The Spectre Girl

~ Nina Zumel ~ Leave a comment

The Spectre Girl
(La Fille Spectre)
by Agathe-Pauline Caylac de Ceylan

I should not have dared, twenty years ago, to relate what I once witnessed in a journey from Paris to Marseilles. At that period the truth alone was not sufficient in a narrative, there must also be probability; and readers chose, for this reason, to remain ignorant of a host of circumstances which gives endless variety to human life, and an ever-changing aspect to human nature. We now perhaps incline to the opposite extreme. A philosopher has truly said “all is possible;” and as I am a convert to the truth of this opinion, I have no hesitation in relating the following anecdote.

On the 21st of October 1812, I was a passenger in a diligence, which as it slowly ascended the hill of Autun, gave me leisure to examine a landscape of vineyards just stripped of their rich fruit—a sad sight to one who had no interest in calculating the value of the produce. My fellow travellers were vulgar people, and to our general misfortune one of them was nursing a little boy, whom I should have considered a fine child anywhere but in a public conveyance carrying nine insides; of whom, however, there were yet only seven.

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The Vampire

~ Nina Zumel ~ Leave a comment

The Vampire
(El vampiro)
by Ramón García Sánchez

– I –

The old chronicles recount that back in the tenth century there lived in a certain village a feudal knight of immense fortune, the owner of an ancient castle, once the patrimony of an illustrious family that glorified their fatherland with their heroic deeds. Somehow, that castle, the living memorial of so many traditions, ended up in the hands of a stranger.

The people of the neighboring towns rarely saw the new Croesus who inhabited the castle; and even in the very village where the venerable towers of his majestic dwelling rose up above the humble huts, no one knew the man’s origin, or his family, or even his name. He appeared only rarely, and even then he never exchanged a single word with anyone. So old that he was bent nearly double by the weight of his years, always austere and somber, his countenance seemed unpleasant at first sight; and this, together with his somewhat strange and mysterious habits, made everyone view him with a respect that degenerated into exaggerated fear.

But the strangest thing of all was that, outside of its singular owner and a few servants, no one else was known to live in the castle; and yet, from time to time, but always at the midnight hour, the interior of the vast dwelling would suddenly come alight, and from it would emerge confused shouts and voices of merriment: the noise of glasses and bottles crashing against each other, at times a sweet and gentle melody like that of an improvised concert, lilting sighs, the laughter and voices of women in joyous orgy. A cacophony, in short, that shattered the tranquility and disturbed the sleep of the peaceful inhabitants of the village, who could not figure out how to explain such a ruckus.

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The Devil’s Rosebush

~ Nina Zumel ~ Leave a comment

The Devil’s Rosebush
(El rosal del diablo)
by Pedro Escamilla

– I –

If we are to credit old legends and local traditions, Germany is one of the countries the devil visits most.

This is not to attack the goodness of its inhabitants; the Spirit of Darkness no doubt has his preferences, which we need to respect.

Indeed, there’s hardly a German legend without the devil playing the protagonist. And it’s said that this is a country that holds to its traditions.

In some legends, he’s seen acting out a comedy with humble mountain people; at other times, an epic romance with the inhabitants of ancient castles.

The devil is everywhere.

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A Ripper of Yesteryear (Parts III and IV)

~ Nina Zumel ~ Leave a comment

A Ripper of Yesteryear
(Un destripador de antaño)
Parts III and IV
by Emilia Pardo Bazán

(Read Part II here)

– III –

In that back room of the apothecary shop, where, according to the authoritative account of Jacoba de Alberte, no human being entered, Don Custodio was in the habit most nights of having a chat with a canon of the Holy Metropolitan Church, a fellow student of pharmaceutical arts, an older man, dry as a piece of kindling, with a ready smile and a great fondness for tobacco. He was the constant friend and intimate confidant of Don Custodio, and if the horrendous crimes that the common people attributed to the apothecary were true, no one would be more appropriate to keep the secret of such abominations than the Canon Don Lucas Llorente, who was the quintessence of mystery and of concealment from the masses.

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