The Hexer from Salem - Witches of Salem (eBook)

Episode 3

Wolfgang Hohlbein (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2016 | 1. Aufl. 2016
104 Seiten
Lübbe (Verlag)
978-3-7325-1354-3 (ISBN)

Infos

He was running for his life.
They were behind him. Though he couldn't see or hear them, he could feel them closing in. Behind him, or maybe already in front of him, somewhere in the darkness blanketing the street like a black cloud. This was their territory and they knew every step, every hiding place and every shortcut. He had a bit of a head start but he was under no illusion. They initially took him for an idiot from the countryside, a farmer terrified by the sight of a knife, the thought of fighting back not even crossing his mind. But as soon as he knocked out the teeth of one, the other three knew not to make the same mistake...

<p>Wolfgang Hohlbein is a phenomenon: With more than 200 books selling over 40 million copies worldwide, he is one of Germany's most prolific fantasy writers. Hohlbein is well-known for his young adult books and above all his novel series, The Hexer from Salem.<br><br></p>

Textauszug

 

“You’re sure you have the right address?” The driver’s voice implied a great deal more than the words he used. As I leaned forward and pulled aside the dingy curtain, I understood why he had given me a frown when I first gave him the address. “If this is the WESTMINSTER Guest House, then yes,” I answered slowly.

The driver nodded. He was a tall, burly fellow, who looked a little ridiculous in the black livery uniform, but he had a good face and kind eyes. I could tell a lot from eyes. The face could lie, but not the eyes. “This is it. You’re sure, sir, your friend lives here?”

“Is there perhaps another WESTMINSTER Guest House?” I asked uncertainly.

The driver shook his head. He pushed his top hat back and scratched his forehead in thought. “No,” he said. “There’s a hotel with the same name on the west side. Otherwise …” He shrugged his shoulders and grimaced, which said all I needed to know.

I tried but wasn’t really able to smile. I had already been at the Hotel WESTMINSTER for three days, immediately following my arrival to London. I even had a room there, not that I could really afford such an expensive and lavish place.

Unfortunately, Howard, the elusive Howard my father had sent me to, was not to be found at the Hotel Westminster. In the last three days I had done little else than try to find him.

To find a man whom I knew only by the presumably fake name of Howard, in a city of a million inhabitants bordered on insanity. I was on the verge of giving up when a helpful bobby informed me of a guest house going by the same name.

There the similarities ended. The guest house was at the end of a street that was rundown even by the standards of the New York slums which I had left not half a year ago. Barely a quarter of the two-dozen streetlights adorning the cobblestone street worked, and what they did manage to illuminate would have been better left in the darkness. Waste and refuse were strewn everywhere, and the dark outlines of overflowing trash cans stood out against the buildings’ broken brick facades. What few windows I could see were shuttered or boarded up. Now and again you could hear squeaks and the tapping of tiny, hard claws. Rats. They were the only living things in this area after dark. The stench even seeped into the coach, and we had only just arrived.

The guest house itself was only distinguished by a poorly handmade sign and a dim gas lamp with a cracked shade above the door. Even the windows were shut, with only a bit of light seeping through the cracks between the shutters.

“Would you wait here a moment?” I said, opening the coach door and stepping out. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, you can leave.” I reached into my vest withdrew a five-pound note and handed it to the driver. To my surprise, he shook his head at it.

“Sorry, sir,” he said. “It costs just a pound and, as soon as you go in there,” — he pointed to the boarding house — “me and old Beth here will be on our way. We aren’t tired of living yet, you know?”

I let out a disappointed sigh, but didn’t try convincing him further. Instead, I handed him the pound and turned quickly to the boarding house. I couldn’t blame him for wanting to leave. Three other drivers before him had refused to take me here.

I nervously gripped the walking stick under my coat. I had a feeling I wasn’t alone– and I’d enough experience in such places to know when I was being watched.

My hands trembled slightly as I knocked. The knocking sounded hollow, I could hear a door opening somewhere inside and steps coming toward me. I glanced back to motion to the driver to stay. He nodded and began to play nervously with his whip. Shadows were moving on the other side of the street.

The door unlocked with a clatter but opened just a crack, stopped by a chain. A pair of sleepy and suspicious eyes looked through. “What you want?”

It wasn’t a very friendly greeting, but I bit back a rude retort and instead took a polite half step back and gave a short bow. “Good evening, sir.” I said gracefully. “I’m looking for a guest of yours, if you’d be so kind …”

“I’m not,” he interrupted. “You know how late it is?”

“A little after midnight,” I said automatically. “But my business is important.”

He sighed, rolled his eyes, and tried to shut the door. However, I had stuck my foot inside and the taut chain kept him from opening the door further so he could step out and rough me up.

“Fine,” he mumbled. “Whom do you want to talk to?”

