The She- Pig of Dubrovnik

by Leopoldo Amacio Coutinho

translated from the Portuguese by R. Jonas Thackery

Translator's preface

This particular piece was written by an obscure Brazilian author, Leopoldo Amacio Coutinho, whom I
by chance discovered in a dusty tome on the shelf of an occult bookstore many years back, in a volume
entitled, in its English translation, "Bizarre Tales from the Southern America," a collection of gothic
tales by various authors, published by Granz Eperanza press of Buenos Aires in 1910. It was in the
Spanish translation but I was quite taken with the author's penchant for obscene horror. After some
work, work it was indeed, I assure you, I managed to procure two volumes of his collected works, long
out of print, in the original Portuguese. These works are titled "Brasil Macabre," both volumes
published simultaneously by Tringulo press of Sao paulo in 1912, the year of his death. For the benefit
of your interest, the author's date of birth seems unknown, but he was purported to have been born in
Rio de Janeiro to a mother of German and Scottish ancestry, and a father of Portuguese origin who may
have been a career military man. Unfortunately not much is known of this fantastic writer. He had a
reputation for indulging in opium and absynthe, it is said he once tried to kill a man with a straight
razor, and that he never held a job in his life. He never married or fathered children. The few
publications printed in Brazil sold modestly, though his works did mildy better elsewhere in the
Spanish translation; Mexico, Uruguay, Venezeula, and of coarse Argentina, and he was an obscure
favorite for the French literati during their Brazilophilia at the turn of the century. He lived for a time in

Rio Grande do Sol, and perhaps for a time in Montevideo, most definately in Buenos Aires, but he died
in Rio de Janiero in 1912.

At a recently attended dinner party a gruff Texas oilman, a bit uncouth but no less an amiable fellow,
brought to consciousness, inadvertently through some comment, a suppressed memory, or perhaps
rather merely one long forgotten, that shook me at once but quickly subsided. Coming home after the
evening's festivities, which were hosted by my very own brother, a handsome, robust and well to do
barrister of high reputation and much well given to entertainments, I was provided at last with the
opportunity to indulge my previous shock. I ordered my dear wife to bed at once and retired to the
library, where I lit a modest fire in the fireplace, poured myself a scotch, relaxed into my comfortable
crimson velvet salon chair and stared into the flames and began to meditate. Could I have been
mistaken? Did I indeed experience what now seems impossible? What it was that the Texan had said
that raised such a tempest in my being was merely that he was seeking to procure the rights to assist the
Croats in their own endeavors to establish the knowledge of propitious oil rich deposits off the coast.
Instantly a floodgate of memories was lifted and one image in particular struck me like being doused
with ice-cold water.
After some time I made my way to the desk where I set pen to paper, feeling, perhaps, that the written
word would help me make sense of it all. And so I write, in a most immediate manner, to explain to
myself the truth of what my memories are telling me as well as what I now feel, many years later, about
the occasion in question.
As the family were wont in the days of my adolescence, we spent the summer solstice residing on the
Dalmatian coast in a perpetual haze of play and relaxation. My sister Emily, who was a year older than
myself, was transformed into a golden goddess on these holiday excursions. Her already light blonde
hair would be bleached nearly white by the Mediterranean sun, and her skin, so white in the Welsh

countryside where we resided, would become a most exotic copper. She was a strong willed child and
the mischievous ring leader of our group of Welsh children which included along with myself, our
younger brother and lord Henry's children; Stanford, who was my own age, and Martha, who was the
youngest and most fragile but no less game for adventures. What her small body was unable to achieve
by way of the feats of playful children, she made up for in courage and enthusiasm and so we held her
in no ill regard.
The particular event I wish to speak of transpired in the summer of my fifteenth year, which was to be
the last of our holiday merrymaking in the Mediterranean due to turmoil that would soon unfold in that
lovely part of the world. The ill will of brother towards brother to beset the region, both unsettling and
unnecessary, would nevertheless prevent us from enjoying further annual jaunts in the oh so inviting
clime and warm and welcoming environs.
At some point rather near out final vacationing, Emily had taken fervently to faith. At first she
professed devotion to the church and over a short time became more a voraciously observant adherent.
She began to lecture first her brothers then the entire family and staff on the virtues of life inspired by
the divine, and she became increasingly racked in her determination to find a suitable vocation to
express her love of god in her adulthood, as, certainly in her time, anyway, women and the faith, or
rather, women serving the faith, was not a path particularly open to a young lady.
Now the family's good friend lord Henry was a very pious man and was much enthused by Emily's new
found devotion to the lord, but the two were of different minds and both rather stubbornly opinionated
and lord Henry set about to persuade the young beauty that she would best serve the lord by serving a
good husband and that the woman, as a species, achieves mystical heights of union through the
asceticism of devout servitude. It was Emily's contention, however, that salvation was not a thing one
necessarily needed to struggle after but rather a thing that was a grace, freely given and easily aspired
to by a mere acceptance of the truth at the heart of the faith.
Throughout these summer evenings, retiring to the drawing room after taking supper, we would all

