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).

Rafael Marín: A veces corren

Rafael Marín, A veces corren, Salvo veintiún gramos de diferencia, 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, Arthur Conan Doyle, Wilkie Collins, A Terribly Strange Bed, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


A veces bastaba con dispararles a los talones.

Se desmoronaban entonces, como una percha que se rinde por el peso, la boca entreabierta, el pecho gimiendo sin aire que llevarse dentro. Un segundo disparo en la otra rodilla, o en la cadera, y los convertía en trozos de carne que pugnaban por arrastrarse, entre un reguero de carne y huesos que iban dejando detrás. A veces, cuando había tiempo, una tercera bala en el cerebro, o caminar entre ellos, como jugando a rayuela, para cortarles la cabeza con un machete.

No había que fiarse tampoco. El puro instinto les hacía moverse, arrastrarse, sorprenderte. Habían sido en vida supervivientes de su propia vida, y ahora, en la muerte, los recuerdos que salían a flote, obtusos y sin patrón definido, impulsaban a sus cuerpos sin mente a seguir repitiendo aquellos actos reflejos, aquellos movimientos mecánicos, aquella imprintación circular de la que antes tanto se quejaban, cuando podían.

Debía ser que la muerte se compone de paciencia. O que el tiempo no importa cuando no tienes que esperar a la muerte. Todas las supervivientes coincidían en que eliminarlos a tiros o a golpes en la cabeza, o a golpes de machete o de hacha en el cuello, no era matarlos, sino desconectarlos de una querencia absurda a la vida. No está muerto lo que yace eternamente, como dijo la bibliotecaria, que había pasado de ser una mosquita muerta y silenciosa a desarrollar un gusto perverso por chistes que sólo comprendía ella.

El problema era que nunca se podía, con ellos, bajar la guardia. El impulso motor iba desgastando sus músculos, royendo sus pies, arrancando jirones continuos de su carne y sus tendones, pero no paraban nunca. Eran muñecos de una cuerda infinita, pollos descabezados que continuaban moviéndose, inconscientes de que ya no existía un cerebro que impulsara los demás miembros del cuerpo.

Pero no corrían, gracias a Dios. Ni sabían, ni podían, ni necesitaban hacerlo. Su paciencia de gestos repetidos, de alimentarse con ansia de otras carnes crudas a las que, sin duda, no eran capaces de encontrar sabor ninguno se recompensaba precisamente porque nunca detenían su persecución. Podías sacarles cien metros de ventaja, o diez kilómetros: tarde o temprano, volvían a aparecer, llamando a tu puerta, pidiéndote sin voz que compartieras con ellos el tesoro de tus entrañas. O si no eran ellos, eran otros, siempre otros: cuando no hay gestos en los rostros, cuando la ropa ya no te distingue y todo son jirones, da lo mismo que te persiga un abogado de éxito o un indigente alcoholizado. Así son las máscaras del zombie.

Lo mejor era eliminarlos de lejos, si era posible, antes de que su eterna cachaza los acercara demasiado. Hay cosas con las que no se juega, y la vida es una de ellas, sobre todo si has sobrevivido al fin del mundo, al amanecer de los muertos, al Apocalipsis caníbal o a como demonios quisieran llamarlo las emisoras de radio y las cadenas de televisión, esas que siempre terminaban sus emisiones entre gritos guturales y borboteos de miedo incomprensible.

Arthur Conan Doyle: The ring of Thoth

Arthur Conan Doyle, The ring of Thoth, Salvo veintiún gramos de diferencia, 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, Arthur Conan Doyle, Wilkie Collins, A Terribly Strange Bed, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


MR. JOHN VANSITTART SMITH, F.R.S., of 147A Gower Street, was a man whose energy of purpose and clearness of thought might have placed him in the very first rank of scientific observers. He was the victim, however, of a universal ambition which prompted him to aim at distinction in many subjects rather than pre-eminence in one. In his early days he had shown aptitude for zoology and for botany which caused his friends to look upon him as a second Darwin, but when a professorship was almost within his reach he had suddenly discontinued his studies and turned his whole attention to chemistry. Here his researches upon the spectra of the metals had won him his fellowship in the Royal Society; but again he played the coquette with his subject, and after a year's absence from the laboratory he joined the Oriental Society, and delivered a paper on the Hieroglyphic and Demotic inscriptions of El Kab, thus giving a crowning example both of the versatility and of the inconstancy of his talents.

