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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: Doc. Turner Series
- Sprache: Englisch
Death's Wedding March by Arthur Leo Zagat is a spine-chilling tale where romance and horror intertwine in a dance with destiny. At the heart of this eerie story is a wedding unlike any other, where a lavish ceremony is overshadowed by an ominous premonition of doom. As the bride and groom prepare to exchange vows, dark secrets and sinister forces come to light, threatening to turn their dream wedding into a nightmarish ritual. As the wedding march plays, guests are drawn into a web of murder and malevolence that no one could have anticipated. Can the bride and groom escape the clutches of death, or will they be forever bound to a tragic fate? Enter this haunting narrative and uncover the true meaning of the macabre procession.
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Seitenzahl: 34
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
Death's Wedding March
Synopsis
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Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
Death's Wedding March
Synopsis
It was a sinister scheme arranged by the men who hoped to garner a fortune by making sweethearts of the rich and the poor. But old Doc Turner knew that oil and water cannot mix, and a killer's recipe is not the right set-up for Cupid!
The Spider, January 1939, with "Death's Wedding March"
1
GARDEN AVENUE and Morris Street run parallel lengthwise of the city and only two blocks apart—but between their denizens is fixed such a gulf as might lie between the inhabitants of separate planets.
Garden Avenue is a thoroughfare of slithering, sleek limousines; of towering cooperative apartments haughtily guarded by giants in gold-braided livery; of furred, silk-rustling women and men of affairs, impeccably attired. Morris Street is the main artery of a slum. Its traffic sounds are the juggernaut rush of overloaded trucks, the thunder of trains on the "El" trestle that bars the sun from its eternally wet cobbles. The elder of those who shamble along its cracked sidewalks are swarthy aliens shawled or overalled; the garments of the younger wistfully ape, in shoddy fabrics, cheaply sewn, the fashions of Garden Avenue.
On Garden Avenue there is a fragrance of greenery and flowers exhaled from the long, narrow park-strips dividing its wide asphalt from the hedges bordering its multiplex mansions—and from its sleek women a redolence of costly, exotic scents. Morris Street reeks with the garbage stench of fruit and vegetables fallen or discarded from the pushcarts lining its curb, with the musty miasma of unwashed bodies and sweat-saturated fabrics that is the odor of poverty.
These neighboring avenues are worlds apart, yet once they were linked by murder—and something even more grisly. If it had not been for Andrew Turner...
THE raucous cries of the hucksters had died into a midnight rumble of their departing pushcarts, outside Turner's ancient pharmacy on Morris Street, when the frail and feeble-seeming old druggist turned to the sound of its opening door. The wizened woman who entered was hatless, anxious-eyed. Her work-worn fingers twisted the hem of the apron she wore—they were trembling as they did so. A pulse fluttered in her corded throat.
"She's not home yet," spilled from Sonia Tartak's colorless lips before Doc could ask her errand. "My Reba she's always home from the factory by quarter to seven o'clock, and now it's after twelve and she has not come."
A muscle twitched in the old druggist's seamed cheek, and below the faded blue of his eyes a light crawled. But his mustache, white and bushy, moved in a reassuring smile, and his voice was unperturbed. "She's probably working overtime, Sonia. I wouldn't—"
"No," the woman's tone was as unresonant as a whisper. "I go there, and it is all closed up. The watchman says everybody left at half-past six."
From fly-specked ceiling globes a grimy light filtered down over the once-white shelves and showcases, tangled in the silken silver of Doc's hair. His frame was still with a peculiar inner quiet, a hush that had a listening quality, and apprehension settled upon those two, neither daring to voice it.
"Perhaps," the druggist offered, "she went home with one of the other girls?"
"Not her. Not my Reba. She knows I wait—"
"Girls of seventeen are sometimes thoughtless."
