed into the building. A man is placed in each room, it being his duty to examine thoroughly every nook and cranny; having done which, all doors of communication are closed, the officer on guard in one room being unable to leave his post or to enter another. Every hour the inspector, a sergeant, and a fireman make a round of the entire building: from which it will be seen that a person having designs on any of the numerous treasures of the place would require more than average ingenuity to bring his plans to a successful issue.

In recording this very singular case, the only incident of the night to demand attention is that of the mummy in the Etruscan room.

Persons familiar with the Great Portland Square Museum will know that certain of the tombs in the Etruscan room are used as receptacles for Egyptian mummies that have, for various reasons, never been put upon exhibition. Anyone who has peered under the partially raised lid of a huge sarcophagus and found within the rigid form of a mummy, will appreciate the feelings of the man on night duty amid surroundings so lugubrious. The electric light, it should be mentioned, is not extinguished until the various apartments have been examined, and its extinction immediately precedes the locking of the door.

The constable in the Etruscan room glanced into the various sarcophagi and cast the rays of his bull's-eye lantern into the shadows of the great stone tombs. Satisfied that no one lurked there, he mounted the steps leading up to the Roman gallery, turning out the lights in the room below from the switch at the top. The light was still burning on the ground floor, and the sergeant had not yet arrived with the keys. It was whilst the man stood awaiting his coming that a singular thing occurred.

From somewhere within the darkened chamber beneath, there came the sound of a hollow cough!

Santiago Eximeno: En mi piscina

Santiago Eximeno, En mi piscina, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Tales of mystery


En mi piscina habita el fantasma de un niño ahogado. Se acurruca en un rincón y con mirada triste me suplica que la llene.

Richard Matheson: Third from the sun

Richard Matheson, Third from the sun, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Tales of mystery


HIS EYES were open five seconds before the alarm was set to go off. There was no effort in waking. It was sudden. Coldly conscious, he reached out his left hand in the dark and pushed in the stop. The alarm glowed a second, then faded.

At his side, his wife put her hand on his arm.

“Did you sleep?” he asked.

“No, did you?”

“A little,” he said. “Not much.”

She was silent for a: few seconds. He heard her throat contract. She shivered. He knew what she was going to say.

“We’re still going?” she asked.

He twisted his shoulders on the bed and took a deep breath.

“Yes,” he said, and felt her fingers tighten on his arm.

“What time is it?” she asked.

“About five.”

“We’d better get ready.”

“Yes, we’d better.”

They made no move.

“You’re sure we can get on the ship without anyone noticing?” she asked.

“They think it’s just another test flight. Nobody will be checking.”

She didn’t say anything. She moved a little closer to him. He felt how cold her skin was.

“I’m afraid,” she said.

He took her hand and held it in a tight grip. “Don’t be,” he said. “We’ll be safe.”

“It’s the children I’m worried about.”

Horacio Quiroga: Los buques suicidantes

Horacio Quiroga, Los buques suicidantes, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Tales of mystery


Resulta que hay pocas cosas más terribles que encontrar en el mar un buque abandonado. Si de día el peligro es menor, de noche no se ven ni hay advertencia posible: el choque se lleva a uno y otro.

Estos buques abandonados por a o por b, navegan obstinadamente a favor de las corrientes o del viento, si tienen las velas desplegadas. Recorren así los mares, cambiando caprichosamente de rumbo.

No pocos de los vapores que un buen día no llegaron a puerto, han tropezado en su camino con uno de estos buques silenciosos que viajan por su cuenta. Siempre hay probabilidad de hallarlos, a cada minuto. Por ventura las corrientes suelen enredarlos en los mares de sargazo. Los buques se detienen, por fin, aquí o allá, inmóviles para siempre en ese desierto de algas. Así, hasta que poco a poco se van deshaciendo. Pero otros llegan cada día, ocupan su lugar en silencio, de modo que el tranquilo y lúgubre puerto siempre está frecuentado.

El principal motivo de estos abandonos de buque son sin duda las tempestades y los incendios que dejan a la deriva negros esqueletos errantes. Pero hay otras causas singulares entre las que se puede incluir lo acaecido al María Margarita, que zarpó de Nueva York el 24 de Agosto de 1903, y que el 26 de mañana se puso al habla con una corbeta, sin acusar novedad alguna. Cuatro horas más tarde, un paquete, no teniendo respuesta, desprendió una chalupa que abordó al María Margarita. En el buque no había nadie. Las camisetas de los marineros se secaban a proa. La cocina estaba prendida aún. Una máquina de coser tenía la aguja suspendida sobre la costura, como si hubiera sido dejada un momento antes. No había la menor señal de lucha ni de pánico, todo en perfecto orden; y faltaban todos. ¿Qué pasó?