The most fickle of wooers, however, is apt to be caught at last, and so it was with John Vansittart Smith. The more he burrowed his way into Egyptology the more impressed he became by the vast field which it opened to the inquirer, and by the extreme importance of a subject which promised to throw a light upon the first germs of human civilisation and the origin of the greater part of our arts and sciences. So struck was Mr. Smith that he straightway married an Egyptological young lady who had written upon the sixth dynasty, and having thus secured a sound base of operations he set himself to collect materials for a work which should unite the research of Lepsius and the ingenuity of Champollion. The preparation of his magnum opus entailed many hurried visits to the magnificent Egyptian collections of the Louvre, upon the last of which, no longer ago than the middle of last October, he became involved in a most strange and noteworthy adventure.

The trains had been slow and the Channel had been rough, so that the student arrived in Paris in a somewhat befogged and feverish condition. On reaching the Hotel de France, in the Rue Laffitte, he had thrown himself upon a sofa for a couple of hours, but finding that he was unable to sleep, he determined, in spite of his fatigue, to make his way to the Louvre, settle the point which he had come to decide, and take the evening train back to Dieppe. Having come to his conclusion, he donned his greatcoat, for it was a raw rainy day, and made his way across the Boulevard des Italiens and down the Avenue de l'Opera. Once in the Louvre he was on familiar ground, and he speedily made his way to the collection of papyri which it was his intention to consult.

The warmest admirers of John Vansittart Smith could hardly claim for him that he was a handsome man. His high-beaked nose and prominent chin had something of the same acute and incisive character which distinguished his intellect. He held his head in a birdlike fashion, and birdlike, too, was the pecking motion with which, in conversation, he threw out his objections and retorts. As he stood, with the high collar of his greatcoat raised to his ears, he might have seen from the reflection in the glass-case before him that his appearance was a singular one. Yet it came upon him as a sudden jar when an English voice behind him exclaimed in very audible tones, "What a queer-looking mortal!"

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo: Salvo veintiún gramos de diferencia

Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo, Salvo veintiún gramos de diferencia, 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, Arthur Conan Doyle, Wilkie Collins, A Terribly Strange Bed


Cinco espantosos crímenes perpetrados en menos de tres meses bastaron para que Jack el Destripador, cuya identidad sigue siendo un misterio, aterrorizase a la violenta e impasible Londres. Después, el considerado padre de los asesinos en serie modernos desapareció sin dejar rastro ni certezas.


―Por Dios, Charles, sabes tan bien como yo que este experimento no puede llegar a buen puerto. Es antinatural. Casi abominable. ¡Una mujer deambulando por los pasillos del London Hospital disfrazada de médico!
―Es que es médico.
―No digas sandeces. Puede que haya traído consigo un título, pero ni todas las prestigiosas universidades de Europa juntas lograrían anular un hecho fundamental: Dios la creó mujer. Eso no cambiará simplemente porque se ponga una bata igual a la mía. ¿Acaso crees que los enfermos no se dan cuenta de lo que hay debajo? Su presencia aquí puede turbar a… los pacientes. He sido testigo de demasiadas miradas lascivas en el corto periodo de tiempo que lleva entre nosotros. Me basta para saber que está de más aquí. Tenemos que hacer algo para poner fin a esta violenta situación. Hay que restaurar la armonía perdida. La reputación del hospital está en juego. No podemos permitir que los caprichos de una muchacha testaruda a la que se le ha metido en la cabeza jugar a ser doctora pongan en peligro una institución honorable como ésta. ¡Oh, vamos, Charles! Lo digo por su propio bien. La mujer es un ser delicado; el Señor la creó así. Por eso la obligación del hombre es protegerla. Aun en contra de su propia voluntad si es necesario. Ellas, seres obstinados, rara vez calculan las consecuencias de sus actos. Para eso estamos nosotros, para poner freno a los pájaros que tienen en la cabeza y evitar que se hagan daño. No niego que parece una joven de gran cultura. Y se diría todo lo inteligente que puede llegar a ser su sexo. Pero no es prudente, Charles. No es prudente en absoluto. No sabe cuál es su lugar. Debería casarse. Es bien parecida y no le costaría encontrar marido. Podría elegir a un médico con consulta propia y ayudarle en sus tareas como recepcionista o incluso como enfermera.
***
Acaricia tiernamente la cabeza del ser deforme que se acurruca entre las sombras, en una esquina de la celda. Al principio sus músculos se tensan. Se retrae igual que ante la escasa luz que se filtra entre los barrotes del ventanuco. La teme como al sol, al que debe las pústulas esparcidas por su cuerpo. Sólo su hirsuta cara, gracias a la densa pelambrera que la protege, está libre de esos estigmas. Pero entonces la bella joven empieza a tararear una nana muy dulcemente, apenas en susurros. Una canción de cuna al ritmo de la cual el ser se mece. Sus ojos acuosos la miran con adoración, como si se tratase de una Virgen. Un reguero de baba cae por la comisura de sus labios entreabiertos, tras los cuales se vislumbran unos dientes irregulares y rojizos, incrustados en encías lívidas y atrofiadas. Jadea agradecido, emitiendo un sonido más digno de piedad que de horror. Una especie de gruñido animal desagradable pero necesario; apenas puede respirar a través de esas oquedades purulentas por las que escapa un hilillo de sangre que ella restaña delicadamente con su pañuelo.

