During the whole of a dull, dark, and soundless day in the autumn of the year,when the clouds hung oppresively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone,on
horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country... E.A.Poe "The Fall of the House of Usher"
Grief is an artist of powers as various as the instruments upon which he plays his dirges for the dead, evoking from some the sharpest, shrillest notes, from
others the low, grave chords that throb recurrent like the slow beating of a distant drum...
...the throat, dreadfully lacerated, had issued a pool of blood not yet entirely coagulated. The ribbon with which he had bound the wrists was broken; the hands
were tightly clenched. Between the teeth was fragment of the animal's ear. Ambrose Bierce "The Boarded Window"
...Wolf saw him coming towards her, pale and wild-eyed, with the axe gleaming in the sun, and did not retreat a single step, did not lower her eyes, but
continued to walk towards him, with her hands full of red poppies, devouring him with her black eyes... Giovanni Verga "The Wolf"
...a woman was lying on her face on the carpet below the bed - clasping and tearing her long dishevelled hair with desperate fingers. Blood was trickling down
her fair brow, and she was now laughing a hard, harsh, mirthless laugh, now bursting into violent wringing sobs, now rending her bodice and striking at her bare
bosom, as the wind roared in through the open window, and the rain poured in torrents and soaked her through and through. Rabindranath Tagore "The
The sun was dying, and its blood spattered the sky as it crept into its sepulchre behind the hills. The keening wind sent the dry, fallen leaves scurrying toward
the west, as though hastening them to the funeral of the sun. Robert Bloch "The Cloak"
Drowsy and dull with age the houses blink
On aimless streets the rat-gnawed years forget
But what inhuman figures leer and slink
Down the old alleys when the moon has set? Robert E. Howard "Arkham"
Behind the Veil, what gulfs of Time and Space?
What blinking moving Shapes to blast the sight?
I shrink before a vague colossal Face
Born in the mad immensities of Night. Robert E. Howard "An Open Window"
I wish i didn't have to wait here this way. Those gnarly trees cast wavery shadows and the owls are scary. But I always have to wait while
Granpa goes into the forest, hunting. Sometimes he's gone for hours. Sometimes he comes back while the moon's still up, and there's still hair
on his face and palms. I wish I could hunt with him. Maybe when I'm older. Andrew J. Offutt "Little Boy Waiting At The Edge Of The Darkwood"