Có bạn nào giúp mình không?!
chaulovekitty 28.10.2008 06:08:10 (permalink)
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    Mình có một cuốn truyện mang tên "Strange tales of mystery and imagination" by Alex Hamer bao gồm những truyện kinh dị nhưng được viết bằng tiếng Anh. Mình không thạo lắm về vấn đề dịch từ Anh sang Việt nên nếu có bạn nào có thể, giúp mình type bộ truyện này sang tiếng Việt nha!! Mình sẽ đánh máy từng truyện bằng tiếng Anh trước cho mấy bạn nha!!
    Đây là truyện thứ 1 & thứ 2. Mời các bạn trổ tài !!
 
The Bleeding House Mystery
    "The strange disappearance of Buford and Ellen Penrose was a hauting, unsolved mystery for eight years...until the awful night when blood began dripping from the ceiling of their home, sending the gathering of fashionable dinner guests fleeing in horror."
 
    The stately plantation house in Oakdale, Georgia, was built in 1873 on the site of the original house destroyed by General Sherman's Yankees in the Civil War. The house, which a Penrose ancestor had named Six Pines, had sat unoccupied for seven years - the period of time it took for the law to officially declare the vanished Penroses legally dead.
    Even after those seven years, the Penrose relatives refused to take over the house because of the tales of terror surrounding the old place.
    Even Buford's brother - big, laughing Jake Penrose, a gallant World War I brigadier-general, with a no-nonsense manner - refused to spend even one night in Six Pines.
    "There's something in that house which isn't right," Jake told Paul Fordyce, the Buford family lawyer. "There's evil there. I can sense it. I can even smell it. It's the smell of blood, Fordyce. Blood."
    But tales of ghosts and evil didn't faze Mr. and Mrs. Corliss and Karen Palmer. This young, very fashionale couple fell in love with the house the first time they set eyes on it. Corliss had made his money during the war supplying cotton to the army, and beautiful Karen had a well-earned reputation as a gracious and elegant hostess.
    "This house is just perfect," she told her husband. "What wonderful parties we shall have here, Corliss!"
    The Palmers negotiated the purchase of Six Pines from Paul Fordyce in October 1928 for a fraction of its true value. The delighted Karen immediately began planning lavish renovations.
    "If there are any spooks here," she joked, "all this new paint, woodwork and furniture will soon drive them out."
    She was wrong, as events were soon to demonstrate.
    Within a few days of the Palmers moving in, something in the house seemed intent on expressing its evil presence.
    Fluffy, the family cat, began to bristle, arching his back and hissing at unseen intruders. Then, when the Palmers awoke one rainy, blustery morning in late October, just a few weeks after they moved in, they found their pet stone cold dead, and stretched out across the foot of their bed.
    Christine, the maid, was summoned to remove it. She went to pick up Fluff's lifeless body and suddenly screamed and fell, swooning, across a dressing table.
    Smelling salts under her nouse brought her around. Revived, eyes round with fear, she sat up, trembling: "I felt something touch my arm," she whispered. "It felt cold and wet, like....like a dead fish. I saw a man's hand. It had been cut off at the wrist..."
    She stopped, ashen faced. She became hysterical again, screaming a long, shuddering scream. Karen Palmer slapped her face and she stopped.
    "You stupid girl," Karen said sternly. "You're getting hysterical over a dead cat." She pulled the maid to her feet and waved her out of the room. "Rest...I don't want to see you again until you've calmed down."
    "But...I saw it," the poor girl sobbed.
    Karen Palmer, now thoroughly angry, waved her away. The stricken maid wailed and fled down the hallway towards the servants' quarters, sobbing into her hands.
    "All that fuss over a dead cat! I'm getting rid of that useless girl," Karen told her husband.
    But Corliss Palmer, pale faced, didn't appear to be listening. He gently picked Fluff up in his hands. "I'll take him into the pecan grove and bury him," he said.
    "Yes," Karen said, "please do that."
    Then she shivered and pulled her robe tightly around her.
    "Are you all right?" Corliss asked.
    "Of course..." his wife replied. But she shivered again. There was a clammy feeling at the back of her neck, as though she was being stroked with ice. "This house is so...drafty," she said. "Especially on cold mornings like this..."