Wilkie Collins: A Terribly Strange Bed

Wilkie Collins: A Terribly Strange Bed, 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, Salomé Guadalupe Ingelmo


Shortly after my education at college was finished, I happened to be staying at Paris with an English friend. We were both young men then, and lived, I am afraid, rather a wild life, in the delightful city of our sojourn. One night we were idling about the neighbourhood of the Palais Royal, doubtful to what amusement we should next betake ourselves. My friend proposed a visit to Frascati's; but his suggestion was not to my taste. I knew Frascati's, as the French saying is, by heart; had lost and won plenty of five-franc pieces there, merely for amusement's sake, until it was amusement no longer, and was thoroughly tired, in fact, of all the ghastly respectabilities of such a social anomaly as a respectable gambling-house. 'For Heaven's sake,' said I to my friend, 'let us go somewhere where we can see a little genuine, blackguard, poverty-stricken gaming with no false gingerbread glitter thrown over it all. Let us get away from fashionable Frascati's, to a house where they don't mind letting in a man with a ragged coat, or a man with no coat, ragged or otherwise.' 'Very well,' said my friend, 'we needn't go out of the Palais Royal to find the sort of company you want. Here's the place just before us; as blackguard a place, by all report, as you could possibly wish to see.' In another minute we arrived at the door and entered the house.

When we got upstairs, and had left our hats and sticks with the doorkeeper, we were admitted into the chief gambling-room. We did not find many people assembled there. But, few as the men were who looked up at us on our entrance, they were all types--lamentably true types--of their respective classes.

We had come to see blackguards; but these men were something worse. There is a comic side, more or less appreciable, in all blackguardism--here there was nothing but tragedy--mute, weird tragedy. The quiet in the room was horrible. The thin, haggard, long-haired young man, whose sunken eyes fiercely watched the turning up of the cards, never spoke; the flabby, fat-faced, pimply player, who pricked his piece of pasteboard perseveringly, to register how often black won, and how often red--never spoke; the dirty, wrinkled old man, with the vulture eyes and the darned great-coat, who had lost his last sou, and still looked on desperately, after he could play no longer--never spoke. Even the voice of the croupier sounded as if it were strangely dulled and thickened in the atmosphere of the room. I had entered the place to laugh, but the spectacle before me was something to weep over. I soon found it necessary to take refuge in excitement from the depression of spirits which was fast stealing on me. Unfortunately I sought the nearest excitement, by going to the table and beginning to play. Still more unfortunately, as the event will show, I won--won prodigiously; won incredibly; won at such a rate that the regular players at the table crowded round me; and staring at my stakes with hungry, superstitious eyes, whispered to one another that the English stranger was going to break the bank.

