Los cuentos de la oscuridad S.R. Polaris

El horror oculto, narra la historia de un hombre y sus dos compañeros, quienes deciden pasar una noche en la Mansión Martense, cuya horrorosa reputación está repleta de episodios ominosos...

One of the all time American classics, this short story can terrify you as well as amuse you, you will be the judge at the end...

I am writing this under an appreciable mental strain, since by tonight I shall be no more. Penniless, and at the end of my supply of the drug which alone makes life endurable, I can bear the torture no longer; and shall cast myself from this garret window into the squalid street below. Do not think from my slavery to morphine that I am a weakling or a degenerate. When you have read these hastily scrawled pages you may guess, though never fully realise, why it is that I must have forgetfulness or death...

It was many and many a year ago,

In a kingdom by the sea,

That a maiden there lived whom you may know

By the name of Annabel Lee;

And this maiden she lived with no other thought

Than to love and be loved by me.



I was a child and she was a child,

In this kingdom by the sea,

But we loved with a love that was more than love—

I and my Annabel Lee—

With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven

Coveted her and me.



And this was the reason that, long ago,

In this kingdom by the sea,

A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling

My beautiful Annabel Lee;

So that her highborn kinsmen came

And bore her away from me,

To shut her up in a sepulchre

In this kingdom by the sea.



The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,

Went envying her and me—

Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know,

In this kingdom by the sea)

That the wind came out of the cloud by night,

Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.



But our love it was stronger by far than the love

Of those who were older than we—

Of many far wiser than we—

And neither the angels in Heaven above

Nor the demons down under the sea

Can ever dissever my soul from the soul

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;



For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;

And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side

Of my darling—my darling—my life and my bride,

In her sepulchre there by the sea—

In her tomb by the sounding sea.

There is snow on the ground,And the valleys are cold,And a midnight profoundBlackly squats o'er the wold;But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings un-hallowed and old.There is death in the clouds,There is fear in the night,For the dead in their shroudsHail the sin's turning flight.And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule- altar fungous and white.To no gale of Earth's kindSways the forest of oak,Where the sick boughs entwinedBy mad mistletoes choke,For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.

Desarrolla la visión de un paisaje que, al mismo tiempo, se percibe como algo mágico pero también desolador; cuestiones que Edgar Allan Poe a menudo explora en sus poemas...