u/FranciscoCortesRamir

The cabin had two stories with wooden floors, and its large windows overlooked a row of similar chalets stretching along the beach, like soldiers standing at attention before the majestic sea. By all appearances, it was an elegant retreat, ideal for rest and escape from the noise of the city. The retired police officer had acquired the house at a very good price through a real estate agent, without ever needing to meet him in person, as the entire transaction and paperwork had been completed electronically. Thus, as its new owner, he had moved in the previous day with two suitcases: one filled with clothes and the other with books. It was the reward for so many years of service and for the loneliness into which his ex-wife and children, now living in other countries, had left him. The cabin was fully equipped for a comfortable stay; his bedroom was upstairs, while the kitchen and living room were downstairs.

For him, leaving the cities behind offered respite from a changing world in which everything seemed predictably flawless. Science and history had made themselves guardians of modern security, one looking toward the future and the other toward the past. Yet his years confronting the human nature of crime had taught him that the future was uncertain, that the phenomena of life were immersed in mysteries beyond the reach of scientists and scholars, and that at any moment he might find himself face to face with the inexplicable. His only certainty was that he would have to confront it. As a child, he had been timid, and it was out of that shame that he had found in law enforcement a way to vindicate his early weakness, taking on the challenge of investigating strange crimes and never resting until those responsible had been captured. In this way, his professional success had contrasted sharply with the failure of his personal life, which had driven away those closest to him.

The first night, he slept so deeply from accumulated exhaustion that it was well into the following morning before he decided to go downstairs and prepare breakfast. As he descended the stairs, his eyes fell on the living room, where he discovered one of his bed pillows resting on the coffee table. He silently wondered whether he might have gotten up during the night without remembering it. Then his police instincts, sharpened by years of investigation, compelled him to retrace his steps and examine his bed. Just as he suspected, the vase that belonged in the center of the living room table now lay on the left side of the bed.

He checked the front door and the locks on every window, confirming—as he had the night before—that everything was securely fastened, leaving no possibility of entry from outside. Therefore, whoever had played the prank had to be inside. Yet both floors were completely open, with no corners or hiding places. Even so, he inspected the thickness of the walls and carefully examined the edges of the floors, searching for a cellar or secret passage. He found nothing. In the end, frustrated and exhausted, and with his hunger growing, he resigned himself to preparing something to eat.

He spent the rest of the day walking along the beach, where the surf came to an end—waves that, like all other creatures of the sea, were incapable of climbing the sand and walking onto dry land. His mind sought peace, but the persistent memory of the prank kept him alert and uneasy. At dusk, when he returned home, he inspected every room without finding a single object out of place. He then took measures to prevent the prankster from returning that night: he reinforced the doors and windows and placed chairs across the stairs as barriers. His night could not have been more restless. He repeatedly got out of bed, flashlight in hand, to inspect his surroundings, but found nothing unusual. Only toward dawn did he manage to fall into a light sleep, and he was already awake when the first rays of sunlight appeared.

He sat up abruptly and inspected the room. Nothing was out of place. The chair barricading the stairs remained untouched, and when he went down to the living room, everything was in order. But in the kitchen, resting directly on the stovetop, one of his books lay open. He looked for the kettle that should have been there and, returning to his room with absolute certainty, opened his second suitcase. Nestled among the other books was the missing kettle.

Dismayed, the man collapsed onto the bed. He was confronted with an inexplicable phenomenon, yet his rational mind prevented him from believing in the supernatural.

Over the following days, he tried to clear his mind and let the sea, the beach, and the sun console him, but his brooding thoughts stubbornly returned. His dream of a peaceful life after so many years of anguish seemed lost, because every night the ritual was repeated with different objects. One day, as he gazed out at the surf, he watched the sea, like a capricious child, moving stones, shells, branches, and sand from one place to another. That was when the detective in him perceived the solution to the mystery.

That night, he moved many of the objects in the house, placing them in different locations without order or coherence, following the tendency of the phenomenon. Confident in his strategy, he slept peacefully.

In the morning, the objects were still exactly where he had placed them. Nothing else had moved.

Satisfied, he left everything in disarray for a week, during which there was no unusual activity. Then, one day, he put everything back in its proper place and confirmed that each object remained where it belonged.

With his ingenuity, he had outwitted the prankster, who, bewildered, must have moved on to torment another household.

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This is an original fictional work. No part of this text may be reproduced, translated, or narrated in any audio, video, or digital format without the express written permission of the author.

The elderly, graceful woman patiently washed the stained ceramic dishes, while through the small kitchen window, the silent, patient Plague carefully observed her every move. It was undeniable that thick, silvery-gray hair already covered her fragile head, yet her overall physical appearance remained remarkably healthy, and her soft, clean face retained its youthful freshness despite the cruel passage of long, uninterrupted years. That enduring vitality was the direct result of a lifetime full of strict, unyielding habits: impeccable personal hygiene and meticulous household cleanliness, a balanced and nutritious diet entirely free of excessive sugar and heavy fats, and, above all, immediate and cautious attention to the slightest symptom that might signal a sudden disruption in the delicate balance of her body.

The dark, lurking Disease had spent a long time lying in wait, hoping for a golden opportunity—a simple lapse in her rigid routines, a neglected inflammation, or brief exposure to a cold, biting wind. Yet the long-awaited moment had never come. She knew she was immensely powerful, an implacable and terrifying entity with a vast array of obedient agents at her disposal, ready to assist her in disrupting the natural physiology of complex living beings: microscopic bacteria, harmful parasites, invasive fungi, deadly viruses, and various toxic substances.

