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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
- Serie: Doc. Turner Series
- Sprache: Englisch
The Claws of Shari by Arthur Leo Zagat is a pulse-pounding adventure that will leave you breathless. Set in the heart of a mysterious and treacherous jungle, this tale follows an intrepid explorer who uncovers an ancient and dangerous secret. As he delves deeper into the jungle, he encounters a tribe that worships a fearsome deity known as Shari, whose claws are rumored to be cursed with dark powers. With danger lurking at every turn and allies becoming enemies, the explorer must navigate a perilous path to uncover the truth behind Shari's claws. Will he escape the jungle's deadly grasp, or will he fall victim to its ancient curse? Embark on this thrilling journey and discover the secrets hidden within The Claws of Shari.
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Seitenzahl: 34
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
The Claws of Shari
Synopsis
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Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
The Claws of Shari
Synopsis
Who was the man that moved soundlessly as a cat through Doc Turner's midnight slums? Had he any connection with the slinking killer-cat which slew human beings for no apparent reason? Once more the aged pharmacist of Morris Street goes to war for his people!
The Spider, June 1942, with "The Claws of Shari"
1
ALL day and in the night's early hours Morris Street had been raucous with truck horns, with the shouts of the pushcart hucksters, the polyglot babble of its thronging pedestrians, the shrill cries of tattered children playing dangerously in its gutters. Now, after midnight, the slum's teeming life had drained off into the tenement warrens. Store windows blacked out, the debris-strewn pavements were lit only by wide-spaced, feeble street lamps. A hush lay over the district.
Into this somehow ominous quiet came the yowl of an alley cat. To Andrew Turner, plodding wearily homeward from long hours in his ancient pharmacy, some overtone of the familiar nocturnal sound brought the odd notion that just so might wail a human soul in torment.
The aged druggist paused. Acid-stained fingers tugged at the white bush of his mustache as he peered into the alley mouth within whose murk feline ululation rose to a snarling climax—and exploded into a scream.
Not the scream of a cat—the scream of a woman. The shriek spoke of unthinkable, nerve-shattering terror.
By the time the cry died out, Doc Turner was in the alley, hurrying toward the source of that agonized sound. The deeper dark here paled the high opening where the black walls that formed the gut ended. Beyond, against sky-glow of the never- sleeping city, a back-yard fence was Stygian. The fence was suddenly surmounted by the lithe silhouette of a huge cat.
From its muzzle to its undulant tail, the brute seemed to measure three feet.
A moan pulled Doc's eyes up to a faint glimmer in the side of a building. When he looked again, the cat was gone. Its enormity, he reassured himself must have been an optical illusion. Still, ice sheathed Turner's body.
"Can you make out where the scream came from?" a voice asked, and a vague form took shape in the darkness near Doc Turner.
"Somewhere towards the rear of this house," Doc said. "The first floor, by the sound of those moans." There were other sounds within the tenement now, a muffled thud of doors, questioning calls. "I'm going around in front and see."
The stranger's walk, beside him, was oddly noiseless.
The vestibule door was not locked. Narrow, uncarpeted stairs rose to a congested hallway that held the pad of bare feet, an excited jabber in a dozen different languages, the rap of urgent knuckles on wood. In the dim glow of a tiny bulb Doc saw his companion, tall and slender, well-dressed. He had a triangular, dark face, and his uncovered black hair was sleek and lustrous as though, like a woman's, it received a hundred brush strokes morning and night.
"You are Andrew Turner," he said, "proprietor of the drugstore at Hogbund Lane corner. I am Gar Karin."
His English was too precisely enunciated to be his native tongue, but neither name nor appearance gave any clue to his origin. "Sonia!" someone shouted, above. "Sonia Marshvitz! Open de door."
Climbing the broken-railed stairs to a gabble now more frightened than excited, Doc recalled that Sonia Marshvitz was a widow living here with her four year old son, Paul. Someone had switched on a light on the next floor and the landing was crowded with night-gowned women and night-shirted unshaven men.
