{"id":26183,"date":"2026-02-14T11:32:54","date_gmt":"2026-02-14T15:32:54","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=26183"},"modified":"2026-02-15T01:04:40","modified_gmt":"2026-02-15T05:04:40","slug":"harlan-ellison-all-the-sounds-of-fear","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/harlan-ellison-all-the-sounds-of-fear\/26183\/","title":{"rendered":"Harlan Ellison: All the Sounds of Fear"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis:<\/strong> \u201cAll the Sounds of Fear\u201d is a short story by Harlan Ellison<\/em>, published in 1962 in the collection Ellison Wonderland<\/em>. It recounts the extraordinary career of the actor Richard Becker, who develops a revolutionary acting technique based on total immersion in his characters\u2014living them in reality in order to achieve absolute authenticity on stage. Over the course of twenty-four years, Becker conquers Broadway with legendary characterizations, turning down offers from Hollywood because he believes his art requires the reality of the theater. However, his extreme dedication to assuming other identities drags him toward a breaking point where the line between actor and character fades away irretrievably.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Harlan<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

All the Sounds of Fear<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

Harlan Ellison
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGive me some light!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Cry: tormented, half\u2013moan half\u2013chant, cast out against a whispering darkness; a man wound in white, arms upflung to roistering shadows, sooty sockets where eyes had been, pleading, demanding, anger and hopelessness, anguish from the soul into the world. He stumbled, a step, two, faltering, weak, the man returned to the child, trying to find some exit from the washing sea of darkness in which he trembled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGive me some light!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Around him a Greek chorus of susurrating voices. Plucking at his garments, he staggered toward an intimation of sound, a resting place, a goal. The man in pain, the figure of all<\/em> pain, all desperation, and nowhere in that circle of painful light was there release from this torment. Sandaled feet stepping, each one above an abyss, no hope and no safety; what can it mean to be so eternally blind?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Again: \u201cGive me some light!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The last tortured ripping of the words from a throat raw with the hopelessness of salvation. Then the man sank to the shadows that moved in on him. The face half\u2013hidden in chiaroscuro, sharp black, blanched white, down and down into the grayness about his feet, the circle of blazing white light pinpointing him, a creature impaled on a pin of brilliance, till closing, closing, closing it swallowed him, all gone to black, darkness within and without, black even deeper, nothing, finis, end, silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Richard Becker, Oedipus, had played his first role. Twenty\u2013four years later, he would play it again, as his last. But before that final performance\u2019s curtain could be rung, twenty\u2013four years of greatness would have to strut across stages of life and theatre and emotion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Time passing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When they had decided to cast the paranoid beggar in Sweet Miracles<\/em>, Richard Becker had gone to the Salvation Army retail store, and bought a set of rags that even the sanctimonious saleswomen staffing the shop had tried to throw out as unsalable and foul. He bought a pair of cracked and soleless shoes that were a size too large. He bought a hat that had seen so many autumns of rain its brim had bowed and withered under the onslaught. He bought a no\u2013color vest from a suit long since destroyed, and a pair of pants whose seat sagged baggily, and a shirt with three buttons gone, and a jacket that seemed to symbolize every derelict who had ever cadged an hour\u2019s sleep in an alley.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He bought these things over the protests of the kindly, white\u2013 haired women who were doing their bit for charity<\/em>, and he asked if he might step into the toilet for a few moments to try them on; and when he emerged, his good tweed jacket and dark slacks over his arm, he was another man entirely. As though magically, the coarse stubble (that may have been there when he came into the store, but he seemed too nice\u2013looking a young man to go around unshaved) had sprouted on his sagging jowls. The hair had grown limp and off\u2013gray under the squashed hat. The face was lined and planed with the depravities and deprivations of a lifetime lived in gutters and saloons. The hands were caked with filth, the eyes lusterless and devoid of personality, the body grotesquely slumped with the burden of mere existence. This old man, this skid from the Bowery, how had he gotten into the toilet, and where was the nice young man who had gone in wearing that jacket and those slacks? Had this creature<\/em> somehow overpowered him (what foul weapon had this feeble old man used to subdue a vital, strong youth like that)? The white\u2013haired Good Women of Charity were frozen with distress as they imagined the strong\u2013faced, attractive youth, lying in the bathroom, his skull crushed by a length of pipe.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old bum extended the jacket, the pants, and the rest of the clothing the young man had been wearing, and in a voice that was thirty years younger than the body from which it spoke, he explained, \u201cI won\u2019t be needing these, ladies. Sell them to someone who can make good use of them.