The diligent woman finished her kitchen chores and prepared to go grocery shopping, organized and unhurried. Once outside on the busy street, she walked with a steady, confident step toward the wide, dangerous avenue. Just then, she saw a small, helpless child break free from his mother's protective hand and run across the asphalt, completely oblivious to the imminent danger. Without a second thought, she rushed toward him and managed to push him out of the path of the speeding car, which struck her fragile body instead, leaving her bleeding, broken, and still on the cold pavement.

The dark Disease lingered for a moment over the tragic scene, brooding over her final, unexpected defeat.

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This is an original fictional work. No part of this text may be reproduced, translated, or narrated in any audio, video, or digital format without the express written permission of the author.

The first letter, like a fragile, sleeping dove, lay atop the old fruit basket that served as a simple ornament in the dark dining room. Without an envelope, it was merely the white shape of a small, thin sheet of fine paper. It had been written in haste: no return address, no recipient, just a few brief lines explaining that she was leaving for foreign shores, that she had to pursue her own desires and seek her fortune in a distant land, that she would return as soon as she could, and that she knew her little boy was in good hands.

The devoted aunt had hidden it away at the bottom of a secret drawer where she kept those useless objects preserved merely for the sake of having them, though they were never used, always careful that her innocent nephew would not stumble upon it. She firmly believed it to be a promise as empty as the fleeting motherhood her sister had once offered during those early years of the boy’s life—years in which she, already an older woman, had been forced gradually to assume the role of a mother.

From that bitter day, and for an entire decade, the other letters began to arrive, one every week. These did come inside elegant envelopes, and the sheets of paper were vivid-colored stationery, resembling free birds in full flight. They had the boy as their sole recipient and were elegantly signed with the name of his beloved mother. Unlike the ancient hiding place of that first letter, all these little notes were kept in the small drawer of the boy’s nightstand, so he could let them fly whenever he wished to read them again.

It had been a creative triumph for the aunt to invent fantastic tales of adventures in distant, unknown places, pouring onto the pages an inexhaustible torrent of an absent mother’s love for her only son. It felt strange to portray her younger sister in such a wonderful light—the same sister who had behaved so cruelly toward her and her own child, abandoning them without ever giving any real news of her uncertain whereabouts.

Yet that constant illusion had been the engine driving the boy forward and shaping his mature personality. And while he professed a pure love for his aunt, his deepest feelings were reserved for the absent mother, adventurous and brave. Thus, despite the profound pain and jealousy she felt toward the woman whose words she was forced to write, the aunt was incapable of revealing the truth behind the charade she had built. She preferred to keep sending those vibrant, colorful sheets of stationery rather than plunge the boy into the absolute despair of never hearing from his mother again.

However, a final letter arrived in a blue envelope that was far too formal, its sheet of cold paper creased with straight, impersonal typographic lines, devoid of the silhouette of a white dove or a colorful bird, and addressed to the aunt by her full name. In it, a stern judge handed down a mandatory order for the immediate surrender of the boy to his mother, who, having returned from abroad, expected to reunite with him and take him away to live in those distant lands of adventure.

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This is an original fictional work. No part of this text may be reproduced, translated, or narrated in any audio, video, or digital format without the express written permission of the author.

The first light of day fell upon the gray concrete bench in the center of the park. Its glare disturbed the man’s closed eyes, like a child tugging at an adult’s clothes, eager to play. At last, he sat up, remembering his wretched luck with the dice the night before. He had lost everything once again, and, to his despair, he had nothing left to sell. In recent months, driven by his addiction to gambling, he had stripped himself of all his possessions: first selling the property he had inherited from his father, then pawning his furniture and appliances, his clothes, and his watch, until, in the delusion of his vice, he had even sold a pint of his own blood.

Sitting there, he took stock of his bleak situation. He had no material possessions left to surrender, but he still had two things to sell: his memories and his soul. The challenge was finding the right buyer, someone interested in such rarities, which were not traded every day. He told himself that this was the domain of priests and demons, and that such a transaction required searching churches and cemeteries. Smoothing his wrinkled suit, he headed toward the first cathedral along his path, which stood at the end of a long avenue—a temple far too large for his taste.

Fortunately, its doors stood open, and there were no more than two worshipers inside, making it easy for him to slip in unnoticed until he reached an old confessional. A drawn curtain indicated the presence of a clergyman, ready to hear the repentant. Without hesitation, he sat on the worn bench and, leaning toward the wooden screen, whispered a greeting. On the other side, through the chiaroscuro, the silhouette of the priest emerged: his bald head and cassock.

The man began to recount his tragic story in detail, offering convoluted explanations while carefully omitting his repulsive vice. Finally, he explained that he was burdened with memories and willing to share them with anyone interested. He then asked whether it was true that everyone possessed a soul, and whether prelates had any interest in purchasing one.

The priest spoke evasively, carefully masking his intentions, but it was clear that the proposition interested him, and an offer seemed to lie behind his rigid posture. At last, he explained that memories were not a commodity easily bought, since they never came alone but were always intertwined with remorse, becoming damaged in the process of separation. As for souls, he advised that they could only be negotiated with the living, since the dead were in no condition to surrender them. If a deal were struck, however, he could advance him a sum as a down payment. He emphasized that the responsibility would rest solely with the seller, as established in a signed consent form; this would protect the buyer from bearing the weight of such a sin.

The gambler did not think twice. He accepted the terms, desperate for enough cash to play one last hand of cards. Later, outside the casino, the prelate waited for the addict to emerge. As expected, he had lost once again. Offering words of comfort, the priest ushered him into his vehicle and drove him to a clandestine clinic on the outskirts of the city, while handing him a potent narcotic to drink. 

