Evil Eye (eBook)

Ehren M. Ehly (Autor)

eBook Download: EPUB

2024 | 1. Auflage
296 Seiten
Bookbaby (Verlag)
979-8-3509-4976-6 (ISBN)

Infos

Alexandria, Egypt--1919 The exorcism was almost complete. The priests had overcome the old man's fierce resistance, and as if lancing a boil, had drawn the evil power from his body. But before they could finish the ceremony of purification, something happened--something that would change the world. New York City--Today The Forrester family was rich, powerful and nasty--the kind of people who would steal the pennies from a dead man's eyes. Arrogant and contemptuous, they ruined lives as easily as they bought and sold companies. Yet they were suddenly faced with a problem: Tony Filestra. Although he was merely a pawn in their corporate empire, Filestra had an ally more ruthless than even the Forresters--an aged grandmother with a thirst for revenge and the incredible power of the Evil Eye. Step into the world of horror with Evil Eye by Ehren M. Ehly. This spine-chilling novel takes readers on a journey through the supernatural. This book is perfect for all adult fans of horror fiction. 'Once in a while a jewel will come along. Like any diamond in the rough, one has to take the time to scrape away the dirt to get at the precious substance that lies beneath. Ehren M. Ehly's latest novel is just such a jewel. Once you get past the menacing cover art and her brief prologue, a truly wondrous tale unfolds. She utilizes one of the oldest superstitions, the belief in the power of the evil eye, and brings it up to date with gusto and glory. She knows how to tell a strong story, and is also deft at using contemporary themes and weaving them into her writing. ---J. B. Macabre Rave Reviews Magazine Feb/March 1990

Ehren M. Ehly was the pen name used by 1980's Pulp Horror Fiction author Moreen Ehly (1929-2012). She was the author of four published horror novels, including Obelisk, Totem, Evil Eye, and Star Prey. Raised in Egypt during her formative years, the English-born Ehly was forced to flee the country in 1952, during the July Revolution that overthrew King Farouk. She eventually immigrated to the United States, settling with her American husband in Southern California to raise a family, In her late 50's, Ehly took up fiction writing, inventing lurid tales of terror set mostly in modern-day Cairo, New York, and Southern California, whose characters proved no match for the ancient evils found within the mystical superstitions of the East.

Textauszug

CHAPTER
Two

John Forrester opened the ivory-inlaid liquor cabinet in the corner of the master bedroom and took out the bottle of Dewar’s. “Well, we’ve joined an exclusive coterie of New Yorkers, Clarissa,” he said to his wife. “We have acquired an addition to our particular section of sidewalk.”

“What do you mean?” his wife asked blankly. She unscrewed the wand of black mascara, blissfully unaware that that particular shade was too harsh for a woman of a certain age, especially a blonde.

“There’s a street person in front of our house.” Forrester reached into the cabinet again, selecting a glass.

Clarissa applied another glossy coat of mascara. Mouth open to aid her concentration, she looked like someone who belonged in Bellevue, her husband thought irritably. He wondered for the thousandth time why the act of applying makeup had to be accompanied by such a grotesque series of expressions.

She put down the mascara wand, staring at her reflection in the dresser mirror. “Who?” she asked.

“A street person. You know. A bag lady, squatting in front of our door.” He poured another careful shot of Scotch.

His wife’s face took on an expression of dismay. “She can’t. Our guests will be arriving in twenty minutes, John. You’ve got to get rid of her. My God, the mayor’s coming.”

“Good. Maybe the son of a bitch will do something about it.” He swallowed the Scotch in a gulp, then carefully began to pour another. “After all, what do we pay taxes for?”

His wife walked over to him and scooped up the bottle of Scotch in a bejeweled hand. “You’re not going to get drunk tonight.” Her pale, moon-shaped face looked aggravated.

“Give me one good reason.”

“I’ve just told you. The mayor and his wife are coming, as well as several other people, most of whom are important to me-to us.”

“I wonder why you persist in believing that I need all those bastards you keep up with. Just once, I wish you’d try to understand who I am. What I’ve achieved. Me.” He pounded his chest with a clenched fist. “Not my father, with his painfully accumulated nickles and dimes. And certainly not yours, with his inherited millions.” His lip curled disdainfully. “Christ, all he had to do his whole life long was just sign on the dotted line. It’s a wonder he ever learned how to wipe his own ass.”

“No need to be crude,” his wife said coldly.

“You forget, my dear,” he retorted sarcastically, “I am crude, the son of a poor immigrant who made it big. Just like your people made it big a century ago before dry rot set into their brains.”

Clarissa moved toward the bedroom door; the ramrod set off her back eloquent with outraged anger. At the door she paused, turning slightly toward him, the bottle of Scotch in hand and her face a mask of icy disdain.

“Nevertheless,” she said, “dinner is at eight.” Sounded like a goddamn movie title, one of those oldie but goodie black and white comedies that they used to churn out in the thirties to take everyone’s mind off the depression, with all the actors dripping with sophistication.

Clarissa would be perfect as the dowager mother. She had the part down pat. He couldn’t remember the name of the actress who usually played the part of the wealthy mother, but she was a dead ringer for Clarissa.

On the other hand, he had started out in a different league altogether, something along the lines of Dead End kid makes good.