    Corliss Palmer didn't reply. But his strong face was troubled as he opened the bedroom door and made his way downstairs and out to a pecan grove at the end of the extensive gardens.
    During the following months, there were no more apparitions and no more hysterical maids. The old house creaked and groaned, as old houses do, and sometimes as the Palmers sat down to dinner, they could hear thumping noises coming from their bedroom.
    "It's as if someone is being chopped into pieces wih an ax," Christine muttered one night as she was serving dessert - a comment that earned her another stinging rebuke.
    Despite everything that had happened, the Palmers loved Six Pines. After six months of renovation work, they decided to invite all of their friends, including their new neighbors, for an elaborate housewarming.
    Now Karen was truly in her element. She had leanred how to entertain at her mother's knee, and she planned an evening that would be the talk of Georgia society for months.
    There were 80 names on the guest list - industrialists, politicians, military men, writers and artists, the cream of Southern society - including an up-and-coming novelist named Ernest Hemingway and a young professional soldier, George Patton. Karen also sent an invitation to Paul Fordyce, by way of thanking the slight, balding lawyer for negotiating the purchase of Six Pines for them at such a reasonable price.
    That dinner would have been memorable for its fine food and even finer conversation alone - but it was the terror that struck as the last dishes were being cleared that branded that evening into the minds of everyone present.
    It was one of the women guests, her name unfortunately lost to history, who suddenly scremed - a sound like a banshee wail, so awful was its desolation - and pointed to a great blob of scarlet on the crisp tablecloth. There were gasps and more screams as the guests looked from the ugly stain towards its source.
    On the ceiling was a bright red patch that visibly widened before their eyes. From its center dripped great drops of blood, each one splashing wetly onto the surface of the table.
    "There's some diviltry at work here, by God!" George Patton yelled. He drew his Colt.45 automatic. Bellowing, he led a charge upstairs. Corliss Palmer and a few other brave souls, emboldened by bourbon and fine wine, were at his heels.
    Lawyer Fordyce didn't move. Frozen in his chair, he trembled violently, his narrow, pinched face as white as death.
    Within a few minutes, Patton, noisy and rambunctious, led his troops back downstairs. "The master bedroom is up there," he said, pointing to the stain with the muzzle of his revolver. "We looked inside and saw nothing. There's no blood, nothing at all on the floorboards or on the rugs. I'm damned if I know where the hell this mess is coming from."
    Suddenly, Paul Fordyce stood bolt upright, looked towards where Patton was standing and wailed: "No! Not you! Oh my God, not you!"
    The old man clutched at his heart and collapsed into his chair. It was shockingly evident that he had just suffered a massive stroke.
    "Damn," the crestfallen Major Patton said, "I didn't mean to scare the poor old bugger."
    Fordyce was rushed to a hospital in Atlanta where doctors battled to save his life, but it became clear very quickly that he would not recover. However, he did live long enough to confess to a terrible deed.
    He revealed that he'd been quietly embezzling the Penrose funds for years. When Buford Penrose uncovered it, he had confronted Fordyce and threatened him with prison.
    Terrified, unable to make restitution, Fordyce surprised the couple in their bedroom one night in 1921 and shot them both to death. The he hacked their bodies into pieces with an ax and threw the remains into the nearby Savannah River.
    "On the night of the dinner party, after the red stain appeared, I saw a terrible sight," the old man whispered. "I looked over and saw Buford and Ellen Penrose standing beside that soldier. They were cut to pieces, bleeding..."
    Paul Fordyce sat up in bed, eyes wide with horror. His breath rattled in his throat. He fell back and died.
    The lawyer's confession explained the Penroses' disappeance. But no one, then or now, has been able to logically explain the red stain on the ceiling and the blood that dripped from there onto Karen Palmer's immaculate white linen tablecloth.
 