Once there, without delay, the hired surgeon extracted the man’s soul—which took the form of a healthy kidney, precisely the one needed by the clergyman’s ailing mother.

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This is an original fictional work. No part of this text may be reproduced, translated, or narrated in any audio, video, or digital format without the express written permission of the author.

The laboratory complex was immense, filled with rooms packed with modern equipment and large screens. Suddenly, the electronic doors parted for the scientist and her young son. They walked briskly, her in the lead, greeting the staff at work along the way—some in white lab coats, others with gleaming helmets on their heads. The boy gazed in fascination at this world of metal and glass, almost entirely in white, so different from his grandparents' countryside home, so different from the green and blue of the mountains.

His mother spent little time with them, citing her work commitments, which was why it felt so strange for the little boy that, for the very first time, she was taking him to her workplace. "There is someone you have to meet," she had told him. With a heavy heart, he had said goodbye to his grandparents and loaded his small suitcase into his mother’s spacious vehicle, not at all thrilled about leaving that home and his little friends from the neighboring houses.

Now he walked behind his mother without holding her hand; as far back as he could remember, she never showed him any affection and, on the contrary, insisted on treating him like an adult. Finally, they reached a set of escalators that led them to a main office. Inside, there was a sofa and a few armchairs, from where the acrylic ceilings of the lower floors could be seen. His mother gestured for him to sit and ease the fatigue from the long walk; she then sat across from him and, looking at him with quiet condescension, proceeded to explain that this was the most important place in her life, just as she hoped it would be for him later on when he grew up.

Visibly moved, she told him she had become a mother again, and that the reason she had brought him here was to introduce him to his little sister. The boy was taken by surprise his eyes wide open. Although a flash of jealousy initially crossed his face, a timid smile then lit up his lips, imagining a little girl who looked like him, someone he could play with, just like he did with his friends back at the mountain house. Seeing this effect on the little boy's face, the scientist stood up and opened a side door. Excited, the boy sprang to his feet; however, his utter disappointment came when a small metallic robot with bulging, artificial pink eyes stepped through the door.

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This is an original fictional work. No part of this text may be reproduced, translated, or narrated in any audio, video, or digital format without the express written permission of the author.

The sheet of glass coated with a layer of mercury was truly a majestic mirror, despite being set into the aged wood of an old-fashioned vanity. Perhaps that was why children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren had preserved it, though they had always lied when claiming they kept it because of its sentimental value. It had been commissioned as a wedding gift for the great-grandparents, in a time of spacious rooms and simple dreams. For that reason, it had originally stood at the center of the mansion's living room, but after their deaths it passed from one house to another as the heirs divided the estate. Thus, the lives of four generations had been captured in reflections that, like snapshots, remained preserved within the glass. Some were bright and perfectly clear, born of sunlight; others were softer beneath the artificial glow of lightbulbs; and still others belonged to the world of chiaroscuro, nocturnal images in which figures dissolved into shadows with no distinct form. The millions of accumulated images usually showed men and women adjusting their appearance, but they also preserved moments of couples arguing, lovers embracing, children being slapped, several births, an abortion, a drawer slowly filling with money, a murder, and a suicide. Yet in every one of them—like a watermark that appears only when the paper is printed—there lingered the unseen image of those repulsive spirits, with bloodshot eyes and hideous tongues hanging from their mouths, perched astride the shoulders of the people they possessed.

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This is an original fictional work. No part of this text may be reproduced, translated, or narrated in any audio, video, or digital format without the express written permission of the author.

The first letter, like a fragile, sleeping dove, lay atop the old fruit basket that served as a simple ornament in the dark dining room. Without an envelope, it was merely the white shape of a small, thin sheet of fine paper. It had been written in haste: no return address, no recipient, just a few brief lines explaining that she was leaving for foreign shores, that she had to pursue her own desires and seek her fortune in a distant land, that she would return as soon as she could, and that she knew her little boy was in good hands.

The devoted aunt had hidden it away at the bottom of a secret drawer where she kept those useless objects preserved merely for the sake of having them, though they were never used, always careful that her innocent nephew would not stumble upon it. She firmly believed it to be a promise as empty as the fleeting motherhood her sister had once offered during those early years of the boy’s life—years in which she, already an older woman, had been forced gradually to assume the role of a mother.

From that bitter day, and for an entire decade, the other letters began to arrive, one every week. These did come inside elegant envelopes, and the sheets of paper were vivid-colored stationery, resembling free birds in full flight. They had the boy as their sole recipient and were elegantly signed with the name of his beloved mother. Unlike the ancient hiding place of that first letter, all these little notes were kept in the small drawer of the boy’s nightstand, so he could let them fly whenever he wished to read them again.

It had been a creative triumph for the aunt to invent fantastic tales of adventures in distant, unknown places, pouring onto the pages an inexhaustible torrent of an absent mother’s love for her only son. It felt strange to portray her younger sister in such a wonderful light—the same sister who had behaved so cruelly toward her and her own child, abandoning them without ever giving any real news of her uncertain whereabouts.

Yet that constant illusion had been the engine driving the boy forward and shaping his mature personality. And while he professed a pure love for his aunt, his deepest feelings were reserved for the absent mother, adventurous and brave. Thus, despite the profound pain and jealousy she felt toward the woman whose words she was forced to write, the aunt was incapable of revealing the truth behind the charade she had built. She preferred to keep sending those vibrant, colorful sheets of stationery rather than plunge the boy into the absolute despair of never hearing from his mother again.