The game was Rouge et Noir. I had played at it in every city in Europe, without, however, the care or the wish to study the Theory of Chances--that philosopher's stone of all gamblers! And a gambler, in the strict sense of the word, I had never been. I was heart-whole from the corroding passion for play. My gaming was a mere idle amusement. I never resorted to it by necessity, because I never knew what it was to want money. I never practised it so incessantly as to lose more than I could afford, or to gain more than I could coolly pocket without being thrown off my balance by my good luck. In short, I had hitherto frequented gambling-tables -- just as I frequented ball-rooms and opera-houses -- because they amused me, and because I had nothing better to do with my leisure hours.

Francisco García Pavón: Televisión del pasado

Francisco García Pavón, Televisión del pasado, 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


La primera experiencia pública de la R.T.V. (retrotelevisión) iba a tener lugar en un famoso club de la capital. Los invitados estaban todos muy seleccionados y todas las gestiones y preparativos se llevaron a cabo con gran sigilo. Se trataba de una experiencia demasiado trascendente y convenía medir todos los pasos. El ver el pasado era una experiencia inédita en la historia de la humanidad y convenía que la iniciación tuviera lugar entre personas muy inteligentes y sensibles. Por primera vez, antes que a las jerarquías políticas, se atendió a las jerarquías -digamos- mentales, para su inauguración. Estaban invitados los hombres más destacados intelectualmente de todo el mundo. Era difícil prever lo que podía aparecer en la pantalla retrovisora, así como las consecuencias y medidas que conviniera tomar en un futuro próximo ante tan revolucionaria técnica. Las tristes experiencias a que dio lugar la T.V.I.1 aconsejaban estar en guardia ante cada nuevo paso de la técnica, cada vez de mayor proyección humana. Las últimas estadísticas, a pesar del gran desarrollo cultural experimentado en aquellos años, demostraban que entre los humanos no llegaba al uno por mil el número de inteligencias verdaderamente adultas. Todo nuevo paso había que darlo de acuerdo con esta proporción pesimista.
Las gentes acudieron a la sala de proyección con pleno sentido de la responsabilidad. Todas las caras denotaban preocupación. Nadie parecía tocado de esa superficial alegría que proporciona el snobismo y la autosuficiencia. Eran conscientes que del conocimiento del pasado podrían sacarse útiles consecuencias para el estudio del hombre, de la sociedad, de las relaciones humanas, de las causas de muchos fenómenos todavía confusos... Pero también se intuía que este conocimiento aportaría una idea pesimista de la historia humana y la caída de muchos ídolos y conceptos sobre los que se había basado la civilización todavía imperante.
De otra se sabía que la Historia, la gran historia, había sido construida con materiales tendenciosamente seleccionados, venerativos por la inercia mitologi-zante que domina al hombre, siempre necesitado de idealizar, de engañarse a SÍ mismo, de disimularse la angustia de vivir... Tal vez sería conveniente que el total conocimiento del pasado no fuera popularizado jamás, que quedase en poder de una estricta minoría mundial que poco a poco fuese cambiando la mentalidad del común de las gentes y así hacerles asimilables los cambios de perspectiva.

Edgar Allan Poe: A Predicament

Edgar Allan Poe, A Predicament, Tales of mystery, 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



What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus?
COMUS.


IT was a quiet and still afternoon when I strolled forth in the goodly city of Edina. The confusion and bustle in the streets were terrible. Men were talking. Women were screaming. Children were choking. Pigs were whistling. Carts they rattled. Bulls they bellowed. Cows they lowed. Horses they neighed. Cats they caterwauled. Dogs they danced. Danced! Could it then be possible? Danced! Alas, thought I, my dancing days are over! Thus it is ever. What a host of gloomy recollections will ever and anon be awakened in the mind of genius and imaginative contemplation, especially of a genius doomed to the everlasting and eternal, and continual, and, as one might say, the- continued- yes, the continued and continuous, bitter, harassing, disturbing, and, if I may be allowed the expression, the very disturbing influence of the serene, and godlike, and heavenly, and exalted, and elevated, and purifying effect of what may be rightly termed the most enviable, the most truly enviable- nay! the most benignly beautiful, the most deliciously ethereal, and, as it were, the most pretty (if I may use so bold an expression) thing (pardon me, gentle reader!) in the world- but I am always led away by my feelings. In such a mind, I repeat, what a host of recollections are stirred up by a trifle! The dogs danced! I- I could not! They frisked- I wept. They capered- I sobbed aloud. Touching circumstances! which cannot fail to bring to the recollection of the classical reader that exquisite passage in relation to the fitness of things, which is to be found in the commencement of the third volume of that admirable and venerable Chinese novel the Jo-Go-Slow.