He walked into his dressing room and began to unbutton his shirt, remembering his father. The old man had attacked Manhattan like Attila the Hun, buying and selling anything he could get his hands on, until he got his hands on an old brownstone up Harlem way. After that, he’d concentrated on real estate, preferably older buildings that he could renovate with a lick of paint and sell for a bundle.

After that, the old guy had branched out into Brooklyn, buying up old family homes and converting them into apartment buildings before anyone else got the hang of it.

John and his older brother, Joseph, had learned a good lesson. Money made money. Doesn’t it always? John Forrester smiled and walked naked into his bathroom.

Sometimes his acquisition of property required a little persuasion, a little arm-twisting. It was surprising how many people gave up and faded away at the first hint of violence.

It had worked well for his father and did no less for him. That was why he kept a stable of hotshot lawyers, just in case anyone squawked when the screws were tightened.

Soaping himself down in the shower, he felt constrained to admit that Clarissa was right about the importance of keeping on the right side of the mayor and his son-of-a-bitching toadies—not that he’d ever admit to being wrong in so many words.

Might made right, didn’t it? And since money was power, you could say that John D. Forrester was pretty mighty these days.

He dried off rapidly, feeling his mood change.

Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to relax and enjoy the evening. Dinner would be good—one thing Clarissa excelled at was entertaining guests—and he could sound the mayor out about Forrester Enterprise’s recent acquisition. So far there was no flack about his plans for the tower, but you could never tell when a bleeding heart liberal like the present mayor might latch on to a new cause.

He dressed quickly, thinking about the magnificent building his company was about to construct on 45th Street between Fifth Avenue and the Avenue of the Americas.

It would make the other guy’s tower look like a fucking erector set, he thought with a wolfish grin.

There had been some trouble at first, something about tearing down the old building on the lot. But that was over now, he thought with some satisfaction. From now on, it would be smooth sailing all the way.

He patted some Eau Sauvage cologne on his cheeks. As the murmur of voices came from somewhere downstairs, he checked himself in the mirrored walls of his dressing room before leaving to join his guests.

He narrowed his eyes suddenly, staring at his face. He ran a hand over his lean jowls thoughtfully. A slight smattering of bumps had risen, just under the skin, and had spread across his cheeks. “What the …?” he began, breaking off as he looked closer.

He could see them now, faintly red and blotchy, but not exactly unsightly. Must be something he ate at lunch—

But lunch had been no more, than a can of juice. Nothing in that to cause a skin eruption.

He put his face close to the mirror, frowning with concentration. Maybe an allergy-but to what? He tried to remember what he had for breakfast. Something with high fiber-and strawberries.

Could it have been the strawberries?

He went over to his wife’s dressing table, and dipping the powder puff into the Wedgwood bowl, patted a little of the face powder onto his cheek. Then he went back into the bathroom and opened the cabinet, looking for some kind of antihistamine.

Benadryl. That ought to take care of the rash. He swallowed two of the capsules, then, turning off the light in the bathroom, walked across the large master bedroom to the window.

He didn’t know what made him look for the old woman, but she seemed to have left the sidewalk.

A limousine pulled up at the curb, and Louis hurried forward to open the door.

Making his way downstairs, Forrester experienced a slight feeling of light-headedness, a floating sensation. The wide, carpeted stairway seemed to become distanced from him, as if he were looking down at it from an unnatural height. The geometric pattern ebbed and flowed as if moving with a strange tide.

Must be the Benadryl. Chrissake, don’t fall, he told himself. His right hand gripped the mahogany balustrade as he descended, step by step.

“Oh, there you are, John. We’re having drinks in the library. “His wife stood in the wide arch leading to the library. Beyond her, Forrester could see quite a few people clustered in small convivial groups, glasses in hand.

A drink. God, did he need a drink!

“Burton,” Forrester said faintly as the butler came abreast of him. “For God’s sake, put that down somewhere and get me a Scotch and soda. On second thought, make it a double, and forget the soda.” He sat down heavily in a black and gold Egyptian revival armchair in the hallway, watching blankly as the butler disappeared into the library.

“John, what on earth are you doing there?” Clarissa came toward him from out of a mist, her face shrinking and expanding like a balloon. “And why sit in that chair?” Her voice lowered to sotto voce. “I’ve asked you not to.”

“What the fuck is this piece of shit for, then?” He realized too late that he’d shouted it out. Other faces, each expanding and inflating differently, stared at him from the library.

“I don’t …” he began, forgetting what he wanted to say in the suddenly overwhelming rush of nausea that engulfed him. With a groan, he leaned forward slightly, mouth open, and spewed a stream of slightly curdled orange juice over the carpet. “I think I’m ill,” he muttered thickly, wiping at his mouth.

Strong arms lifted him out of the chair, and to the accompaniment of shrill, excited voices, carried him back upstairs.

Hands deposited him on the bed, loosened his tie, and pressed his back among the pillows. The pulsating faces, pale and undefined, retreated to the bedroom door, leaving Clarissa standing by the bed.

“How could you humiliate me like this?”

He tried to understand what she meant, watching with a dreadful fascination...

Produkt-Details

• Erscheint lt. Verlag: 25.3.2024
• Sprache: englisch
• Themenwelt: Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen
• ISBN-13: 979-8-3509-4976-6 / 9798350949766