However, a final letter arrived in a blue envelope that was far too formal, its sheet of cold paper creased with straight, impersonal typographic lines, devoid of the silhouette of a white dove or a colorful bird, and addressed to the aunt by her full name. In it, a stern judge handed down a mandatory order for the immediate surrender of the boy to his mother, who, having returned from abroad, expected to reunite with him and take him away to live in those distant lands of adventure.

---

© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This story is fictional. No part of this text may be reproduced, narrated, or adapted without the express written permission of the author.

The quiet night was a dark cloak wrapped tightly around the vast, imposing museum,where only the tall iron lampposts along its long corridors dimly illuminated the silent,still sculptures and old engravings on the cold, austere walls. The dictator’s trustedassistant moved with extraordinary, ghostlike stealth, to such an extent that he seemedalmost to levitate over the highly polished wooden floorboards. He had acquired thispeculiar ability through the dangerous task of monitoring secret conversations plottingagainst his ruthless master.

This time, he had slipped quietly through a narrow, broken window in the secluded,shadowy backyard of the massive building. He knew how to move entirely at willthrough the deep, impenetrable shadows of the premises, despite the large metal canisterhe carried in one hand. His primary target was in a quiet, remote, secluded back room ofthe historic palace, where the secret conspirators had gathered, taking full advantage ofthe absolute solitude that gripped the empty galleries during the silent night hours.

Upon entering the grand hall, he pressed himself rigidly against the cold walls and,moving slowly like a reptile, carefully made his way among the tall, imposing columns.His smooth, almost imperceptible movements produced not the slightest audible sounduntil he managed to slip behind a heavy, thick curtain.

After several long minutes of close observation, still unable to make out those huddled inthe darkest, most secluded corner of the room, the assistant allowed his eyes to adjustslowly to the darkness. Gradually, with increasing precision, the shapes of the menassembled there became clearer.

There were four of them, without a doubt: two seated on one side of the old, wornwooden table, another leaning closely over the shoulder of the tense man seated at itscenter, who held a black pen over the manuscript in his hands.

Their elegant attire marked them as enlightened men, dressed in fine, elegant garments ofrich, vivid colors, some of pure silk, catching the faint glimmer of the light illuminatingthe scene. The tense moment was urgent, and the assistant understood that the documentmust contain some radical republican declaration they intended to publish, inciting thepeople to rise against the cruel, ruthless dictator.

Confident in his ability and efficiency, he passed imperceptibly behind them. Then hebent low with practiced dexterity and let the gasoline pour from the large metal canister,smoothly flooding the floor around the conspirators without arousing the slightest alarm.

When the precise moment arrived, he struck a match. Fierce, raging flames erupted androse like devouring beasts over the revolutionaries.

Even so, he remained at a safe distance, silently watching their faces disappear beneaththe roaring, merciless fire while hearing voices from outside crying for help to containthe blaze.

He slipped away with the agility of a panther, making for the building’s secludedbackyard exit, already imagining the dictator’s satisfied expression when he learned thathis assistant had burned the last painting depicting the signing of the Declaration ofIndependence.

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This story is fictional. No part of this text may be reproduced, narrated, or adapted without the express written permission of the author.

In those days, nothing seemed more terrifying to him than his own shadow. He was nearly six years old and had only recently become aware of its existence. Whenever he looked back, he would see it there, dark and elongated, as though it were a part of his body breaking away. In the mornings, he felt safe when the warm sunlight illuminated everything, and there was no danger of it appearing behind him to frighten him and fill him with dread.

Ah, but at night, it appeared, slithering, viscous, and foul, hounding him through the dimly lit streets, always in league with the malicious moon that gave it the strength to crawl across the ground. His aversion grew night after night, and, like Van Gogh, he wished he could sever it from his back with a single stroke. One night, faced with its gruesome presence, he ran, hoping to escape it and make it stop pursuing him. But when he looked back, he realized it was still there.

He saw the abyss and, without a thought for himself, mad with rage, threw himself into it. As he fell from the cliff, his eyes watched with satisfaction as his shadow smashed against the rocks below, and he smiled victoriously. At last, it would die!

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This story is fictional. No part of this text may be reproduced, narrated, or adapted without the express written permission of the author.

In the deep ocean, everything unfolds in twilight; the meager light that survives through kilometers of dense water allows only dark shapes to be perceived, visible only at close range. Physical beings and organic matter inhabit those depths, but they are also the realm where the consciousness of underwater nature manifests itself.

The captain of the small submersible monitored the outside world through sonar while chewing on a biscuit, hardened by the weeks of the voyage. Besides the doctor and the chief engineer, the other crew members were young cadets who had excelled in the academy’s nautical trials. The captain, a man of few words and long periods of deep abstraction, exchanged only the words necessary to operate the vessel. Otherwise, his habits and routines remained constant, and, in the absence of an outside world, there was time for reading the books they had brought aboard.

Communication with the base through acoustic modems took place at fixed hours, except in an emergency that required breaking protocol. Nevertheless, their position could always be determined using modern technological equipment. They had been trained to combat fatigue and confinement, and the cadets often played Ludo to distract themselves. A small elevator provided access to the command post, where the faint shapes illuminated by the powerful searchlight mounted on the vessel’s outer edge could be observed through the periscope. The captain spent most of his time in that uncomfortable position, recording the slow movements of the water and the occasional silhouettes of marine life crossing the beam.

Because of this, he was the first to glimpse the elusive shape ahead, much like a droplet seen inside a glass of water: an element whose outer edges are difficult to detect, yet whose form can still be discerned. The watery specter expanded and contracted at will, and, being several nautical miles from the submarine, did not appear on the sonar screen. The seasoned sailor sensed the danger and shouted orders to change course. The maneuver was thwarted by a magnetic force acting on the steering system, and, to everyone’s anguish, the order to dive could not be executed either, because the ballast tanks failed to expel the water from their chambers and replace it with air.