\u201d The voice of the young man, from this husk.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And he paid for the rags he wore. They watched him as he limped and rolled through the front door, into the filthy streets; another tramp gone to join the tide of lost souls that would inevitably become a stream and a river and an ocean of wastrels, washing finally into a drunk tank, or a doorway, or onto a park bench.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Richard Becker spent six weeks living on the Bowery; in fleabags, abandoned warehouses, cellars, gutters, and on tenement rooftops, he shared and wallowed in the nature and filth and degradation of the empty men of his times.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For six weeks he was<\/em> a tramp, a thoroughly washed-out hopeless rumdum, with rheumy eyes and palsied wrists and a weak bladder.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

One by one the weeks mounted to six, and on the first day of casting for Sweet Miracles<\/em>, the Monday of the seventh week, Richard Becker arrived at the Martin Theater, where he auditioned for the part in the clothes he had worn for the past six weeks.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The play ran for five hundred and eighteen performances, and Richard Becker won the Drama Critics\u2019 Circle Award as the finest male performer of the year. He also won the Circle Award as the most promising newcomer of the year.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was twenty\u2013two years old at the time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The following season, after Sweet Miracles<\/em> had gone on the road, Richard Becker was apprised, through the pages of Variety<\/em>, that John Foresman & T. H. Searle were about to begin casting for House of Infidels<\/em>, the new script by Odets, his first in many years. Through friends in the Foresman and Searle offices, he obtained a copy of the script, and selected a part he considered massive in its potentialities.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The role of an introspective and tormented artist, depressed by the level of commercialism to which his work had sunk, resolved to regain an innocence of childhood or nature he had lost, by working with his hands in a foundry.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When the first night critics called Richard Becker\u2019s conception of Tresk, the artist, \u201ca pinnacle of thespic intuition\u201d and noted, \u201cHis authority in the part led members of the audience to ask one another how such a sensitive actor could grasp the rough unsubtle life of a foundry\u2013worker,\u201d they had no idea that Richard Becker had worked for nearly two months in a steel stamping plant and foundry in Pittsburgh. But the makeup man on House of Infidels<\/em> suspected Richard Becker had once been in a terrible fire, for his hands were marked by the ravages of great heat.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After two successes, two conquests of Broadway, two characterizations that were immediately ranked with the most brilliant Schubert Alley had ever witnessed, Richard Becker\u2019s reputation began to build a legend.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c<\/em>The Man Who Is \u201c<\/em>The Method\u201d, they called him, in perceptive articles and interviews. Lee Strasberg of the Actors Studio, when questioned, remarked that Becker had never been a student, but had the occasion arisen, he might well have paid him<\/em> to attend. In any event, Richard Becker\u2019s command of the Stanislavski theory of total immersion in a part became a working example of the validity of the concept. No mere scratcher and stammerer, on a stage Richard Becker was<\/em> the man he pretended to be.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Of his private life little was written; he let it be known that if he was to be totally convincing in a characterization, he wanted no intrusive shadow of himself standing between the audience and the image he offered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hollywood\u2019s offers of stardom were refused, for as Theatre Arts<\/em> commented in a brief feature on Richard Becker:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The gestalt that Becker projects across a row of footlights would be dimmed and turned two\u2013dimensional on the Hollywood screen. Becker\u2019s art is an ultimate distillation of truth and metamorphosis that requires the reality of stage production to retain its purity. It might even be noted that Richard Becker acts in<\/em> four dimensions, as opposed to the merely craftsmanlike three of his contemporaries. Surely no one could truly argue with the fact that watching a Becker performance is almost a religious experience. We can only congratulate Richard Becker on his perceptiveness in turning down studio bids.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

The years of building a backlog of definitive parts (effectively mining them for other actors who were condemned to play them after Becker had said all there was to say) passed, as Richard Becker became, in turn, a Hamlet that cast new lights on the Freudian implications of Shakespeare . . . a fiery Southern segregationist whose wife reveals her octaroon background . . . a fast\u2013talking salesman come to grips with futility and cowardice . . . a many\u2013faceted Marco Polo . . . a dissolute and totally amoral pimp, driven by a loathing for women, to sell his own sister into evil . . . a ruthless politician, dying of cancer and senility . . .<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And the most challenging part he had ever undertaken, the re\u2013 creation, in the play by Tennessee Williams, of the deranged religious zealot, trapped by his own warring emotions, into the hammer\u2013 murder of an innocent girl .