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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: Doc. Turner Series
- Sprache: Englisch
The Cat From Hell by Arthur Leo Zagat is a spine-chilling horror story that will leave you with a lingering sense of dread. When a seemingly ordinary black cat enters the lives of a quiet, unsuspecting household, a series of inexplicable and terrifying events unfold. This feline, with its piercing eyes and eerie presence, is more than just a pet—it's a harbinger of doom. As the sinister truth about the cat's origins comes to light, the household must confront an ancient curse that threatens to unleash unspeakable horrors. Can they break free from the grip of this malevolent creature, or will they succumb to the terror that follows in its wake? Enter if you dare, but beware—this cat has nine lives, and each one brings death closer.
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Seitenzahl: 32
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
The Cat From Hell
Synopsis
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Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
The Cat From Hell
Synopsis
Out of the darkness of those poverty-stricken tenements came the killer-cat—ripping and screaming, as it slew the poor. But Doc Turner, that specialist in misery, knew a way to save his people, by trapping a King of the Beggars—who did not rule with a gilded scepter but by the fangs of a bloodthirsty, feline fiend!
The Spider, January 1938, with "The Cat From Hell"
1
LOW at first, then rising into a heart-stopping crescendo, the sound was somewhere between a scream and a groan. Even after it had ended, the slum night throbbed with its uncanny menace, the very shadows seeming to shrink closer within the black vestibules of Morris Street.
Andrew Turner stood rigid in the dim aura of a street-lamp, his slender, age-stooped form motionless, wrinkled face paling, eyes abruptly steely beneath the white eaves of their brows.
The yowls of back-fence cats were a familiar accompaniment to his nightly plodding through tenement-lined blocks all the more desolate now for their daylong bustle and turmoil. The feline cries were as much a part of his routine as the drowsy pharmacy where he had toiled more years that he cared to recall, as the bare and dreary room that was all he knew of home. He scarcely heard those other cats or noticed them.
It was this other feline howl that held him transfixed...
In the welling caterwaul that this moment had faded into palpitant silence, there had been a quality of venom strangely un-animal, a snarling triumph oddly half-human. Doc Turner felt a shudder within him like that his primeval ancestors must have felt, listening to the hunting-call of the saber-toothed tiger outside their caves.
Doc's slender fingers, bony and blue-veined beneath his dry, almost transparent skin, closed slowly, as he peered through the murk under the overhanging low trestle of the el. This was the first time the banshee-howl had come to Doc's ears, but, for a week, the blanched lips of Morris Street had whispered the tale of its hearing and of that which three times had been found in some sequestered alley soon after it was heard.
Across the street, the sidewalk was deserted, the store-windows fronting it, lightless and withdrawn. Slits of darker blackness between these windows were the entrances to the drab tiers of flats wherein the very poor, who dwelt here, lay sodden in slumber. In all the long thoroughfare there was no movement, no sound now except the far-off growl of the never-sleeping city.
Hidden by a grey mustache, ragged and bushy, Doc's thin lips set. A muscle twitched in his hollow cheek.
There was movement over there! Within the Stygian maw of a vestibule, the blackness was changing form, now seeming to project itself out onto the sidewalk. It fell out into the pallid luminance of the very lamp beneath which Turner had halted... and became a feebly scrabbling hand!
The pharmacist regained control of his limbs, darted across the gutter. He attained the doorway and stooped to the hand, to the sprawled figure from which the hand reached—a heaving form that lay across the vestibule's threshold.
Doc's nostrils pinched to shut out the stench of the filth and corruption that met them, but his fingers closed on moldering rags, on the nearly fleshless bone of a shoulder beneath the rags, and his voice betrayed no revulsion but only concern. "What is it? What's the trouble?"