The collision was imminent. The order to remain at their stations forced them to suppress their collective panic while the captain returned to the periscope. Now the light struck the figure head-on, and the features of its liquid form could be distinguished more clearly. Its size was colossal, and its enormous head revealed human features: a silhouette with wild hair and a tangled beard and mustache, with closed eyelids barely discernible. Beside it, an equally watery, elongated shape took the form of a trident.

The god opened his eyes, and all his wrath concentrated in his gaze. The waters churned, and his arm wielded the mighty instrument against the submarine. The impact was brutal; the steel plates gave way, allowing the icy waters to rush in.

The captain knew he was going to die, just as all creatures die when they venture into the domain of the master of the deep: in darkness and in silence.

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This story is fictional. No part of this text may be reproduced, narrated, or adapted without the express written permission of the author.

The first light of day fell upon the gray concrete bench in the center of the park. Its glare disturbed the man’s closed eyes, like a child tugging at an adult’s clothes, eager to play. At last, he sat up, remembering his wretched luck with the dice the night before. He had lost everything once again, and, to his despair, he had nothing left to sell. In recent months, driven by his addiction to gambling, he had stripped himself of all his possessions: first selling the property he had inherited from his father, then pawning his furniture and appliances, his clothes, and his watch, until, in the delusion of his vice, he had even sold a pint of his own blood.

Sitting there, he took stock of his bleak situation. He had no material possessions left to surrender, but he still had two things to sell: his memories and his soul. The challenge was finding the right buyer, someone interested in such rarities, which were not traded every day. He told himself that this was the domain of priests and demons, and that such a transaction required searching churches and cemeteries. Smoothing his wrinkled suit, he headed toward the first cathedral along his path, which stood at the end of a long avenue—a temple far too large for his taste.

Fortunately, its doors stood open, and there were no more than two worshipers inside, making it easy for him to slip in unnoticed until he reached an old confessional. A drawn curtain indicated the presence of a clergyman, ready to hear the repentant. Without hesitation, he sat on the worn bench and, leaning toward the wooden screen, whispered a greeting. On the other side, through the chiaroscuro, the silhouette of the priest emerged: his bald head and cassock.

The man began to recount his tragic story in detail, offering convoluted explanations while carefully omitting his repulsive vice. Finally, he explained that he was burdened with memories and willing to share them with anyone interested. He then asked whether it was true that everyone possessed a soul, and whether prelates had any interest in purchasing one.

The priest spoke evasively, carefully masking his intentions, but it was clear that the proposition interested him, and an offer seemed to lie behind his rigid posture. At last, he explained that memories were not a commodity easily bought, since they never came alone but were always intertwined with remorse, becoming damaged in the process of separation. As for souls, he advised that they could only be negotiated with the living, since the dead were in no condition to surrender them. If a deal were struck, however, he could advance him a sum as a down payment. He emphasized that the responsibility would rest solely with the seller, as established in a signed consent form; this would protect the buyer from bearing the weight of such a sin.

The gambler did not think twice. He accepted the terms, desperate for enough cash to play one last hand of cards.

Later, outside the casino, the prelate waited for the addict to emerge. As expected, he had lost once again. Offering words of comfort, the priest ushered him into his vehicle and drove him to a clandestine clinic on the outskirts of the city, while handing him a potent narcotic to drink. Once there, without delay, the hired surgeon extracted the man’s soul—which took the form of a healthy kidney, precisely the one needed by the clergyman’s ailing mother.

---

© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This story is fictional. No part of this text may be reproduced, narrated, or adapted without the express written permission of the author

The cabin had two stories with wooden floors, and its large windows overlooked a row of similar chalets stretching along the beach, like soldiers standing at attention before the majestic sea. By all appearances, it was an elegant retreat, ideal for rest and escape from the noise of the city. The retired police officer had acquired the house at a very good price through a real estate agent, without ever needing to meet him in person, as the entire transaction and paperwork had been completed electronically. Thus, as its new owner, he had moved in the previous day with two suitcases: one filled with clothes and the other with books. It was the reward for so many years of service and for the loneliness into which his ex-wife and children, now living in other countries, had left him. The cabin was fully equipped for a comfortable stay; his bedroom was upstairs, while the kitchen and living room were downstairs.

For him, leaving the cities behind offered respite from a changing world in which everything seemed predictably flawless. Science and history had made themselves guardians of modern security, one looking toward the future and the other toward the past. Yet his years confronting the human nature of crime had taught him that the future was uncertain, that the phenomena of life were immersed in mysteries beyond the reach of scientists and scholars, and that at any moment he might find himself face to face with the inexplicable. His only certainty was that he would have to confront it. As a child, he had been timid, and it was out of that shame that he had found in law enforcement a way to vindicate his early weakness, taking on the challenge of investigating strange crimes and never resting until those responsible had been captured. In this way, his professional success had contrasted sharply with the failure of his personal life, which had driven away those closest to him.

The first night, he slept so deeply from accumulated exhaustion that it was well into the following morning before he decided to go downstairs and prepare breakfast. As he descended the stairs, his eyes fell on the living room, where he discovered one of his bed pillows resting on the coffee table. He silently wondered whether he might have gotten up during the night without remembering it. Then his police instincts, sharpened by years of investigation, compelled him to retrace his steps and examine his bed. Just as he suspected, the vase that belonged in the center of the living room table now lay on the left side of the bed.

