Evil Eye

By Ehren M. Ehly

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.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350949766

Ehren M. Ehly

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.

Book preview

Prologue

Shrill as a banshee howling in the night, the blood-curdling screams started up again.

The sea was high that night. The waves of the blue Mediterranean turned an icy grey and rushed headlong against the Alexandrian shoreline. Their pounding thunder provided an orchestrated background to the drama taking place in a poor Christian section of the Egyptian city in the year 1919.

To the small crowd of onlookers huddled uneasily outside a rundown, one-room house, it seemed as though even the elements shared their fear.

Someone had dipped his hand in mud and decorated the dirty white doorjamb with blackish-brown handprints. An oil lantern attached to the flaking wall cast its sputtering light across the prints, so that it seemed as though the black fingers moved in the shadowy darkness.

Inside, the howling screams started up again.

Squatting in the corner of the shabby candlelit room, a thin, intense-looking boy bent over a small native drum, beating a fiercely rapid rhythm to drive off the devil.

Two burly men, their loose cotton shirts drenched with sweat, held an old, blindfolded man down on a frayed straw mat, pinning his scrawny arms over his head. But they were no match for his rage.

Straining against them, his back arched like that of a wild animal, he struggled. An angry erection, jutting out like a knife under the thin grey shift that he wore, drew the boy’s terrified gaze, and the drum beats faltered. Whipping his head from side to side, the old man spat curses at his captors as he fought them, almost managing to tear himself from their grasp.

Another man came out of the shadows, hurrying forward to sit on the old calloused feet, clutching at the wildly jerking legs that kicked out with such furious abandon.

A shriek erupted from the captive as the weight of the third man fell across his legs, snapping the brittle bones like dried-out twigs.

As the old man twisted his head in a haze of agony, the blindfold slipped, revealing his one eye glaring with a luminous energy around the shadowed room.

Take care, O brothers, whispered one of the other men in the room. Take care lest he cast the evil eye on you.

Quick as a flash, the old man shot the speaker a look of such vitriolic hatred that he staggered back toward the door.

Five, he muttered hastily in Arabic, holding up his right hand, fingers and thumb curled into a claw like gesture of defense. Five in your eye! He opened the wooden door and slipped outside, shivering uncontrollably in the stormy night air.

How is it within? asked one of the group of people in the street. Their faces gleamed a greenish-yellow as the lantern illuminated their expressions of wolfish excitement.

Not good. The speaker, a nervous-looking Cypriot, ran the back of his thumb across his forehead, gathering the greasy beads of sweat. He stared at the moisture of his thumb a moment, then flicked it into the dusty street. The devil fights, and the old one is strong with his power.

The bread, someone muttered. In God’s name, what about the bread and the salt?

It is being prepared, and yonder the dog waits. The Cypriot pointed to a mangy cur crouching by the door. A length of rope tethered it to a large stone, and, unable to escape, it cringed away from the crowd, showing the whites of its eyes.

A low chanting came from within the house, and a collective sigh arose from the men and women waiting outside.

The bread and the salt. The bread …

In the room, a tall bearded man, dressed in the long black robes of a priest, held a round flat loaf of bread high over the old man’s writhing torso. Muttering invocations, he rapidly passed the bread over the old man’s head, sweeping it in ever-widening circles until it had encompassed his whole body.

Suddenly the priest shouted out loud, and the other men in the room backed away from the evil absorbed by the freshly baked loaf.

Hurrying to the door, the bearded priest threw the bread to the slavering cur on the doorstep. Terrified by the proximity of the agitated crowd, it howled with fear.

Eat, eat! the priest thundered at the wretched animal. Swallow the dreaded evil, that we may fear it no more. He slowly unsheathed a knife, holding it ready at his side. Then die, he added softly.

The crowd murmured its approval, a murmur that turned into shouts of warning as a thin, hunchbacked girl darted forward and snatched at the bread, disappearing into a side alley before anyone could stop her.

Feet pounding through the dusty roads, the men fanned out, searching, their urgent voices calling to one another above the storm.

They searched all night but to no avail.

The next day they searched again, asking questions of all who might have seen the girl, but she had vanished without a trace, like the ghosts that walk the night.

Some came who said that she had died, choking to death on the loaf of evil bread, that they had seen her rotting corpse eaten in secret by the desert dogs who came at night to stalk the narrow streets.

Others claimed that she lived amongst them still, changed by magic into the kite-hawk that circled endlessly overhead.

Rumor had it that she had stowed away on a foreign ship bound for far-off lands.

Soon the search died down, as one by one her hunters died a slow and dreadful death.

Only the old one-eyed man, crippled now and very frail, knew.

But he said nothing.

Years passed and still he said nothing.

He only smiled, his one eye shadowed and dull.

CHAPTER

One

No one knew where the old woman came from.

She was old, with a face so deeply crevassed with yellow wrinkled skin as to appear almost mummified. Somehow she had lost one eye, and the eyelid curled back to reveal a hidden wet redness.

Taking up residence on the sidewalk in front of John D. Forrester’s Upper East Side house, she squatted on the curb, an untidy intrusion on the well-kept street.

