The Hound of Hell E-Book

Arthur Leo Zagat

• Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: Dime Mystery Magazine
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 77

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

The Hound of Hell by Arthur Leo Zagat is a spine-tingling mystery that will keep you on the edge of your seat. When a series of grisly murders shakes a quiet town, the only clue left behind is the unmistakable howl of a monstrous hound. As fear spreads and rumors of a demonic beast take hold, an intrepid detective is drawn into a chilling investigation that reveals dark secrets lurking in the shadows. With each step closer to the truth, the danger escalates, and the line between myth and reality blurs. Can the detective uncover the sinister force behind the hound before more lives are claimed, or will the terror of the beast remain unsolved? Dive into this atmospheric thriller and uncover the horror that awaits.

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

The Hound of Hell

The Hound of Hell

I. — MENACE OF THE DOGS

II. — WARNING—OR THREAT?

III. — THE HELLHOUND STRIKES AGAIN

IV. —A SCREAM FROM THE DARK

V. — THE CURSE OF THE DOG CRUCIFIED

VI. — THE HOUR OF THE FALSE DAWN

VII. — THE UNHOLY COMMUNION

Landmarks

Table of Contents

Cover

The Hound of Hell

Dime Mystery Magazine

By: Arthur Leo Zagat

Edited by: Rafat Allam

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq Bookstore

First published in Dime Mystery Magazine, March 1935

No part of this publication may be reproduced whole or in part in any form without the prior written permission of the author

The Hound of Hell

What eerie threat hung over Oaklake like a fog of ghastly horror? Why did the dogs—the aristocratic wolfhounds and the scrubby mongrels—form a murder-pack that bayed its terror in the dark of the moon? Who laid the Curse of the Dogs on the rich men who dwelt in that small community? What grim, ungodly power was nightly forcing more honest men to make age-old bargain with the Devil...

I. — MENACE OF THE DOGS

"I AM convinced," Rennold Forson said heavily, "that there is something definitely wrong in Oaklake." He stood, tall and thin, in the center of the living room, and there was a queer glow in his narrow, piercing eyes. "Some strange peril hangs over our little community like a cloud; the fear of some weird, uncanny evil is creeping into every home, touching every life. I am worried for you, my dear, living out here on the edge of the town, alone and unprotected."

Sandra Crane appeared slender, fragile, sitting in the deep chair near the window. "I am not afraid," her tired contralto responded. "Not at all afraid."

"I don't get you," Wally Leeds drawled, his gangling, loose-jointed frame slouched on the sofa. "You aren't really jittery over the gossip of a few shopkeepers and the howling of a dog at night? That's all there is to the whole thing!"

Forson's sharp-edged, pointed features turned to the youth. His thin lips twitched in what might have been a humorless, saturnine smile. "Gossip! A dozen people have seen the dog—a shadowy beast skulking through the fields at night. They say that his eyes glow with a red fire that strikes terror into them, as if the devil himself were glaring at them."

"Imagination, aided by one or two too many drinks at the Seven Gables!"

"Oh, of course." The older man made no effort to disguise the animosity in his tone. "You can explain anything by that. It might even account for the fact that night before last, when the Talmadges' cottage caught fire at two in the morning, only about five of the volunteers answered the alarm, and that the rest of the company refused to explain where they had been, except that they were not at home."

"Well..."

"I was talking to Father Fasey today," Forson continued. "He tells me his congregation has dropped off about half, and that even of those who attend Mass, only one man has accepted Communion in weeks. He is quite convinced that Satan has invaded Oaklake and he intends to exorcise him next Sunday."

Somehow, as he said that, the atmosphere of uneasy dread he had managed to create in the little parlor deepened. The beaming, rotund little priest was very wise. If he put so great stress on the whisperings...

"Faugh. I can't stand this sort of talk." Wally pushed himself to his feet, jerked around to Sandra. "Good-night, Miss Crane. I'm going home and try to write." He flung himself out through the curtained archway into the foyer.

Forson's lip curled. "Good riddance. I can't see how you stand him around."

A fleeting smile illuminated the girl's wan features. "He is a trifle gauche. But then he's had an awful struggle, writing for years and not selling a thing. I think..."

"Oh, let's forget him!" The man lunged across the room, towered above Sandra. "I can say what I want to, now that he's gone. Sandra, my dear! Why won't you consent to marry me at once? Why won't you give me the right to protect you?"

"To protect me? Against what?"