He checked the front door and the locks on every window, confirming—as he had the night before—that everything was securely fastened, leaving no possibility of entry from outside. Therefore, whoever had played the prank had to be inside. Yet both floors were completely open, with no corners or hiding places. Even so, he inspected the thickness of the walls and carefully examined the edges of the floors, searching for a cellar or secret passage. He found nothing. In the end, frustrated and exhausted, and with his hunger growing, he resigned himself to preparing something to eat.

He spent the rest of the day walking along the beach, where the surf came to an end—waves that, like all other creatures of the sea, were incapable of climbing the sand and walking onto dry land. His mind sought peace, but the persistent memory of the prank kept him alert and uneasy. At dusk, when he returned home, he inspected every room without finding a single object out of place. He then took measures to prevent the prankster from returning that night: he reinforced the doors and windows and placed chairs across the stairs as barriers. His night could not have been more restless. He repeatedly got out of bed, flashlight in hand, to inspect his surroundings, but found nothing unusual. Only toward dawn did he manage to fall into a light sleep, and he was already awake when the first rays of sunlight appeared.

He sat up abruptly and inspected the room. Nothing was out of place. The chair barricading the stairs remained untouched, and when he went down to the living room, everything was in order. But in the kitchen, resting directly on the stovetop, one of his books lay open. He looked for the kettle that should have been there and, returning to his room with absolute certainty, opened his second suitcase. Nestled among the other books was the missing kettle.

Dismayed, the man collapsed onto the bed. He was confronted with an inexplicable phenomenon, yet his rational mind prevented him from believing in the supernatural.

Over the following days, he tried to clear his mind and let the sea, the beach, and the sun console him, but his brooding thoughts stubbornly returned. His dream of a peaceful life after so many years of anguish seemed lost, because every night the ritual was repeated with different objects. One day, as he gazed out at the surf, he watched the sea, like a capricious child, moving stones, shells, branches, and sand from one place to another. That was when the detective in him perceived the solution to the mystery.

That night, he moved many of the objects in the house, placing them in different locations without order or coherence, following the tendency of the phenomenon. Confident in his strategy, he slept peacefully.

In the morning, the objects were still exactly where he had placed them. Nothing else had moved.

Satisfied, he left everything in disarray for a week, during which there was no unusual activity. Then, one day, he put everything back in its proper place and confirmed that each object remained where it belonged.

With his ingenuity, he had outwitted the prankster, who, bewildered, must have moved on to torment another household.

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This story is fictional. No part of this text may be reproduced, narrated, or adapted without the express written permission of the author

The immense laboratory complex was truly immense, filled with sterile rooms packed with modern scientific equipment and large electronic screens. Suddenly, the heavy electronic doors parted for the brilliant scientist and her young, observant son.

They walked briskly through the corridors, her in the lead, greeting the busy staff at work along the way—some in white lab coats, others with gleaming protective helmets on their heads.

The little boy gazed in sheer fascination at this strange world of metal and glass, almost entirely bathed in white, so different from his grandparents' countryside home, so different from the green and blue of the ancient mountains. His busy mother spent little time with them, citing her demanding work commitments, which was why it felt so strange for the little boy that, for the very first time, she was taking him to her private workplace.

"There is someone special you have to meet," she had told him that morning. With a heavy heart, he had said goodbye to his elderly grandparents and loaded his small suitcase into his mother’s spacious vehicle, not at all thrilled about leaving that warm home and his little friends from the neighboring rural houses.

Now he walked behind his mother without holding her cold hand; as far back as he could remember, she never showed him any maternal affection and, on the contrary, insisted on treating him like an adult man. Finally, they reached a set of metallic escalators that led them to a main executive office.

Inside, there was a leather sofa and a few comfortable armchairs, from where the acrylic ceilings of the lower floors could be seen clearly. His mother gestured for him to sit and ease the fatigue from the long walk; she then sat across from him and, looking at him with quiet, distant condescension, proceeded to explain that this was the most important place in her entire life, just as she hoped it would be for him later on when he grew up and studied.

Visibly moved, she told him she had become a mother again, and that the reason she had brought him here was to introduce him to his new little sister.

The boy was taken by complete surprise, his dark eyes wide open. Although a flash of bitter jealousy initially crossed his face, a timid smile then lit up his lips, imagining a little girl who looked like him, someone he could play with every afternoon, just like he did with his friends back at the mountain house. Seeing this joyful effect on the little boy's face, the scientist stood up and opened a side door.

Excited, the boy sprang to his feet; however, his utter, crushing disappointment came when a small metallic robot with bulging, artificial pink eyes stepped through the door.

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This story is fictional. No part of this text may be reproduced, narrated, or adapted without the express written permission of the author.

The sheet of glass coated with a layer of mercury was truly a majestic mirror, despite being set into the aged wood of an old-fashioned vanity. Perhaps that was why children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren had preserved it, though they had always lied when claiming they kept it because of its sentimental value. It had been commissioned as a wedding gift for the great-grandparents, in a time of spacious rooms and simple dreams. For that reason, it had originally stood at the center of the mansion's living room, but after their deaths it passed from one house to another as the heirs divided the estate.

Thus, the lives of four generations had been captured in reflections that, like snapshots, remained preserved within the glass. Some were bright and perfectly clear, born of sunlight; others were softer beneath the artificial glow of lightbulbs; and still others belonged to the world of chiaroscuro, nocturnal images in which figures dissolved into shadows with no distinct form.

The millions of accumulated images usually showed men and women adjusting their appearance, but they also preserved moments of couples arguing, lovers embracing, children being slapped, several births, an abortion, a drawer slowly filling with money, a murder, and a suicide.