Her black clothes, ragged with age, hung on her thin, hunchbacked frame like tattered flags. Her one good eye sharp and glittering, she stared back over her hunched shoulder as Mr. Forrester emerged from his house.

J.D., as he liked to be called, observed her when he left for his office at ten in the morning.

I don’t care how you get rid of her, he said in an aggrieved undertone to his porter. Just don’t let me see her there when I return this afternoon. So saying. he allowed himself to be swept away in his limousine to his office complex in midtown Manhattan.

But at 7:00 p.m., when he returned, she was still there, squatting near the curb like an ugly black fly.

A goddamn harpy, he thought, irritated by her unwelcome presence. Why does she have to be here, of all places?

I thought I told you, he muttered grimly to the apologetic porter, to get rid of that … person. He glanced at the woman, receiving a particularly malevolent glare in return.

It’s not that easy, sir. The porter held the front door open deferentially. The police can’t do anything, you see, sir. No laws have been broken.

Forrester’s jaw tightened with anger. It shouldn’t be allowed—and wouldn’t be, if only the milksops who ran the city would pass some laws with teeth in them. If she shits on the sidewalk, I’ll hold you personally responsible. Do I make myself clear? That said, he strode on into the house, a robust, willful man of 60.

Perfectly, sir. Stupid old bastard, thought the porter. He walked over to the woman, his thin, rat-like face tensed in anger.

You’re gonna have to move on down the street now, he said sternly. Mr. Forrester don’t like you camping here.

The old woman ignored him, her gnarled hands busily adjusting the various dirty shawls and cardigans festooning her crouching form.

Louis the porter felt a flash of irritation.

Look, are you deaf? Like I told you, you gotta move on.

Christ! Deaf or dumb, one or the other-or both. Maybe a retard, to boot. He touched her slightly with the tip of his highly polished brown shoes. People like you make me want to vomit. Always where you’re not wanted. He gave her a jab with his shoe. Go on now, before I call the cops.

The old woman screwed her thin neck around and shot him a vicious look. Don’t touch me! she screeched, her words strangely accented.

Typical. He’d barely touched the bitch with his shoe, and now she’d probably tell everyone that he’d kicked her.

Next thing you know, they’d have the TV cameras set up for the six o’clock news. Dan Rather or some other wise-ass would stick a mike in his face, and it would be curtains as far as his job was concerned.

Mrs. Forrester was very particular about appearances, as she’d made very clear on more than one occasion. The prissy-mouthed bitch acted like she was the goddamn Queen of Sheba. Well, he didn’t give a shit what she thought.

Mr. Forrester was another case altogether. Louis was scared of him. He seemed O.K., until you crossed him-then watch out. The veiled hint of violence that cloaked the man would be unleashed in a flash, burning up everyone with a rage that lasted for days.

All Mr. Forrester had to do was say Jump, and Louis would say How high?

Now Mr. Forrester wanted the old bag off the sidewalk.

Don’t give me any guff, Louis said sharply to the crouching figure. Get up off your ass and move on down the street. Better yet, get off this street altogether. He bent down toward her, his hand reaching for the thin shoulder under the ragged black cardigan.

Suddenly the old woman turned on him like a wild beast, wrinkled upper lip drawn back in a snarl of rage, and he felt, actually felt the heat from her left eye radiating over his face.

Oh Christ, he muttered. He pulled his hand back as if it were burned, then stumbled back to the double-glassed door of the house. Wrenching at the polished doorknob, he hurried inside, scurrying to his cubbyhole as if all the hounds of hell slavered at his heels.

There he sat, shaking with fear—but fear of what, fer Chrissakes?

A feeling of nausea crept up his throat. The phone rang insistently for a few minutes, and he ignored it, still shaking, hands sweating.

Jesus, what was there to be afraid of? It didn’t make sense.

He gagged slightly, fear squeezing his stomach. What could an old woman like that do? Nothing.

And yet …

He rubbed at his eyes with a shaking hand, sweat making them sting. Aw, Christ!

He pulled a soiled handkerchief out of his pocket and dabbed gingerly at his eyes, but it didn’t help. Jamming the handkerchief back into his pocket, he rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands, feeling his irritated eyeballs press back against the sockets.

No good, no fuckin’ good. He painfully tried to open his eyes, but that only made them sting even worse.

Must have been the sweat—and dirt. He never washed his hands if he could get away with it, but this called for drastic action. He hurried down to the servants’ bathroom, turning on the faucet and dousing his head.

Someone pounded on the door. Hey, you gonna take all day?

Bug off, Louis muttered, staring at his dripping face in the mirror. His eyes stared back, pink-rimmed and watery as though he had suddenly come down with a massive case of pinkeye. But his eyes felt a slight relief.

Yeah, must have been the sweat. Too salty or something. Couldn’t be anything else.

Could it?

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 the palpitating cheeks and throbbing lips.

Wha …? he began, nausea starting up again.

Drunk. You’re drunk. He couldn’t see her face clearly, but he knew-oh God, how well he knew-what her expression was.