La noche que aprendí esto estábamos reunidos en el puente. Íbamos a Europa, y el capitán nos contaba su historia marina, perfectamente cierta, por otro lado.

La concurrencia femenina, ganada por la sugestión del campo de batalla presente, oía estremecida. Las chicas nerviosas prestaban sin querer inquieto oído a la voz de los marineros en proa. Una señora recién casada se atrevió:

-¿No serán águilas?...

El capitán se sonrió bondadosamente:

-¿Qué, señora? ¿Águilas que se lleven a la tripulación?

Todos se rieron y la joven hizo lo mismo, un poco avergonzada.

August Derleth: The House in the Valley

August Derleth, The House in the Valley, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Tales of mystery


I, JEFFERSON BATES, make this deposition now, in full knowledge that, whatever the circumstances, I have not long to live. I do so in justice to those who survive me, as well as in an attempt to clear myself of the charge of which I have been so unjustly convicted. A great, if little-known American writer in the tradition of the Gothic once wrote that “the most merciful thing in the world is the inability of the human mind to correlate all its contents,” yet I have had ample time for intense thought and reflection, and I have achieved an order in my thoughts I would never have thought possible only so little as a year ago.
For, of course, it was within the year that my “trouble” began. I put it so because I am not yet certain what other name to give it. If I had to set a precise day, I suppose in all fairness, it must be the day on which Brent Nicholson telephoned me in Boston to say he had discovered and rented for me the very place of isolation and natural beauty I had been seeking for the purpose of working at some paintings I had long had in mind.
It lay in an almost hidden valley beside a broad stream, not far from, yet well in from the Massachusetts coast, in the vicinity of the ancient settlements of Arkham and Dunwich, which every artist of the region knows for their curious gambrel structure, so pleasing to the eye, however forbidding to the spirit.
True, I hesitated. There were always fellow artists pausing for a day in Arkham or Dunwich or Kingston, and it was precisely fellow-artists I sought to escape. But in the end, Nicholson persuaded me, and within the week I found myself at the place. It proved to be a large, ancient house—certainly of the same vintage as so many in Arkham—which had been built in a little valley which ought to have been fertile but showed no sign of recent cultivation. It rose among gaunt pines, which crowded close on the house, and along one wall ran a broad, clear brook.
Despite the attractiveness it offered the eye at a distance, up close it present another face. For one thing, it was painted black. For another, it wore an air of forbidding formidableness. Its curtainless windows stared outward gloomily. All around it on the ground floor ran a narrow porch which had been stuffed and crammed with bundles of sacking tied with twine, half-rotted chairs, highboys, tables, and a singular variety of old-fashioned household objects, like a barricade designed either to keep someone or something inside or to prevent it from getting in. This barricade had manifestly been there a long time, for it showed the effects of expose to several years of weather. Its reason for being was too obscure even for the agent, to whom I wrote to ask, but it did help to lend the house a most curious air of being inhabited, though there was no sign of life, and nothing, indeed, to show that anyone had lived there for a very long time.
But this was an illusion which never left me. It was plain to see that no one had been in the house, not even Nicholson or the agent, for the barricade extended across both front and back doors of the almost square structure, and I had to pull away a section of it in order to make an entry myself.
Once inside, the impression of habitation was all the stronger. But there was a difference—all the gloom of the black-painted exterior was reversed inside. Here everything was light and surprisingly clean, considering the period of its abandonment.
Moreover, the house was furnished, scantily, true, but furnished, whereas I had received the distinct impression that everything which had once been inside had been piled up around the house on the verandah outside.
The house inside was as box-like as it appeared on the outside. There were four rooms below—a bedroom, a kitchen-pantry, a dining-room, a sitting-room; and upstairs, four of exactly the same dimensions—three bedrooms, and a storeroom. There were plenty of windows in all the rooms, and especially those facing north, which was gratifying, since the north light is best for painting.

Juan José Arreola: Autrui

Juan José Arreola, Autrui, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Tales of mystery


Lunes. Sigue la persecución sistemática de ese desconocido. Creo que se llama Autrui. No sé cuándo empezó a encarcelarme. Desde el principio de mi vida tal vez, sin que yo me diera cuenta. Tanto peor.

