Free The Man Who Collected Machen and Other Weird Tales by Mark Samuels

seem to be no chance of a mistake.
    La Casa De Fuente was in a state of considerable neglect. Beyond the trellised gate its courtyard was overgrown with bushes and weeds that had been left to run riot. They had surged up from between the flagstones, and had taken hold of the courtyard’s chief architectural feature, which had given the house its name. It was a stone fountain, some six feet high. It stood in front of the sheltered patio and had been designed with two levels, so the water would cascade from the upper to the lower, wider, basin level. The designer had thought to incorporate a floral design to the stonework, but voracious lichens had distorted and ravaged whatever beauty it may have originally possessed.
    Barron dreaded to think what the interior of La Casa De Fuente might be like, given the outward neglect of the building. Its tiled roof sagged noticeably, and the wide front window bore concentric cracks like a bedewed cobweb. He felt that he had been cheated by the travel bureau. Little wonder that the business was on the verge of closing down, if this was the type of service it provided.
    He was now certain that he had a fever. When he wiped his forehead it was hot, prickly and dry. Since the sun had set, Barron had noticed how chilly it had become, and recalled the warning he had been given about how cold nights were at this altitude during this time of the year. He shivered, buttoned up the corduroy jacket he wore and hoped it would be warmer inside.
    After he’d managed to turn the reluctant lock on the gate, picked his way through the undergrowth of the courtyard, and got inside the half-stuck front door, he found that the place was at least liveable in. It was a single storey bungalow house, with a fireplace at the back, cooking facilities to the left, and a bed in the other corner. Whitish grey dustsheets shrouded the furniture. Barron removed them, and stowed them away under the bed, and found he had the use of a writing bureau and chair, a dinner table and two stools. In a recessed alcove next to the fireplace there was a washbasin, as well as a standalone tin bathtub that had to be filled with water from a pump.
    Barron unpacked his two valises, one of which was full of his research books, and was surprised to find that he had no sense of hunger (the fever, he supposed, having deadened it) and crawled into the musty bed, hoping that tomorrow’s bright morning sunshine would bring with it an improvement in his health.
    •
    There was to be no bright morning sunshine. When Barron awoke the following day, his mouth encrusted with dried saliva, and his stomach complaining at the lack of food he’d taken, it was to the rhythm of heavy rain drumming against the tiled roof and wind rattling the window frame. Only a feeble, grey half-light was visible through the large window. His thirst was like a torment, and he rolled out of bed towards the water pump in the alcove. He suspected that it might draw from a well and thus be fresh and drinkable. He had no real way of knowing but would take the chance this once. He could see no other reason for its being there, since the bungalow house had a separate supply of running water from the mains.
    Once he had drunk from the pump and quenched his thirst, he washed away the sheen of fever sweat from his brow, and then felt more able to engage with his situation. His fever had somewhat abated, but he knew he should consult a doctor. Unfortunately, he was not sure that he had enough money to do so. It could be that the fever was one of short-lived duration, and would exhaust itself after only a few days. After all, he was young and relatively fit, and he had no reason to believe the malaise was of a serious nature. He decided to venture out into Xapalpa and find something to eat for breakfast, and reassess his options thereafter. He had felt no nausea, only a lack of appetite. Perhaps with food in his stomach, his own natural defences would come to the fore and he