In my solitary walk through, the city I had two humble but faithful companions. Diana, my poodle! sweetest of creatures! She had a quantity of hair over her one eye, and a blue ribband tied fashionably around her neck. Diana was not more than five inches in height, but her head was somewhat bigger than her body, and her tail being cut off exceedingly close, gave an air of injured innocence to the interesting animal which rendered her a favorite with all.

And Pompey, my negro!- sweet Pompey! how shall I ever forget thee? I had taken Pompey's arm. He was three feet in height (I like to be particular) and about seventy, or perhaps eighty, years of age. He had bow-legs and was corpulent. His mouth should not be called small, nor his ears short. His teeth, however, were like pearl, and his large full eyes were deliciously white. Nature had endowed him with no neck, and had placed his ankles (as usual with that race) in the middle of the upper portion of the feet. He was clad with a striking simplicity. His sole garments were a stock of nine inches in height, and a nearly- new drab overcoat which had formerly been in the service of the tall, stately, and illustrious Dr. Moneypenny. It was a good overcoat. It was well cut. It was well made. The coat was nearly new. Pompey held it up out of the dirt with both hands.

Edward Frederic Benson: The corner house

Edward Frederic Benson, The corner house,  Tales of mystery, 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


Firham-by-sea had long been known to Jim Purley and myself, though we had been careful not to talk about it, and for years we had been accustomed to skulk quietly away from London, either alone or together, for a day or two of holiday at that delightful and unheard-of little village. It was not, I may safely say, any secretive or dog-in-the-manger instinct of keeping a good thing to ourselves that was the cause of this reticence, but it was because if Firham had become known at all the whole charm of it would have vanished. A popular Firham, in fact, would cease to be Firham, and while we should lose it nobody else would gain it. Its remoteness, its isolation, its emptiness were its most essential qualities; it would have been impossible, so we both of us felt, to have gone to Firham with a party of friends, and the idea of its little inn being peopled with strangers, or its odd little nine-hole golf-course with the small corrugated-iron shed for its club-house becoming full of serious golfers would certainly have been sufficient to make us desire never to play there again. Nor, indeed, were we guilty of any selfishness in keeping the knowledge of that golf-course to ourselves, for the holes were short and dull and the fairway badly kept. It was only because we were at Firham that we so often strolled round it, losing balls in furse bushes and marshy ground, and considering it quite decent putting if we took no more than three putts on a green. It was bad golf in fact, and no one in his senses would think of going to Firham to play bad golf, when good golf was so vastly more accessible. Indeed, the only reason why I have spoken of the golf-links is because in an indirect and distant manner they were connected with the early incidents of the story which strung itself together there, and which, to me at any rate, has destroyed the secure tranquillity of our remote little hermitage.

To get to Firham at all from London, except by a motor drive of some hundred and twenty miles, is a slow progress, and after two changes the leisurely railway eventually lands you no nearer than five miles from your destination. After that a switch-back road terminating in a long decline brings you off the inland Norfolk hills, and into the broad expanse of lowland, once reclaimed from the sea, and now protected from marine invasion by big banks and dykes. From the top of the last hill you get your first sight of the village, its brick-built houses with their tiled roofs smouldering redly in the sunset, like some small, glowing island anchored in that huge expanse of green, and, a mile beyond it, the dim blue of the sea. There are but few trees to be seen on that wide landscape, and those stunted and slanted in their growth by the prevailing wind off the coast, and the great sweep of the country is composed of featureless fields intersected with drainage dykes, and dotted with sparse cattle. A sluggish stream, fringed with reed-beds and loose-strife, where moor-hens chuckle, passes just outside the village, and a few hundred yards below it is spanned by a bridge and a sluice-gate. From there it broadens out into an estuary, full of shining water at high tide, and of grey mud-banks at the ebb, and passes between rows of tussocked sand-dunes out to sea.

