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- Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Serie: Doc. Turner Series
- Sprache: Englisch
The Winged Terror by Arthur Leo Zagat is a heart-pounding thriller that soars through the skies of suspense and danger. When a series of inexplicable and deadly attacks begin to terrorize a bustling city, the clues point to an enigmatic figure known only as "The Winged Terror." As the body count rises and panic spreads, a determined investigator must unravel the mystery behind this elusive and malevolent force. With each revelation, the stakes grow higher, leading to a breathtaking climax where the true nature of the terror is revealed. Can the investigator stop the menace before it's too late, or will the city fall prey to the winged shadow? Prepare for an electrifying journey that will leave you breathless.
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Seitenzahl: 32
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Table of Contents
Doc. Turner's Death Antidote
Synopsis
1
2
Landmarks
Table of Contents
Cover
The Winged Terror
Synopsis
Out of the darkness a winged slayer had swooped down upon Doc Turner's impoverished neighbors. In this atmosphere of terror, only Doc had the courage to challenge the strangest crime set-up that had ever enslaved human beings!
The Spider, June 1939, with "Doc Turner and the Winged Terror"
1
BRONTO WSLAW died in full view of a hundred men and women, but no one knew how he died. Morris Street had been turbulent with its usual early evening crowds; shawled housewives chaffering with unshaven, sweating pushcart hucksters, children screaming at their games of gag and "one old cat," swarthy, labor-grimed men wearily plodding homeward from backbreaking toil.
It was just before the supper hour, but night had already gathered between the drab, bleak facades of the tenements. At the level of the shifting throngs, brilliant lights brought out the vivid colors of the peddlers' wares, but fifteen feet above the cracked sidewalks the "El" structure brooded, a black roof to the slum thoroughfare.
Burly, bull-necked in his earth-encrusted overalls, palpably weary yet straight-backed with pride in an honest day's labor honestly performed, Bronto Wslaw reached the corner of Morris Street and Hogbund Lane, paused to let a huge van pass—then suddenly vented a high, wild scream that knifed the raucous clamor of the market thoroughfare, sliced it short to a stunned, appalling silence.
Wslaw thudded down, lay crumpled on the corner manhole cover of a sewer. Blood spurted from his gashed throat, made a scarlet glistening pool about his pallid head.
Andrew Turner was the first to reach him, the frail old druggist, quicker by seconds in his reactions than the nightmare-paralyzed pedestrians, was across the sidewalk from the door of his pharmacy and kneeling beside the man who had screamed before those much nearer Wslaw quite realized what had happened. But Doc, too, was rigid at once, staring at the laborer's thick throat—at the scarlet flesh that had been jaggedly torn across three times, windpipe and sinews and arteries shredded three times as if by a three-pronged fork.
Bronto Wslaw was beyond Doc's aid, was beyond the aid of anyone human.
When the police came, questioning, some who had been nearest Wslaw when he screamed and thudded down told an incredible story. They said that a shadow had swooped down out of the overhead shadow of the "El," the instant before he screamed, that it had enveloped his head and had leaped back into the "El's" shadow as he fell—that its pounce and vanishing had been accompanied by the sound of wings. The police laughed at this wild tale. Whoever had heard of a bird ripping a man's throat as Wslaw's was ripped? Whoever had heard of a bird as large as a twenty-pound turkey flying free in the heart of the city?
No, the police decided, since no one had been seen to do this to the man, he must have done it himself. His weapon—whatever it was—must have dropped down the sewer outlet just above which his limp hand rested, hanging over the curb. They said he had gone mad—but not suddenly, for on the sidewalk beside him they found a blood-stained sheet of coarse grayish paper such as is sold to children, a writing pad for four cents, and on the paper, crudely printed in scarlet crayon, these mad words:
ONE FOR THE BLACK EAGLE
