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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: Doc. Turner Series
- Sprache: Englisch
The Corpse Factory by Arthur Leo Zagat is a spine-chilling and suspenseful tale that delves into the macabre and the unthinkable. In a grim and shadowy corner of the city, a factory operates under the guise of normalcy, but its true function is far more sinister: it manufactures corpses for illegal purposes. When an investigative journalist stumbles upon this horrifying secret, they are plunged into a world of dark dealings, danger, and deception. As the truth comes to light, the stakes grow ever higher, leading to a shocking climax. Will the journalist expose the truth before becoming the next victim, or will the factory's ghastly operations continue unchecked? Discover the chilling reality behind The Corpse Factory and prepare for a gripping journey into darkness.
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Seitenzahl: 35
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
The Corpse Factory
Synopsis
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Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
The Corpse Factory
Synopsis
It was an orphaned baby, of a slain mother, who sent Doc Turner out on a vengeance trail—to run down the master of a corpse factory that worked overtime to turn out alarm clocks set for murder!
The Spider, May 1938, with "The Corpse Factory"
1
BENEATH his bushy white mustache, Andrew Turner's lips moved in a thin, weary smile that was half bitter, half self-mocking. A quarter to six—Doc was over an hour early. There had been no sleep for him that night.
In desperation, he had risen with the first rays of the spring sun, clothed his frail old body and come down to the drugstore on Morris Street that was infinitely more home to him than the austere and lonely room that had been the other end of his orbit for far longer than he cared to recall.
The key came out of the pocket in the bony, acid-stained fingers that had so long rolled pills, folded powders, measured meticulous drams. But Doc did not at once insert the key into its lock. Instead, he turned to scan the cobbled thoroughfare that he could remember as an earth-bedded suburban lane... and in his faded and kindly eyes was a shadow of troubled apprehension.
There was no reason, Turner told himself, for the gnawing anxiety that had kept him staring at a blank and oppressive ceiling since midnight. Nothing was wrong—he was a doddering old fool...
But he could not wholly convince himself that this was so.
He was more than merely the druggist on the corner, this stooped and white-haired little man. To the poverty-stricken denizens of this wretched neighborhood he was their tutor in the bewildering ways of the strange land to which they had come with such high hopes—and where they had lost all hope. Time and again, he had fought for them against the human vultures who prey on the helpless poor; in that fighting he had gained a sixth sense that warned him, even before there was any tangible evidence of it, when some new threat hovered over his people.
This sixth sense was now sounding its inner, inscrutable warning, telling him, insistently, that something was wrong in Morris Street... deadly wrong.
The low sun came in under the trestle of the "El," so that, for a little while, the shadow of the stilted, gaunt structure did not yet make dim and brooding the golden light flooding the street. As yet there was no long line of pushcarts along the curb, or shouting, raucous hucksters. No shawled and jabbering housewives yet thronged the sidewalks that were still un-strewn by debris. No juggernauts of trucks scattered shrieking, grimly- faced urchins for whom the gutter was the only playground. Even the decrepit, dreary tenement facades were new-washed by the morning and seemed to hide, behind their desolate facades, a little less of human misery. Even the smells of the slum were almost covered over by the salty tang of the soft, cool breeze sighing up from the river.
Doc Turner could almost hear that breeze rustling the elms that, in the dim long-ago, lined Morris Road. Almost, he could—A small sound—the whisper of a bare foot on sidewalk concrete swung Doc around.
The child stood very still, looking gravely at him out of great, round eyes. She was about five, but so small for her age, that her matted brown hair reached hardly higher than the old man's knees. Unclothed, except for a cheap cotton nightgown, she clutched a lollipop tightly in one smeared fist, and, on her naked little arm and one cheek, the candy had left its red marks.
"Good morning, Janey," Doc Turner said. "Does your mother know you came out so early?"
