T. M. Wright - A Manhattan Ghost Story

AManhattan Ghost Story

Shecame into the room, let her coat slide to the floor. "Well,then," she said, "that's her burden, isn't it, Abner?"And she quickly and gracefully slipped her boots and dress off. Shewas naked beneath the dress. She came over to the side of the bed. Inthe semi-darkness I saw her glance at her breasts and nod. "Touchme, Abner. Please touch me."

Theodor of damp wood assaulted me. I turned my head away. She laughed.It was a quick, humorless noise, as if she were imitating laughterand doing a poor job of it. She stopped laughing. "You won'tlike it out there, Abner."

Ilooked back. I said nothing. I was confused. And I think that, forthe first time since I'd known her, I was scared, too.

Shestepped backward, toward the window, so she was facing me and so herbody was well-illuminated.

Youwon't like it out there, Abner, she repeated.

Torbooks by T. M. Wright

TheAscending

Boundaries

CarlisleStreet

Goodlow'sGhosts

TheIsland

LittleBoy Lost

AManhattan Ghost Story

ThePeople of the Dark

ThePlace

ThePlayground

TheSchool

StrangeSeed

TheWaiting Room

TheWoman Next Door

(forthcoming)

AMANHATTAN

GHOSTSTORY

T.M. Wright

TOR

ATOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

ForDorian and for Phil Zaleski

Note:If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware thatthis book is stolen property. It was reported as "unsold anddestroyed" to the publisher, and neither the author nor thepublisher has received any payment for this "stripped book."

Thisis a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in thisbook are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events ispurely coincidental.

AMANHATTAN GHOST STORY

Copyright1984 by T.M. Wright

"HeavenCan Wait," by James Steinman. Copyright 1977 by Edward B.Marks Music Company and Neverland Music Company and Peg MusicCompany, used by permission. All rights reserved.

"ThisLand Is Your Land," words and music by Arlo Guthrie. TRO-Copyright 1956 (renewed 1984), 1958 and 1970 Ludlow Music Inc.,New York, N.Y. Used by permission.

Allrights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, orportions thereof, in any form.

ATor Book

Publishedby Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

175Fifth Avenue

NewYork, N.Y. 10010

Torisa registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

ISBN:0-812-51950-7

FirstTor edition: August 1984

Printedin the United States of America

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Writinga novel that works is very often the result of a kind of lopsidedpartnership between a writer and his editor.

Itwould be hard for me to believe that any writer has had a betterpartner in the writing of a book than I have had in this one.

Thanksto Chris, who, in her way, knows how to tell me to take a secondlook.

Thisis a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in thisbook are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidentsis purely coincidental.

BOOKONE

CHAPTERONE

WhenI think of a ghost story, I think about children shivering around acampfire while an aging man with a long, austere face summons up-inresonant, wonderfully spectral tones-the way the misdeeds of the deadwill soon be visited upon the living, and I think about old, grayhouses that have somehow had Evil implanted in them, and I thinkabout rocking chairs that rock all on their own, and about crying inempty rooms, about cold spots, warm spots, hot spots, hounds out ofhell, men who hang themselves in attics, and in-cellars, again andagain and again.

Andit's all true.

Iknow that it's all true.

Butthere's a whole lot more going on over there, on the Other Side, thanany of us can imagine. And some of it's very interesting, veryentertaining, but some of it smells bad-some of it stinks, infact-and if you tried to put your finger on it, if you tried to pinit down and say, Yes, definitively, this is what it's all about, thisis what Death is all about; sit back now, I'll tell you, my God,they'd swarm all over you like angry bees, the dead would, like angrybees.

Icame to New York, six months ago, on the Amtrak out of Bangor, Maine.I didn't need to take the train, I could easily have afforded to fly,but the hard truth is that I'm scared of flying, and trains areromantic, after all. And I have long been a romantic.

Onthe way down, I sat next to a woman in her early thirties who waswearing a very abbreviated miniskirt. Miniskirts were just then onthe tail end of their comeback, and since this woman had long andwell-muscled legs, with a lovely, soft, even color to them, and sinceher miniskirt had hiked up considerably around her thighs, the tripwas very enjoyable.

No,it wasn't.

Therewas no woman in a miniskirt. That's just a tacky, sexist fantasy Ilike to indulge in. It has variations. The woman is wearing nounderwear; the woman is wearing underwear, but it's see-through; thewoman can't keep her hands off me-nice fantasies that push the truthaway, if just temporarily.

WhenI got on in Bangor, the car was threequarters full, and I entertainedthe idea that I'd get to ride all the way to New York-a fulltwelve-hour journey-with both seats to myself. In Lewiston,

Maine,however, five people got on-a handsome older woman in a tweed suit; ateen-age girl who was doing a lot of giggling; a fortyish man withthinning dark hair who was wearing a gray, pin-striped suit, carryinga briefcase, and trying hard to look important; a fat, middle-agedwoman who breathed heavily and coughed every few seconds; and a youngguy with a backpack and trendy mustache.

Guesswho decided to sit next to me?

Listen,I've got a story to tell. You like spooky stories? Well, this is veryspooky, about things that crawl and things that slither and thingsthat go bump in the night.

Everbeen to Manhattan? I have. I live here, and I want to tell you thatthere's more going on than meets the eye. Lots more.

BecauseManhattan is, in reality, two cities-twin cities, sort of-and in oneof those cities people move from place to place in search of a numberof things (in search of employment, in search of food, in search of aplace to sleep, or someone to sleep with, or a good show, a buildingto jump out of, shoes to buy), and in the other city people do prettymuch the same kinds of things, only they do them for very differentreasons.

Andif you get stuck in that other city, that other Manhattan, you findyourself getting awfully desperate and mean-spirited, the way somepeople are affected by too much heat or the crying of small children.

Andyou get scared, too. Scared enough to give up even going to thebathroom, because you're not sure what you might find in there.

Myname is Abner W. Cray and I'm thirty-three years old. I'm tall; Ihave sandy blonde hair, and before I came to Manhattan, I was a fewpounds overweight. I've been told that my eyes are my most expressivefeature, which is a nice thing to have said but which is true, Ithink, of most people.

Ihave been staying in Room 432 of the Emerson Hotel, on East 115thStreet. It's early June as I write, and I've been here for fourmonths.

Room432 of the Emerson Hotel is small, and nasty. It's painted blue andgold; the bottom half is blue, the top half gold. The paint is nearlyas old as the hotel, probably. When traffic is heavy on East 115thStreet, the building vibrates sympathetically and the paint flecksoff here and there, especially on the wall that faces the street,where there is some kind of moisture problem.

Thefloor has a large, threadbare, red oriental rug on it-from Woolworth's, I imagine, circa 1960-and there is a wrought-iron,floor-standing lamp, no shade, alongside a green, one-drawer writingdesk near the door. The bed is wrought-iron as well, the mattresslumpy and soft. A Gideon Bible rests on a little, dark woodnightstand close by.