The road, descending from the higher inlands, strikes across these reclaimed marshes, and after a mile of solitary travel enters the village of Firham. To right and left stand a few outlying cottages, whitewashed and thatched, each with a strip of gay garden in front and perhaps a fisherman's net spread out to dry on the wall, but before they form anything that could be called a street the road takes a sudden sharp-angled turn, and at once you are in the square which, indeed, forms the entire village. On each side of the broad cobbled space is a line of houses, on one side a post office and police-station with a dozen small shops where may be bought the more rudimentary needs of existence, a baker's, a butcher's, a tobacconist's. Opposite is a row of little residences midway between villa and cottage, while at the far end stands the dumpy grey church with the vicarage, behind green and rather dilapidated palings, beside it. At the near end is the "Fisherman's Arms," the modest hostelry at which we always put up, flanked by two or three more small red-brick houses, of which the farthest, where the road leaves the square again, is the Corner House of which this story treats.

Ángel Ganivet: En el sacro monte. Trogloditas

Ángel Ganivet, En el sacro monte. Trogloditas, Tales of mystery, 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


Cuesta del Chapiz arriba íbamos, el viejo y competente paleontólogo D. Juan de Villavieja y yo, departiendo sobre los grandes problemas de la Historia nacional.

-No comprendo -me decía- la oposición que usted hace a mi proyecto de fundar en Granada una «Sociedad de excavaciones profundas», al que he consagrado tantos esfuerzos y vigilias.

-Pero, amigo mío, si aquí no hace falta excavar profundamente; ni siquiera arañar en la superficie; si aquí está a flor de tierra la Prehistoria y basta abrir los ojos para ver ejemplares vivos del hombre primitivo, habitante de las cavernas. Yo no veo la necesidad de gastar nuestros escasos haberes en picos y azadones.

-Pues, señor mío, con ayuda de esos picos y de esos azadones hemos reconstruido en sus partes principales la vida del español autóctono, del que poblaba nuestro país, antes de que vinieran a él los invasores extraños, iberos, celtas y vascones. Hoy son conocidos los rasgos principales del español troglodita y aún hay indicios para creer que aquí existió la especie humana en el período terciario. (Pausa oratoria).

-Esto último es para mí artículo de fe. Yo soy de los que opinan que el hombre no apareció sobre la tierra hasta el período cuaternario; pero por excepción admito en España, y particularmente en Granada, algunos hombres terciarios o sietemesinos prehistóricos. En España son precoces todas las manifestaciones de la vida y nuestras mujeres nos ofrecen todavía frecuentes ejemplos de generación precoz, en esos embarazos de siete meses y aun menos... Y ahora hablando con seriedad, como a usted le gusta, tengo curiosidad por conocer esos datos importantes que la Prehistoria nos da acerca de los simpáticos trogloditas.

-Nos dice que habitaban en las cavernas en el período en que habitaba también en éstas el oso primitivo o ursus spelus, puesto que los huesos de ambas especies han sido hallados en pacífica mezcolanza; nos dice que cubrían sus cuerpos con telas de esparto crudo; que sabían trabajar los metales y tallar armas de piedra y levantar altares a la divinidad en esos dólmenes, semidólmenes, trilitos y piedras horadadas que ciertos sabios obtusos han atribuido a los celtas.

-Al llegar a este punto nos hallábamos a la entrada del camino del Monte, en el vecinazgo de los famosos trogloditas granadinos y se me ocurrió incitar a mi acompañante a una breve investigación de Prehistoria contemporánea.

-Aquí tiene usted, amigo mío, trogloditas auténticos. Estas cavernas o cuevas, blanqueadas a ratos por la civilización, son el eterno tonel de Diógenes, habitado siempre por hombres primitivos. No encontrará usted el ursus speleus, porque la especie se extinguió ya; pero lo sustituyen con ventaja el borrico, el marranillo, el pavo y la gallina. El antiguo troglodita se contentaba con cazar animales salvajes; el de hoy ha progresado; ha aprendido a apropiarse los animales domésticos y a vivir con ellos en familia.

