She gazed into his hypnotic eyes, in which she saw the ocean reflected. And then something else flashed there, something so cold and terrifying that for a moment she thought he was going to kill her—crush her windpipe with his hands, or hold her head under the crashing surf, or smash her face into the sand until she suffocated.
Her eyes widened with fear and excitement. “I think you’re my death,” she said.
“Let’s die together.”
I feel that being a woman exposes one to multiple daily horrors that most men could never dream of, unless they have had an unusually rough life or have been to war. Men often write horror stories about home invaders or supernatural monsters or aliens, none of which actually plague them in real life, whereas for women, the monster is often right in the house. This is why Bluebeard in particular interests me—because it’s about the monster and the man you love being one and the same person. So for a woman, just living one’s life can be like living in a Gothic horror novel. We’re also more sensitive to emotional pain, so we make better spirit mediums; and of course, we’re witches.
Habiendo notado que la llave del gabinete estaba manchada de sangre, la enjugó dos o tres veces, pero la sangre no desaparecía. En vano la lavó y hasta la frotó con arenilla y asperón, pues continuaron las manchas sin que hubiera medio de hacerlas desaparecer, porque cuando lograba quitarlas de un lado, aparecían en el otro.