have the profound pleasure of lectures and debates between lord Henry and young Emily, who most
astutely held her own; to lord Henry's sincerely beneficent amusement. Indeed, on points he would
concede to her rigorous theology. On such occasions we all felt such pride in Emily, even father, though
it was obvious he was somewhat beset with concern as her passion for religion was so much at odds
with the what was accepted as the vocation of women.
Prior to retiring for the night Emily would sit beside me as I lay in bed and read to me from the gospels
and often before kissing me on the forehead and departing for her room, would pontificate on the
passage read. One evening she became particularly uncomposed, enthralled as she was by the gospels'
tale of Jesus' forty days of self imposed isolation without food or drink. She wondered aloud if we too
were being called by the good book to partake in such austerities in order to form a more intimate
connection with our lord. She wondered whether to take the story as metaphor or literally. Whatever
ruminations she indulged she concluded that it was in the end a message of absolute trust in the good
lord to provide all good things to his well loved children.
The following morning we found her gone when we woke. By afternoon, none recalled having seen
her. By evening a heavy curtain of apprehension had fallen over our holiday and mother in particular
began to engage in hysterics; pacing about, shrieking and roughly pulling at her own hair. Father
compassionately slapped her repeatedly but it was not until late in the night that she settled herself, but
only into a quiet hole of despair.
Father, lord Henry and their Croat friends and acquaintances, along with some goodly townsmen, as
well as I and my brother, set about to search the forested areas. The first day the search proved dry and
a palatable horror took over all. On the second day one of the townsmen discovered Emily's night
gown, the very garment I had last seen her wearing as she bid me goodnight on that evening her mind
seemed somewhat agitated by her gospel reading. The finding of this garment struck a dark tremor of
terror through us all, bust most especially mother and father who became nearly mad beyond all reason,
taking the gown's discovery as a most heinous omen.

But on that third day, an oath to the heavens, why must it have been me that was cursed to witness such
an abominable thing as that which my eyes beheld!
It was late morning. We made our way through the dense foliage, pressing further inland. We, the men
of the searching party, were spaced perhaps ten to 12 yards apart, although there was no real intentional
method to the formation. The sun pierced through the trees here and there like long, thin sharp blades. I
could occasionally catch a glimpse of the man to on my left. He would disappear into the dense green.
Sometimes I could make out his arm, or spy only his head through the thick. Frequently I heard what I
imagined was the pressure of his step cracking sticks on the forest floor. I moved forward with great
care, surveying the wood. My neighbor let out a curious noise, rather like the involuntary grunt one
might be forced to expel when engaged in a particularly rough defecating. I tuned my head in the
direction of the sound but could not see the fellow. I called out but there was no response. I sought to
investigate. I moved cautiously into his territory of the search and again I called out to him, but softly,
perhaps fearfully. My gaze was drawn in the direction of a sudden rustling and my body froze and my
heart thumped a single time aggressively, as if it had been storing all its strength for some time in order
to unleash one single powerful blow in an attempt to escape my chest, and I beheld the image of my
horror that I have now uncomfortably set about to revisit.
Lying prone on the forest floor was the townsman and mounted atop him was what I believed was my
naked sister Emily. She had her back to me but an anatomical peculiarity made me feel quite certain it
was indeed she. You see, though quite attractive, particularly of face, which was rosy, soft and angelic,
she did have a, how should I put this tactfully? She had a posterior that was disproportionately large
when compared to the rest of her figure; slim calves, thin waist, slender arms. She must have sensed me
and she turned to face me, and again my heart gave such beating against my chest that I did nearly lose
consciousness. It was not Emily. It was a beast. A disgusting abomination. It had the body of a young
woman but it had the head of a foul swine. The head and chest were covered in what I now believe was
blood and the body of the thing was quite filthy. The thing let out a high pitch squeal; painful to the

ears, and with a swiftness I have never seen another living capable of, retreated into the dense green
labyrinth of our environs. Before I could fully regain my senses I was being shaken by lord Henry and
a group of men had gathered around what was the townsman's dead body. His throat and face had been
mauled and devoured. His rectus was an unrecognizable heap of flesh, bone and hypercoagulation.
I never spoke of what I saw. Neither father, nor lord Henry nor anyone else for that matter ever
questioned me regarding the matter. And from that time until now I buried the memory of this scene in
the deepest oblivion of my unconscious. I think now that I soon may undertake to return to Dubrovnik.
I will walk in those woods again.