<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When they found him, in the model\u2019s apartment off Gramercy Place, they were unable to get a coherent story of why he had done the disgusting act, for he had lapsed into a stentorian tone of Biblical fervor, pontificating about the blood of the lamb and the curse of Jezebel and the eternal fires of Perdition. The men from Homicide East included in their ranks a rookie, fresh to the squad, who became desperately ill at the sight of the fouled walls and the crumpled form wedged into the tiny kitchenette; he became violently ill, and was taken from the apartment a few minutes before Richard Becker was led away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The trial was a manifest sadness to all who had seen him onstage, and the jury did not even have to be sent out to agree on a verdict of insanity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After all, whoever the fanatic was that the defense put on the stands, he was not sane, and was certainly no longer Richard Becker, the actor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For Dr. Charles Tedrow, the patient in restraining room 16 was a constant involvement. He was unable to divorce himself from the memory of a night three years before, when he had sat in an orchestra seat at the Henry Miller Theater, and seen Richard Becker, light and adroit, as the comical Tosspot in that season\u2019s hit comedy, Never a Rascal<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He was unable to separate his thoughts from the shape and form of the actor who had so immersed himself in The Method that for a time, in three acts, he was<\/em> a blundering, maundering, larcenous alcoholic with a penchant for pomegranates and (as Becker had mouthed it onstage) \u201cbarratry on the low seas!\u201d Separate them from this weird and many\u2013faceted creature that lived its many lives in the padded cell numbered 16? Impossible.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At first, there had been reporters, who had come to interview the Good Doctor in charge of Becker\u2019s case; and to the last of these (for Dr. Tedrow had instituted restrictions on this sort of publicity) he had said, \u201cTo a man like Richard Becker, the world was very important. He was very much a man of his times; he had no real personality of his own, with the exception of that one overwhelming faculty and need to reflect the world around him. He was an actor in the purest sense of the word. The world gave him his personality, his attitudes, his facade, and the reason for his existence. Take those away from him, clap him up in a padded cell \u2014 as we were forced to do \u2014 and he begins to lose touch with reality.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI understand,\u201d the reporter had inquired carefully, \u201cthat Becker is re\u2013living his roles, one after another. Is that true, Dr. Tedrow?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Charles Tedrow was, above all else, a compassionate man, and his fury at this remark, revealing as it did a leak in the sanitarium\u2019s security, was unlike him. \u201cRichard Becker is undergoing what might be called, in psychiatric terms, \u2018induced hallucinatory regression.\u2019 In his search for some reality, there in that room, he has fastened onto the method of assuming characters\u2019 moods he had played onstage. From what I\u2019ve been able to piece together from reviews of his shows, he is going back: from the most recent to the next and the next and so on.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The reporter had asked more questions, had made more superficial and phantasmagoric assumptions, until Dr. Charles Tedrow had concluded the interview forcibly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But even now, as he sat across from Richard Becker in the quiet office, he knew that almost nothing the reporter had conceived could rival what Becker had done to himself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cTell me, Doctor,\u201d the florid, bombastic traveling salesman who was Richard Becker asked, \u201cwhat the hell\u2019s new down the line?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s really very quiet, these days, Ted,\u201d the physician replied. Becker had been this way for two months now: submerged in the part of Ted Rogat, the loudmouth philandering protagonist of Chayefsky\u2019s The Wanderer<\/em>. For six months before that he had been Marco Polo, and before that the nervous, slack\u2013jawed and incestuous son of The Glass of Sadness<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHell, I remember one little chippie in, where was it, oh yeah, hell yes! It was K.C., good old K.C.! Man, she was a goodie<\/em>! You ever been to K.C., Doc? I was a drummer in nylons when I worked K.C. Jeezus, lemme tell ya \u2014 \u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was difficult to believe the man who sat on the other side of the table was an actor. He looked the part, he spoke the part, he was<\/em> Ted Rogat, and Dr. Tedrow could catch himself from time to time contemplating the release of this total stranger who had wandered into Richard Becker\u2019s cell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He sat and listened to the story of the flame\u2013hipped harlot in Kansas City who Ted Rogat had picked up in an Armenian Restaurant, and seduced with promises of nylons. He listened to it, and knew that whatever else was true of Richard Becker, this creature of many faces and many lives, he was no saner than the day he had killed that girl. After eighteen months in the sanitarium, he was going back, back, back through his acting career, and re\u2013playing the roles; but never once coming to grips with reality.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the plight and disease of Richard Becker, Dr. Charles Tedrow saw a bit of himself, of all men, of his times and the thousand illnesses to which mortal flesh heir.