“With Howard,” I said. “One of your guests. Perhaps you could …”

“Howard?” he answered. “There’s no Howard here. Never has been.”

That was a lie. I knew it as soon as the words left his mouth. I always knew when someone was lying.

“We both know that isn’t true,” I said. “Why don’t you save us the trouble and call him down?”

His face twitched. In the poor lighting I couldn’t make out his expression very well, but what I could see I didn’t like. It must have been a good half-minute of him looking me up and down, but I didn’t give him time to find another excuse.

“I really don’t want to trouble you, sir,” I said, still polite but with a sharper tone in my voice. “Mr. Howard and I are good friends, no matter that he doesn’t know me yet. Of course, I could get back into my coach and return in a half hour with the police, if you prefer.”

A shot in the dark, but it worked. He reacted with a hint of fear and now looked at me with a mix of new-found respect and murderous intent. He pursed his lips. “Ok, Mister Clever,” he growled. “Get your foot out of the door. I’ll open it.”

My eyes trained on him, I nodded and stepped back. The door closed hard and I heard the chain rattle. The door swung open again revealing a corridor lit only by a single, low-burning candle. I was startled by how large and broad he was — a hand’s width shorter than I but twice as wide, and all muscle. He appeared groggy — I had apparently awoken him from a very deep sleep — and his jowls and the puffiness below his eyes gave him the look of an agitated bulldog. Had I gotten a good look at him in the first place, I probably wouldn’t have been so bold.

But, then, he likely wouldn’t have let me in.

I moved swiftly past him into the hallway, turning only to wave to the coach driver. He acknowledged me with a tip of his hat, cracked his whip, and was off.

The man watched the carriage go until it was out of sight, shaking his head as he shut the door behind him. “That wasn’t so smart,” he said. “Letting your ride leave.”

I was unsettled as much by what he said as how he looked at me while he said it. There was something threatening about his demeanor.

I tried to return his glare but didn’t really succeed. “Why?” I asked.

“Because I don’t think H.P. will receive you.”

“H.P.?”

“Howard,” he grumbled. “If you’re coming in the middle of the night to talk to him, you should at least know his name, don’t you think?” A look of distrust came over him. “What do you want with him?”

“I don’t think that is any of your concern,” I retorted. I took off my hat and stepped back with a bow, if only to break eye contact with him for a moment. “My name is Craven,” I said. “Robert Craven. Please go fetch Mr. Howard and tell him I bring greetings from his friend, Andara. I’m quite sure he will receive me.”

He gave me a doubtful stare while processing what I had said, then shrugged his shoulders. “No matter,” he uttered. “But don’t be surprised when he doesn’t come. H.P. never gets visitors.” Shaking his head, he put the chain back across the door, turned, and shuffled past me down the hallway. At the end of the corridor, red light was shimmering through a set of half-open double doors. My strange guide fully opened one door and, turning, gestured towards the room. A nearby staircase led up to the next floor.

“Wait here,” he said starkly. “I’ll check with H.P.”

I watched him shake his head as he left before I entered the room he had instructed I wait in. Again, I reached for the walking stick under my coat. Although I didn’t want to admit it, this dilapidated house and its unsettling caretaker filled me with unease, even fear. There was something dark and threatening within the old walls, which is difficult to put into words.

The room I entered took on the appearance of both library and parlor. One wall had floor-to-ceiling shelves stuffed with books. Another wall was characterized by an impressive, marble fireplace while a third wall had a sturdy table flanked by a half-dozen chairs of the highest quality. The room was quite a bit more elegant and cleaner than I had expected. Yet my initial impression of the place persisted. It was strangely … somber.

I kept to the doorway for a moment before moving towards the fireplace. There was a roaring fire going that kept the room well-lit and warm. Taking my coat off, I went to the fire and held my hands over it. My fingers tingled with cold which was...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 17.10.2016
• Reihe/Serie: An Occult Fantasy Series
• Reihe/Serie: An Occult Fantasy Series
• Illustrationen: Les Edwards
• Übersetzer: William Glucroft
• Verlagsort: Köln
• Sprache: englisch
• Original-Titel: Die Hexe von Salem
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Fantasy / Science Fiction ► Fantasy
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Fantasy / Science Fiction ► Science Fiction
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• Schlagworte: 18. - 19. Jahrhundert • Cthulhu • dark creatures • Dark Fantasy • Demons • England / Großbritannien • Fantasy • Fantasy Bücher • fantasy series • Grusel • Horror • horror books • horror classics • horror ebooks • Horror Fantasy • horror fiction • H.P. • H P Lovecraft • john Sinclair • john sinclair demon hunter • Lovecraft • Mystery • occult series • Suspense • Warlock
• ISBN-10: 3-7325-1354-8 / 3732513548
• ISBN-13: 978-3-7325-1354-3 / 9783732513543