Martes. Caminaba hoy tranquilamente por calles y plazas. Noté de pronto que mis pasos se dirigían a lugares desacostumbrados. Las calles parecían organizarse en laberinto, bajo los designios de Autrui. Al final, me hallé en un callejón sin salida.

Miércoles. Mi vida está limitada en estrecha zona, dentro de un barrio mezquino. Inútil aventurarse más lejos. Autrui me aguarda en todas las esquinas, dispuesto a bloquearme las grandes avenidas.

Jueves. De un momento a otro temo hallarme frente a frente y a solas con el enemigo. Encerrado en mi cuarto, ya para echarme en la cama, siento que me desnudo bajo la mirada de Autrui.

Viernes. Pasé todo el día en casa, incapaz de la menor actividad. Por la noche surgió a mi alrededor una tenue circunvalación. Cierta especie de anillo, apenas más peligroso que un aro de barril.

Sábado. Ahora desperté dentro de un cartucho exagonal, no mayor que mi cuerpo. Sin atreverme a tocar los muros, presentí que detrás de ellos nuevos hexágonos me aguardan.
Indudablemente, mi confinación es obra de Autrui.

Domingo. Empotrado en mi celda, entro lentamente en descomposición. Segrego un líquido espeso, amarillento, de engañosos reflejos. A nadie aconsejo que me tome por miel…
A nadie naturalmente, salvo al propio Autrui.

Arthur Conan Doyle: The Jew's Breastplate

Arthur Conan Doyle, The Jew's Breastplate, Relatos de terror, Horror stories, Short stories, Science fiction stories, Anthology of horror, Antología de terror, Anthology of mystery, Antología de misterio, Scary stories, Scary Tales, Science Fiction Short Stories, Historias de ciencia ficcion, Tales of mystery


My particular friend, Ward Mortimer, was one of the best men of his day at everything connected with Oriental archaeology. He had written largely upon the subject, he had lived two years in a tomb at Thebes, while he excavated in the Valley of the Kings, and finally he had created a considerable sensation by his exhumation of the alleged mummy of Cleopatra in the inner room of the Temple of Horus, at Philae. With such a record at the age of thirty-one, it was felt that a considerable career lay before him, and no one was surprised when he was elected to the curatorship of the Belmore Street Museum, which carries with it the lectureship at the Oriental College, and an income which has sunk with the fall in land, but which still remains at that ideal sum which is large enough to encourage an investigator, but not so large as to enervate him.

There was only one reason which made Ward Mortimer's position a little difficult at the Belmore Street Museum, and that was the extreme eminence of the man whom he had to succeed. Professor Andreas was a profound scholar and a man of European reputation. His lectures were frequented by students from every part of the world, and his admirable management of the collection intrusted to his care was a commonplace in all learned societies. There was, therefore, considerable surprise when, at the age of fifty-five, he suddenly resigned his position and retired from those duties which had been both his livelihood and his pleasure. He and his daughter left the comfortable suite of rooms which had formed his official residence in connection with the museum, and my friend, Mortimer, who was a bachelor, took up his quarters there.

On hearing of Mortimer's appointment Professor Andreas had written him a very kindly and flattering congratulatory letter. I was actually present at their first meeting, and I went with Mortimer round the museum when the Professor showed us the admirable collection which he had cherished so long. The Professor's beautiful daughter and a young man, Captain Wilson, who was, as I understood, soon to be her husband, accompanied us in our inspection. There were fifteen rooms, but the Babylonian, the Syrian, and the central hall, which contained the Jewish and Egyptian collection, were the finest of all. Professor Andreas was a quiet, dry, elderly man, with a clean-shaven face and an impassive manner, but his dark eyes sparkled and his features quickened into enthusiastic life as he pointed out to us the rarity and the beauty of some of his specimens. His hand lingered so fondly over them, that one could read his pride in them and the grief in his heart now that they were passing from his care into that of another.

He had shown us in turn his mummies, his papyri, his rare scarabs, his inscriptions, his Jewish relics, and his duplication of the famous seven-branched candlestick of the Temple, which was brought to Rome by Titus, and which is supposed by some to be lying at this instant in the bed of the Tiber. Then he approached a case which stood in the very centre of the hall, and he looked down through the glass with reverence in his attitude and manner.

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Tales of Mystery and Imagination

" Tales of Mystery and Imagination es un blog sin ánimo de lucro cuyo único fin consiste en rendir justo homenaje
a los escritores de terror, ciencia-ficción y fantasía del mundo. Los derechos de los textos que aquí aparecen pertenecen a cada autor.


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