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He returned Richard Becker, as well as Ted Rogat, to the security and tiny world of room 16.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Two months later he brought him back, and spent a highly interesting three hours discussing group therapy with Herr Doktor Ernst Loebisch, credentials from the Munich Academy of Medicine and the Vienna Psychiatric Clinic. Four months after that, Dr. Tedrow got to know the surly and insipid Jackie Bishoff, juvenile delinquent and hero of \u201cStreets of Night.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And almost a year later \u2014 to the day \u2014 Dr. Tedrow sat in his office with a bum, a derelict, a rheumy\u2013eyed and dissipated vagabond who could only be the skid from Sweet Miracles<\/em>, Richard Becker\u2019s first triumph, twenty\u2013four years before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What Richard Becker might look like, without camouflage, in his own shell, Tedrow had no idea. He was, now, to all intents and purposes, the seedy old tramp with the dirt caked into the sagged folds of his face.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMr. Becker, I want to talk to you.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hopelessness shined out of the old bum\u2019s eyes. There was no answer.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cListen to me, Becker. Please listen to me, if you\u2019re in there somewhere, if you can hear me. I want you to understand what I\u2019m about to say; it\u2019s very important.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A croak, cracked and forced, came from the bum\u2019s lips, and he mumbled, \u201cI need\u2019a drink, yuh go\u2019 uh drink fuh me, huh . . . \u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tedrow leaned across, his hand shaking as he took the old bum\u2019s chin in his palm, and held it fixed, staring into this stranger\u2019s eyes. \u201cNow listen to me, Becker. You\u2019ve got to hear me. I\u2019ve gone through the files, and as far as I can tell, this was the first part you ever played. I don\u2019t know what will happen! I don\u2019t know what form this syndrome will take after you\u2019ve used up all your other lives. But if you can hear me, you\u2019ve got to understand that you may be approaching a crisis point in your \u2014 in your life.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The old bum licked cracked lips.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cListen!<\/em> I\u2019m here, I want to help you, I want to do<\/em> something for you, Becker. If you\u2019ll come out for an instant, just a second, we can establish contact. It\u2019s got to be now or \u2014 \u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He left it hanging. He had no way of knowing if\u2013what<\/em>. And as he lapsed into silence, as he released the bum\u2019s chin, a strange alteration of facial muscles began, and the derelict\u2019s countenance shifted, subtly ran like mercury, and for a second he saw a face he recognized. From the eyes that were no longer red\u2013rimmed and bloodshot, Dr. Charles Tedrow saw intelligence peering out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt sounds like fear, Doctor,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And, \u201cGoodbye, once more.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then the light died, the features shifted once again, and the physician was staring once more at the empty face of a gutter\u2013bred derelict.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He sent the old man back to room 16. Later that day, he had one of the male nurses take in an 89-cent bottle of muscatel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSpeak up, man! What in the name of God is going on out there?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI \u2014 I can\u2019t explain it, Dr. Tedrow, but you\u2019d better \u2014 you\u2019d better get out here right away. It\u2019s \u2014 it\u2019s oh Jee\u2013zus!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is<\/em> it? Stop crying, Wilson, and tell me what the hell is wrong<\/em>!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s, it\u2019s number 16 . . . it\u2019s . . . \u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll be there in twenty minutes. Keep everyone away from that room. Do you understand? Wilson! Do you understand me?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYessir, yessir. I\u2019ll \u2014 oh Christ \u2014 hurry up Doc . . . \u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He could feel his pajama pants bunched around his knees, under his slacks, as he floored the pedal of the ranch wagon. The midnight roads were jerky in the windshield, and the murk that he raced through was almost too grotesque to be a fact of nature.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

When he slewed the car into the drive, the gatekeeper threw the iron barrier back almost spastically. The ranch wagon chewed gravel, sending debris back in a wide fan, as Tedrow plunged ahead. When he screeched to a halt before the sanitarium, the doors burst open and the senior attendant, Wilson, raced down the steps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis way, th\u2013this way, Doctor Te \u2014 \u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGet out of my way, you idiot, I know which direction!\u201d he shoved Wilson aside, and strode up the steps and into the building.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt started about an hour ago . . . we didn\u2019t know what was happ \u2014 \u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd you didn\u2019t call me immediately? Ass!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe just thought, we just thought it was another one of his stages, you<\/em> know how he is . . . \u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tedrow snorted in disgust and threw off his topcoat as he made his way rapidly down the corridor to the section of the sanitarium that housed the restraining rooms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As they came into the annex, through the heavy glass\u2013portaled door, he heard the scream for the first time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