"Oh, Good Lord! Haven't you been listening to me at all? Don't you remember what your father said to us, with the grey of death masking his face?" Forson's voice was tortured; he was quivering. "Sandra! He was already almost in that Other World when he spoke those last words. A knowledge not given to living men must already have been filtering into his soul. He begged you not to wait because of mourning; he begged you to marry me at once! Have you forgotten?"

The girl was erect now. Her brown eyes were deep, somber wells.

"I remember." She made a little, helpless gesture. "But I can't. Not yet. Oh, Rennold, not yet!"

"Darling! There is danger abroad. Some horrible, foul danger whose nature we do not know. But your father knew, when he gasped out, 'I want to feel that you are safe, dear!' and died."

"Safe!" Sandra jerked it out. "Why shouldn't I be safe here? With Alice, and—and Scratch? Father gave me Scratch to protect me!"

Forson twisted away from her, twisted back. "Scratch!" His face writhed with some obscure emotion. "Sandra! I didn't want to point it out before, but it is Scratch himself whom I fear—for you. The hound that haunts the night is black, and the only black dog in town is—Scratch!"

There was a moment's silence, tense, quivering. It was broken by a moan from the girl, a low moan: "No! I can't believe it! Scratch loves me. He would give his life for me; certainly he would never hurt me."

"Believe it or not, that dog is dangerous!" Forson flung the words at her, virulent.

Sandra had recovered herself. "Dangerous! You—you're insane. All you have to do is watch his eyes when he looks at me. I'll prove it to you." She turned to a second door, one that opened into the pantry, thence to the kitchen. "Alice," she called. "Alice!"

Alice Bolt waited a minute before she opened that door. It was love for Miss Sandra that had made an eavesdropper of her, but that might not be understood. Then: "Yes! Yes. Miss Sandra."

"Where's Scratch!"

"By the stove in the kitchen."

"Let him come in. Here, Scratch! Scratch!"

Claws rattled on the stone floor of the pantry; a furry body pushed past the meager, grey-haired domestic. A collie entered the living room, sleek-haired, big-headed, completely black. He paused, wagging a bushy tail.

"Come here. Scratch. It's all right for you to come in here tonight. Come here, boy." Sandra's tones were tender, caressing. "Come here!"

The dog started across to her, his tail still wagging. Forson moved restively. And suddenly the collie stopped. His fur seemed to bristle, his neck to swell to twice its natural size. His great head dropped to the ground, his lips retracted. He was snarling, growling; his eyes, fixed on the girl, were red and baleful.

"Scratch!" It was almost a scream. "Scratch! What is it? What's the matter?"

His mistress' voice seemed to infuriate the brute. He howled, leaped, jaws open, white fangs gleaming, straight for her throat! Forson threw himself at Sandra, struck her, tumbled to the floor with her. The dog shot over them, landed heavily on the couch, scrambled for a foothold. Then he was gone, through the open window beneath which the sofa stretched; gone into the night!

White-faced, trembling, Sandra regained her feet. "It isn't true," she moaned. "It isn't true! Rennold! It's just as if—as if you had turned against me—or Dad! Dad gave him to me...He's sick. He must be sick!"

"Or possessed," Forson supplied, white-lipped, shaken. "Or possessed by—the spirit of the devil himself!"

* * *

The tip of Alice Bolt's nose twitched, rabbit-like, and her acidulous voice whipped stridently through the aseptic whiteness of Oaklake's Meat Market. "The idea!" she shrilled. "The idea of sending us chops like these when you know Miss Sandra's clean distracted, what with her father not yet cold in his grave, so to speak, and Scratch missing for two days!"

"Scratch?" Oscar Johnson's china-blue eyes blinked from the pink roundness of his face. "Scratch?"

Miss Bolt sniffed. That was his way of sliding from under an argument—to get people talking about something else. "You know very well who Scratch is—Miss Sandra's black collie that her father gave her just before he took to his deathbed. The dog's gone; no one knows where. I declare, the Prescotts' Mamie was right when she said Satan himself has got into this town!"

Johnson grunted, as though he had been dealt a body blow. Those little eyes of his were suddenly gone white. "Satan!" Then, pulling himself together by what was evidently a tremendous effort, he blurted: "Ach. I don't feel so very good. Excuse me please."

He gestured weakly to his clerk to finish the transaction with Miss Bolt, tottered away to vanish in the mysterious back precincts of his shop.