Y diciendo esto, se acercaba a pedirnos limosna una chiquilla muy mona, tuertecilla la pobre.

Örkény István: Az autóvezető

Örkény István, Az autóvezető, Tales of mystery, 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


Pereszlényi József anyagmozgató, CO 75-14 rendszámú Wartburg kocsijával megállt a sarki újságárusnál.
- Kérek egy Budapesti Híreket.
- Sajnos, elfogyott.
- Akkor egy tegnapi is jó lesz.
- Az is elfogyott. De véletlenül van már egy holnapim.
- Abban is közlik a moziműsort?
- Az mindennap benne van a lapban.
- Hát akkor adja ide azt a holnapit - mondta az anyagmozgató.
Visszaült a kocsijába. Föllapozta a moziműsort. Némi keresgélés után talált egy csehszlovák filmet - Egy szöszi szerelmei -, melyet dicsérni hallott. A Stáció utcai Kék Barlang moziban játszották, és fél hatkor kezdődött az előadás.
Éppen jókor. Még volt egy kis ideje. Továbblapozott a másnapi újságban. Szemébe ötlött egy napihír Pereszlényi József anyagmozgatóról, aki CO 75-14 rendszámú Wartburg személy­gépkocsijával a megengedettnél gyorsabban haladt a Stáció utcában, és nem messze a Kék Barlang mozitól belerohant egy szembejövő teherautóba. Az elővigyázatlan anyagmozgató szörnyethalt.
- Még ilyet! - mondta magában Pereszlényi.

Maurizio Nati: Fiat voluntas tua

Maurizio Nati, Fiat voluntas tua, Tales of mystery, 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


«L'elicottero è pronto, Santità» annunciò dal videocitofono il giovane sacerdote dall'aria efebi­ca, e la sua voce spezzò brutalmente il silenzio all'interno della stanzetta disadorna in cui Giovanni XXIV si era isolato a meditare. Una cella da monastero medievale che tradiva i trascorsi religiosi dell'anziano pontefice e le sue tendenze ideologiche. Arredo ridotto all'essen­ziale, un grosso crocifisso di legno a una parete, lo schermo del videocitofono mimetizzato per quanto possibile sopra un tavolinetto nell'angolo, una finestrella lunga e stretta dalla quale si scorgeva uno spicchio del cielo grigio di Roma.

Giovanni XXIV si rialzò non senza fatica dal­l'inginocchiatoio imbottito, notando che l'in­dolenzimento delle giunture era più forte che in altre occasioni. Segno che era rimasto inginoc­chiato più a lungo del solito, e per di più senza ricavarne i risultati sperati. Era più confuso di prima.

Premette il tasto del videocitofono e subito si visualizzò l'immagine a mezzo busto del giovane sacerdote. «Don Roberto, dica al Cardinale Segretario di Stato di raggiungermi appena possi­bile.»

«Subito, Santità.»

Il vecchio pontefice si diresse a passi lenti verso la stanza adiacente, che costituiva una si­gnificativa porzione dei suoi alloggi privati, con­venientemente ridotti al minimo indispensabile. Non ho bisogno di tutto questo spazio, si era detto appena eletto papa, quindici anni prima. E nem­meno di tutto questo sfarzo. Sono un servo di Dio, non un principe regnante.

Non fece in tempo ad arrivare al suo scrittoio che qualcuno bussò alla porta ed entrò prima ancora che lui avesse avuto il tempo di rispon­dere. Apparve un porporato piccolo e rinsecchito, con due occhietti neri e vispi e un'aria gioviale sul volto accuratamente sbarbato.

«Mi volevi, Giovanni?» disse, restando defe-rentemente in piedi accanto a una delle due sedie al di là dello scrittoio.

Giovanni XXIV si accasciò sulla sua poltrona e fece cenno all'altro di accomodarsi.

«Sto per andare al mio appuntamento» gli disse con un filo di voce. «Ma ancora non sono sicuro di essere preparato.» Lo fissò con l'aria quasi smarrita, in cerca di una risposta.

«Giovanni, io... devo ricordarti che ho già espresso con franchezza tutta la mia perplessità. Sono ancora convinto che tu non debba andare a quell'appuntamento.»

