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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: Doc. Turner Series
- Sprache: Englisch
Devil-Fighter by Arthur Leo Zagat is a high-octane thrill ride that blends supernatural horror with pulse-pounding action. When an ancient and malevolent entity known only as the Devil-Fighter emerges from the shadows, it brings with it a wave of chaos and destruction. A fearless hero must confront this formidable foe, battling not just for survival but to protect humanity from an apocalyptic fate. With relentless tension and heart-stopping moments, this gripping tale will captivate readers as they follow the epic struggle between good and evil. Can the hero overcome the darkness, or will the Devil-Fighter triumph in its quest for domination?
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Seitenzahl: 30
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
Devil-Fighter
Synopsis
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Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
Devil-Fighter
Synopsis
A cry pierced the night, as the dwellers of Morris Street first felt the poison of an ancient fear—a horror from the homeland that they had foresworn. And the Devil, with unholy glee, loosed his killer to strike down Doc Turner, the champion of the oppressed.
The Spider, January 1937, with "Doc Turner—Devil-Fighter"
1
THE pushcarts were gone from Morris Street. It was very late, so late that even Andrew Turner's long day was done, and he was turning the key in the door of his ancient drugstore.
A three-car "El" train thundered by overhead, the yellow oblongs of its lighted windows projecting duplicates of themselves on the debris-strewn sidewalk. Doc turned with a weary sigh, shambled off toward the hall bedroom that had been his home for more years than he cared to remember. His was a bent, feeble figure in his shabby overcoat, lonely on that deserted slum street.
The kindly night cloaked with dimness the tenement's drab facades that he passed, so that they appeared not quite as stained, not quite as decrepit as daylight would reveal them. But the night could not make anything except a foul miasma out of the smell of stale food and stale bodies that is the odor of poverty. The old druggist turned a corner, neared the center of the block.
A scream shrilled out of the night; a long, high scream of agony and grief! It twisted Doc to the broken-stepped stoop of the tenement from which it had come. It cut off, sharply, but he was already up those steps, was through the vestibule and in a dark, noisome hall.
Then sound came again to guide Doc Turner up uncarpeted stairs and to a splintered door that was paintless and drab in the glimmer of a pinpoint gas jet.
Only one with the lion-hearted courage his feeble frame enclosed would have dashed so unhesitatingly toward the source of that sound. For it was no longer a scream.
It was a laugh, more fearful than any scream, a screeching laugh that held in it no gaiety, no reason even, but some un- nameable quality that melted the marrow of its hearers and chilled their spines with ancestral terror.
Doc rattled the doorknob. The door was locked. He rapped. The laugh went on unchecked.
The panel was so thin that even the old man's fist could smash a hole through it. He reached in, turned the key in the lock, went through into a room that was living room and kitchen combined. A whistling gas jet fitfully lit a table strewn with gay-colored tissue paper, with green-covered wire and green cloth cut in the form of leaves. A huge pasteboard box on the floor was half-filled with artificial flowers.
He could see no one. The laugh came through another door, half-open, next to the broken stove.
The room beyond was brightly lighted. It held a bed, and a crib crudely hammered together out of soapbox wood. A woman stood above that crib, and the mad laugh spewed out of her twisted, colorless lips. Her hair straggled wildly about her gaunt face, but not so wildly as her eyes stared into the crib as she laughed.