Yet in every one of them—like a watermark that appears only when the paper is printed—there lingered the unseen image of those repulsive spirits, with bloodshot eyes and hideous tongues hanging from their mouths, perched astride the shoulders of the people they possessed.

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This story is fictional. No part of this text may be reproduced, narrated, or adapted without the express written permission of the author.

Gathering strength and swelling, the ectoplasm rose above the table, its ethereal body brushing against the parlor ceiling. Beneath it lay the woman from whose mouth it had flowed amid shuddering and convulsions, her eyes vacant and thick drops of sweat upon her face. The substance hated the medium. She was nothing more than a hateful jailer who forced it into long periods of confinement within her body, allowing it into the world only so its glow could impress the credulous souls who left their coins on the counter. The trance never lasted long, and then the spiritualist, gathering her strength, would allow her consciousness to assert itself, forcing the substance to draw its fluids back with the natural result that it returned to its cloister. Locked away there, it possessed neither shape, color, nor temperature; outside, by contrast, it was free; it felt alive, capable of assuming physical form, and of taking possession of any body. The dim light made it easy to display its size, and the air allowed it to suspend itself comfortably, even as meaningless words were uttered by the medium. The specter began circling, terrifying the attendees even further; however, its purpose was not to frighten, but to encircle the seer’s head and suffocate her with its fluids. The woman choked and coughed hoarsely, her hands searching in vain to stop the macabre dance of the substance until, with a breathless cry, she fell face down upon the table. Confusion reigned in the room, and the believers raised their voices in an attempt to help the medium, upon whose rigid countenance death was already written upon her face; one of them rushed to draw back the curtains, and beams of light burst into the parlor. The ectoplasm withered under the force of the sunbeams, its luminescence losing color as the glare pierced through it; and so, in its anguish, it sought refuge within the spiritualist’s body, only to encounter an unusual coldness, while its fluids were left at the mercy of the elements.

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced, distributed, narrated, or adapted in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the author.

The husband and wife were sitting on the porch of their house, from where the asphalt road could be seen, stretched out like a rug. Each of them held a mobile phone in their hands: his was dark blue, and hers, emerald green. The afternoon was fading among the clouds, and a light breeze signaled rain to come. For them, it was pleasant to pass the hours this way, without speaking to each other—or, rather, without doing so verbally. Likewise, they took care not to look at each other directly, only glancing sideways to check on what the other was doing.

They had fallen into this habit a few years ago, following an argument; she texted him, saying she would not speak to him until he apologized for some words that had hurt her. In turn, he replied that he had no intention of apologizing, as he considered her reaction an exaggeration. Thus, out of a simple, ordinary argument between a husband and wife, the habit of texting each other on their phones took root, and they never spoke aloud to each other again. They could, of course, converse verbally with everyone else when they were out in public or were at work, and even when relatives called on the phone, always being careful never to cross the boundary of doing so between themselves.

Their text messages became precise and limited to essentials; they no longer found it necessary to exchange opinions as they once had, and knowing that the other was there, present, yet without hearing their voice, became as necessary as it was pleasing. This practice led them to understand each other so well that they could anticipate each other's chores and, therefore, required fewer messages. They refined it with such detail and mastery that they could leave the house to go for a walk or shopping, and it was seamless to walk together, without looking at each other, yet sharing spaces, meals, or a movie. In the neighborhood, they were held in high esteem for being so devoted and close; they were a source of admiration and an example for other couples, and though they had no children, they did not fail to convey that placid feeling of a happy home.

The sudden passing of the wife cut that lifestyle short; the brokenhearted man wept bitterly over his loss and shut himself away in a silence so somber that his family could do nothing to help. Without her, life lacked any appeal, and in his loneliness, he kept busy by continuing to text her on his phone, hoping that his messages would cross the boundary of death and somehow be received. Only now he wrote at all times, without pause, telling her what he was doing, his thoughts, and especially how much he missed her and his absolute love. Such was his insistence and his faith that, finally one day, a green light flashed on the phone screen—a code showing that a reply had just arrived. Thrilled and terrified at the same time, he pressed the screen; the message was short and devastating, stating that the contact number now belonged to a new user, who thanked him for not texting anymore.

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. No part of this text may be reproduced, distributed, narrated, or adapted in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the author.

Perched high on a windswept hillside stood a small village with two streets, thirty houses, and a central square, opposite which stood the shops and the post office. The mayor was the village's sole authority and, as part of his impeccable daily routine, stopped by each morning to check the arrival of letters and parcels, which brought the most important news to the villagers. The woman in charge divided her time between running the post office and tending to her household; she was, naturally, the best source of village gossip.

Their cheerful conversation came to an abrupt end when the mayor read a letter from a relative in the city. It urgently informed him that a military contingent was heading toward the village, commanded by a ruthless officer who terrorized defenseless communities—abusing women, executing men who refused to submit, slaughtering livestock, and seizing provisions. At the news, the mayor fell silent, and the postmistress immediately saw the worry in his eyes. He sat for a moment and looked through the open doorway at the children playing in the square. He knew it was his duty to protect them.

Their only hope was to flee to the high mountains, several hours away, where the rugged terrain would protect them from the mercenaries' brutality. Convincing the villagers, however, would not be easy. Few would willingly abandon their homes, and widespread panic would surely destroy the unity they needed to survive.

As he wrestled with these thoughts, the postmistress sat across from him and, without hesitation, explained the plan she had devised. The hardest part would be forging the prime minister's signature, but she still kept an old letter of commendation for her years of service and could imitate it perfectly. They also agreed that the letters should arrive on different days to avoid arousing suspicion, and together they drew up a list determining who would receive them first, carefully ordered according to each neighbor's greed.