In that scream, in that tormented, pleading, demanding and hopelessly lost tremor there were all the sounds of fear he had ever heard. In that voice he heard even his own voice, his own soul, crying out for something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

For an unnameable something, as the scream came again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGive me some light!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another world, another voice, another life. Some evil and empty beseeching from a corner of a dust\u2013strewn universe. Hanging there timelessly, vibrant in colorless agony. A million tired and blind stolen voices all wrapped into that one howl, all the eternal sadnesses and losses and pains ever known to man. It was all there, as the good in the world was sliced open and left to bleed its golden fluid away in the dirt. It was a lone animal being eaten by a bird of prey. It was a hundred children crushed beneath iron treads. It was one good man with his entrails in his blood\u2013soaked hands. It was the soul and the pain and the very vital fiber of life, draining away, without light, without hope, without succor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGive me some light!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Tedrow flung himself at the door, and threw back the bolt on the observation window. He stared for a long and silent moment as the scream trembled once more on the air, weightlessly, transparently, tingling off into emptiness. He stared, and felt the impact of a massive horror stifle his own cry of disbelief and terror.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then he spun away from the window and hung there, sweat\u2013 drenched back flat to the wall, with the last sight of Richard Becker he would ever hope to see, burned forever behind his eyes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The sound of his sobs in the corridor held the others back. They stared silently, still hearing that never\u2013spoken echo reverberating down and down and down the corridors of their minds:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Give me some light!<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

Fumbling beside him, Tedrow slammed the observation window shut, and then his arm sank back to his side.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Inside room 16, lying up against the far wall, his back against the soft passive padding, Richard Becker looked out at the door, at the corridor, at the world, forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Looked out as he had in his first moment of life: purely and simply.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Without a face. From his hairline to his chin, a blank, empty, featureless expanse. Empty. Silent. Devoid of sight or smell or sound. Blank and faceless, a creature God had never deigned to bless with a mirror to the world. His Method now was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Richard Becker, actor, had played his last part, and had gone away, taking with him Richard Becker, a man who had known all the sights, all the sounds, all the life of fear.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cAll the Sounds of Fear\u201d is a short story by Harlan Ellison, published in 1962 in the collection Ellison Wonderland. It recounts the extraordinary career of the actor Richard Becker, who develops a revolutionary acting technique based on total immersion in his characters\u2014living them in reality in order to achieve absolute authenticity on stage. Over the course of twenty-four years, Becker conquers Broadway with legendary characterizations, turning down offers from Hollywood because he believes his art requires the reality of the theater. However, his extreme dedication to assuming other identities drags him toward a breaking point where the line between actor and character fades away irretrievably.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":26182,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[573,618,570],"class_list":["post-26183","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-fantasy","tag-harlan-ellison-en","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":573,"label":"Fantasy"},{"value":618,"label":"Harlan Ellison"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2026\/02\/Harlan-Ellison-Todos-los-sonidos-del-miedo.webp",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":419,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":419,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":573,"name":"Fantasy","slug":"fantasy","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":573,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":89,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":618,"name":"Harlan Ellison","slug":"harlan-ellison-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":618,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":9,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":294,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/26183","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=26183"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/26183\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/26182"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=26183"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=26183"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=26183"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}