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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: Doc. Turner Series
- Sprache: Englisch
The Banshee by Arthur Leo Zagat is a spine-tingling tale that delves into the eerie and the supernatural. When a remote village becomes plagued by the mournful wails of a banshee, fear and superstition grip the townsfolk. As the deathly cries grow louder and more frequent, a courageous outsider arrives, determined to uncover the truth behind the spectral presence. What he discovers is a chilling secret buried deep in the village's past, one that ties the banshee's curse to a long-forgotten tragedy. Will he be able to break the curse, or will the banshee's wail signal his own doom? This haunting story will keep you riveted as you explore the thin line between life and death.
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Seitenzahl: 26
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
The Banshee
Synopsis
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Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
The Banshee
Synopsis
Chill, eerie, the wailing horror filled the little room where old Doc Turner fought to save a man from death. But Doc knew that he had more to defeat than a murderous banshee—and that if he failed he also must die!
The Spider, April 1939, with "Doc Turner and the Banshee"
1
SIFTING through the black-barred ties of the 'El' trestle, a chill rain glistened on gutter-cobbles and debris-strewn sidewalks. Tonight Morris Street was empty of the pushcart hucksters and chattering, swarthy aliens for whom it is market, promenade, club and playground. The rain became emerald and ruby dust on the windows of Doc Turner's drugstore, faceting the green and scarlet light from bulbous, tall bottles—antique symbols of a trade that here, at least, remained a profession.
Within the store, shelves once painted white but now age-yellowed, sagged with the weight of the tonics and cough-mixtures and laxatives crowding them. Two rows of showcases, lengthwise of the shop, were heavy-framed, their glass tops so scratched as to conceal rather than display dusty piles of medical equipment. The air was heavy with the nostalgic 'drugstore-smell' that is compounded of anise and colocynth, licorice and verbena, valerian, aloes, and the tangy oils drying out of great bars of castile soap stacked crisscross on the wooden sales counter that right-angled the rows of showcases at the rear.
A fly-specked, translucent bowl hanging from the wallpapered ceiling shed a grudging illumination over all this. The grimy light was caught and made silken by the white hair of an old man who stood behind the sales counter, tugging pensively at the silver bush of his mustache.
The blue eyes that peered out of Andrew Turner's wrinkled, craggy face were faded. His bold promontory of a nose was marked with the tiny red wriggles of aged capillaries. His long-fingered, acid-stained hands were fleshless under their sere skin and his store coat of shabby grey alpaca hung loosely from stooped shoulders. Frail and feeble-seeming, Doc Turner was wrapped in the thoughts of old age, that are more meaningful than the poet-sung thoughts of youth.
They were broken in upon by the rattle of the front door's opening. Rain gusted in, and out of the wet-lashed emptiness of Morris Street a slim girl of about eighteen entered and came toward the old pharmacist.