Ghostly Escorts
    "Many ships have foundered over the centuries. Vessels great and small have taken their crewmen to the cold embrace of the ocean - and death."
 
    But the crewmen aboard the SS Watertown knew their ship would never be one of these, knew it with a certainty that they could have engraved in stone. From the captain to the 14-year-old cabin boy, they knew that the Watertown had been granted special protection...an escort of dead men.
    In one of the sea's great mysteries, two dead sailors were seen swimming through the blue waters just ahead of the Watertown's bow, guiding the tanker to safe harbor and keeping their shipmantes out of harm's way.
    The dead mariners were seamen James T. Courtney and Michael Alan Meehan. Never had two shipmates had so little in common. Cortney, at just 18 years old, had been a freckle-faced towhead with a mischievous grin and a sense of humor to match. He had an eye for loose women and a taste of cheap whiskey - and handled neither well.
    Meehan on the other hand had been stern and middle-aged, a church elder with 14 children. He had a stern wife who delighted in reading aloud to her offspring those passages from the Bible that dealt particularly with death and eternal damnation, especially when she had slyly been at the gin bottle, which was often.
    On December 2, 1929, the Watertown, owned by the Cities Service Corporation, was a few miles off the coast of Mexico, steaming steadily southward on its journey from San Pedro, California, to Panama.
    Courtney and Meehan were working near the tank area, forward of the bridge, when they were overcome by gasoline fumes. Both collapsed, and minutes later were dead from asphyxiation. Unfortunately, the official report of the cause of the accident has long since vanished, but we do know that the dead seamen were buried at sea on December 3rd.
    Years later, seaman Andrew Foulis recalled the ceremony: "Each man was wrapped in linen with a length of heavy anchor chain at his feet. The corpses were covered by the flag and buried according to the Protestant and Masonic rites, since Seaman Meehan had been a member of that brotherhood.
    "As the bodies of the dead man slipped into the depths of the sea, an incredible feeling of peace swept over me. Indeed, every jack standing there felt it, even Dirty Sammy, the cook, and Pete, the young cabin boy. It was as if Courtney and Meehan were telling us, 'Don't worry mates, our deaths were not for nothing. We'll keep an eye on you, wherever you sail.'
    "It was strange, a strange feeling, and we all felt it and we talked about it afterwards. I'll never forget it."
    On December 4th, just after dawn, Third Officer Fred Clark saw two men swimming in the open sea, a few hundred yards off the port bow. Clark called Captain Thomas Tracy to the bridge and the veteran ship's master trained his binoculars on the swimmers.
    After what seemed like an eternity, Tracy lowered the glasses. His face was ashen. "Oh my God," he gasped. "It's Courtney and Meehan."
    "They're not dead!" Clark yelled to no one in particular. He was silenced by the skipper's stern gaze. The Captain gave orders to slow the engines.
    "Lower a boat," he bellowed, hardly able to conceal his mounting excitement. "Bring those men aboard."
    The Watertown slowed to five knots and a boat under the command of a leading seaman named Williams was lowered into the water. But when Williams drew within 40 yards of the swimming men, the two swimmers disappeared like morning mist from a lake. Seconds later, they appeared again. This time on the starboard side of the Watertown. Again, the formidable Williams tried to reach them, and again the swimmers vanished, only to reappear later a few hundred yars away.
    The wild goose chase went on for the best part of an hour, until Captain Tracy finally grew exasperated. "Belay there!" he called to Williams. "Come back on board. There's funny work afoot here, by God!"
    For the next three days, the swimmers kept pace with the Watertown. But there was no terror aboard the ship. The entire crew realized that this was no devil's work. It seemed that the ghosts of Courtney and Meehan meant them no harm, and that the dead men were, in fact, a pair of very unlikely guardian angels.
    At one point, according to eyewitnesses, the dead sailors swam ahead of the Watertown and tried desperately to divert her from the path of an approaching squall. On December 11th, the officer of the watch and three seamen with him on the bridge were serenaded by a clear, sweet voice. It was James Courtney singing one of his favorite drinking song..
   "Oh, wake her! Oh, shake her! Oh, wake that gal with the blue dress on,
    Oh, Johnny, go down to Shiloh, poor old man...."
    Reporting later in the New Orlean's office of the Cities Service Corporation, Captain Tracy told his employers about the death and subsequent reappearance of seamen Courtney and Meehan.
    The directors of the CSC might have doubted the word of a lesser man. But Tracy had an outstanding record as a ship's captain and had commanded a destroyer with great distinction during the war. If Thomas Tracy said it was so, then it must be so.
    The big, gray-haired captain was supplied with a camera and film - borrowed from a well-known Hollywood director - and asked to attempt to substantiate his tale on the return voyage.
    "If you can, Captain Tracy," one of the CSC directors told him smoothly. "Only if you can...."
    The voyage was without incident, until the Watertown again reached the Pacific. That night deckhands reported seeing the swimming ghosts bobbing in the tanker's wake once again.
    By dawn the next day Courtney and Meehan were once more alongside the vessel, and with full light Captain Tracy snapped a total of eight pictures at ranges between 40 and 100 yards. Within a few hours, the former crewmen vanished. They were not seen again in the days that followed, and once back in port Tracy took the unprocessed photographic plates to company headquarters.
    "Both Courtney and Meehan were seen by all the hands," Tracy told the directors. "I even brought the crew from the engine room up on deck to see them. The whole crew saw those swimming dead men."
    The plates were developed and prints made, and one by one, blurred images of the rolling waves were rejected as worthless. Then one of the company executives lifted the last remaining print and held it at arm's length. The man hissed through his teeth as he took a sudden intake of breath.
    "They're in it!" he gasped. "You can really see them, plain as day."
    The print showed a blurry, gray sea, as the others had done. But this time, two pale faces were swimming in the trough of a wave, their faces turned toward the camera. Later, the men were positively identified as those of Michael Meehan and James T. Courtney.
    Captain Tracy returned to sea in the Watertown, but never saw the dead swimmers again. He died in 1938. The oil tanker crossed and recrossed the Atlantic and later the Pacific during World War II, and emerged from the war unscathed. She was sold to Brazil in 1946 and scrapped in the early 50s.
    A framed enlargement of the print showing the two dead seamen hung in the New York office of the CSC until 1969, then it mysteriously disappeared.
    Why did two dead men return from their watery grave and swim ahead of the Watertown like ghostly dolphins? We probably will never know, and the incident must remain one of the great mysteries of the sea.
    But there is one bizarre footnote. In the mid-1930s, a Mexican fisherman netted a heavy object and dragged it from the ocean floor in the area where Meehan and Courtney were consigned to the deep. There was a rotted, tangle of canvas....and two lengths of rusted anchor chain. Many believe it to be the winding sheets, and the weight of the two men's shrouds.
   
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