Il Santo Padre sembrò deluso. Sperava che il Cardinale Segretario di Stato avesse cambiato idea. Faceva molto affidamento sul suo senso pratico e sulla sua intelligenza acuta, e avrebbe voluto averlo dalla sua parte anche in quest'occa­sione. Soprattutto in quest'occasione.

«Lo so, Angelo. So come la pensi. E so anche che probabilmente dovrei darti ragione. Ma il cuore mi dice che devo andare. Io sento che è tutto vero, che non è una mistificazione. Non posso dire di no a Nostro Signore!»

Edgar Allan Poe: The Balloon-Hoax

Edgar Allan Poe, The Balloon-Hoax, Tales of mystery, 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


SUN OFFICE
April 13, 10 o'clock A.M.
==================================
ASTOUNDING NEWS! BY EXPRESS VIA NORFOLK:
---------------
THE ATLANTIC CROSSED IN THREE DAYS!
---------------
SIGNAL TRIUMPH OF MR. MONCK MASON'S FLYING MACHINE!!!
---------------
Arrival at Sullivan's Island, near Charlestown, S. C., of Mr. Mason, Mr. Robert Holland, Mr. Henson, Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, and four others, in the mm.

STEERING BALLOON "VICTORIA," AFTER A PASSAGE OF SEVENTY-FIVE HOURS FROM LAND TO LAND.
---------------
FULL PARTICULARS OF THE VOYAGE!!!
---------------

The great problem is at length solved. The air, as well as the earth and the ocean, has been subdued by science, and will become a common and convenient highway for mankind. The Atlantic has been actually crossed in a Balloon; and this too without difficulty -- without any great apparent danger -- with thorough control of the machine -- and in the inconceivably brief period of seventy-five hours from shore to shore! By the energy of an agent at Charleston, S.C., we are enabled to be the first to furnish the public with a detailed account of this most extraordinary voyage, which was performed between Saturday, the 6th instant, at 11, A.M., and 2, P.M., on Tuesday the 9th inst.: by Sir Everard Bringhurst; Mr. Osborne, a nephew of Lord Bentinck's; Mr. Monck Mason and Mr. Robert Holland, the well-known aeronauts; Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, author of "Jack Sheppard," &c.; and Mr. Henson, the projector of the late unsuccessful flying machine -- with two seamen from Woolwich -- in all, eight persons. The particulars furnished below may be relied on as authentic and accurate in every respect, as, with slight exception, they are copied verbatim from the joint diaries of Mr. Monck Mason and Mr. Harrison Ainsworth, to whose politeness our agent is also indebted for much verbal information respecting the balloon itself, its construction, and other matters of interest. The only alteration in the MS. received, has been made for the purpose of throwing the hurried account of our agent, Mr. Forsyth, into a connected and intelligible form.

THE BALLOON.

Two very decided failures, of late -- those of Mr. Henson and Sir George Cayley -- had much weakened the public interest in the subject of aerial navigation. Mr. Henson's scheme (which at first was considered very feasible even by men of science,) was founded upon the principle of an inclined plane, started from an eminence by an extrinsic force, applied and continued by the revolution of impinging vanes, in form and number resembling the vanes of a windmill. But, in all the experiments made with models at the Adelaide Gallery, it was found that the operation of these fans not only did not propel the machine, but actually impeded its flight. The only propelling force it ever exhibited, was the mere impetus acquired from the descent of the inclined plane; and this impetus carried the machine farther when the vanes were at rest, than when they were in motion -- a fact which sufficiently demonstrates their inutility; and in the absence of the propelling, which was also the sustaining power, the whole fabric would necessarily descend. This consideration led Sir George Cayley to think only of adapting a propeller to some machine having of itself an independent power of support -- in a word, to a balloon; the idea, however, being novel, or original, with Sir George, only so far as regards the mode of its application to practice. He exhibited a model of his invention at the Polytechnic Institution. The propelling principle, or power, was here, also, applied to interrupted surfaces, or vanes, put in revolution. These vanes were four in number, but were found entirely ineffectual in moving the balloon, or in aiding its ascending power. The whole project was thus a complete failure.

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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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