When the first letters arrived, they noticed that those who received them became secretive and told no one what they had read. But as more villagers received theirs, a moment came when everyone could openly discuss the proposal, making it easier to encourage one another to accept it. Only the mayor and the postmistress received no letter from the prime minister; they had no need for one, since they had written it themselves.

In it, the prime minister made a generous offer: if the villagers agreed to abandon their homes, relocate with their families and belongings to the high mountains, and build a new settlement there, the national treasury would grant each family ownership of the land and a government subsidy within six months.

Not a single villager wished to remain behind. United in a single caravan, they set out toward their new home. Days later, when the ruthless military contingent finally breached the perimeter of the hillside, they found nothing but an eerie, hollow shell. The thirty houses stood empty, the shops were bare, and the windswept square held only silence. The officer searched for blood, submission, and provisions to seize, but the collective greed of the villagers, masterfully redirected, had left the mercenaries with nothing but a ghost town to govern.

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© 2026 Francisco Cortés Ramírez. All rights reserved. This story is fictional. No part of this text may be reproduced, narrated, or adapted without the express written permission of the author.

The husband and wife were sitting on the porch of their house, from where the asphalt road could be seen, stretched out like a rug. Each of them held a mobile phone in their hands: his was dark blue, and hers, emerald green. The afternoon was fading among the clouds, and a light breeze signaled rain to come. For them, it was pleasant to pass the hours this way, without speaking to each other—or, rather, without doing so verbally. Likewise, they took care not to look at each other directly, only glancing sideways to check on what the other was doing.

They had fallen into this habit a few years ago, following an argument; she texted him, saying she would not speak to him until he apologized for some words that had hurt her. In turn, he replied that he had no intention of apologizing, as he considered her reaction an exaggeration. Thus, out of a simple, ordinary argument between a husband and wife, the habit of texting each other on their phones took root, and they never spoke aloud to each other again. They could, of course, converse verbally with everyone else when they were out in public or were at work, and even when relatives called on the phone, always being careful never to cross the boundary of doing so between themselves.

Their text messages became precise and limited to essentials; they no longer found it necessary to exchange opinions as they once had, and knowing that the other was there, present, yet without hearing their voice, became as necessary as it was pleasing. This practice led them to understand each other so well that they could anticipate each other's chores and, therefore, required fewer messages. They refined it with such detail and mastery that they could leave the house to go for a walk or shopping, and it was seamless to walk together, without looking at each other, yet sharing spaces, meals, or a movie. In the neighborhood, they were held in high esteem for being so devoted and close; they were a source of admiration and an example for other couples, and though they had no children, they did not fail to convey that placid feeling of a happy home.

The sudden passing of the wife cut that lifestyle short; the brokenhearted man wept bitterly over his loss and shut himself away in a silence so somber that his family could do nothing to help. Without her, life lacked any appeal, and in his loneliness, he kept busy by continuing to text her on his phone, hoping that his messages would cross the boundary of death and somehow be received. Only now he wrote at all times, without pause, telling her what he was doing, his thoughts, and especially how much he missed her and his absolute love. Such was his insistence and his faith that, finally one day, a green light flashed on the phone screen—a code showing that a reply had just arrived. Thrilled and terrified at the same time, he pressed the screen; the message was short and devastating, stating that the contact number now belonged to a new user, who thanked him for not texting anymore.

The pensioner, though only middle-aged, already had a few strands of white beginning to streak his hair. He rose from his armchair and deftly pulled the cords of the blinds. It was a ritual he had followed for years, one that transformed his dark room into a movie theater, where the wide picture window became the screen as soon as the blinds were drawn open. Settling back into his chair, he fixed his attention on the house directly across the street. Built with the same symmetry as all the others, it featured an equally large picture window overlooking the main room, offering a clear view of the living room, the dining area, and, beyond them, the kitchen. The window had no blinds, and its glass doors remained open throughout the day. Anyone could see inside with perfect clarity and watch the life unfolding within. By a fortunate twist of circumstance, the pensioner had come to know the family's daily routine without them ever suspecting they were being observed, for the darkness inside his own house concealed him completely as he sat motionless in his chair.

The household consisted of a husband and wife, two teenage sons, a young daughter, and an orange-coated dog. Except during the late hours of the night, they were constantly together, laughing, talking, and moving about the house. Parents and children shared every task with effortless harmony, taking turns cooking, working side by side, lingering over dinner, or spending long evenings together in front of the television. All of it tormented the pensioner. Their laughter, their open affection, stood in painful contrast to his own lonely, loveless existence. Everything that filled their lives was precisely what his lacked. With poisonous bitterness, he missed nothing that appeared beyond the glass. Hour after hour he remained at his post, allowing envy to consume him while his mind wandered through grotesque fantasies in which disasters swept away his neighbors' happiness. Then reason would return, reminding him that none of it would ever happen, and he would sink once more into his endless cycle of rage, helplessness, and resentment.

One afternoon, beneath a light, intermittent rain, a large moving truck arrived carrying two burly workmen who, under the parents' direct instructions, began loading the furniture and household belongings. The unexpected scene rekindled the pensioner's curiosity, and he found himself strangely exhilarated, convinced that, at last, he would be free of their presence forever. When the last heavy piece of furniture had been loaded, the house fell completely dark. For the first time in years, no lights shone behind its windows, and an uncanny silence settled over it. Even then, the pensioner remained seated, his eyes fixed on the empty house. The happiness he had expected never came. Nor did relief. Instead, an overwhelming sadness crept into his heart as he realized that, despite all the resentment he had felt toward them, he had just lost the closest thing to companions he had ever had in the vast emptiness of his life.