Read Online A Manhattan Ghost Story by T. M. Wright - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: T. M. Wright
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confused.
“C’mon,” I said. “That bus isn’t going to wait forever.”
Thomas and Lorraine Pellaprat lived in what appeared, at first glance, to be a long-abandoned apartment house not unlike several thousand others in Manhattan. It was a ten-story building, the color of dirty cream, with tall, narrow windows, and it was streaked brown here and there from air pollution. Several of the windows visible from the street had been covered by plywood, and a few others appeared to be broken.
“This is where your parents live, Phyllis?” I said. I was confused; the Pellaprats had looked very much like they had money.
She answered, “Apartment 506, Abner.”
“We’ll probably have to walk up, right?”
“Probably.”
“I was going to bring them a bottle of wine, some rose—”
“No,” she cut in. “They don’t drink. They used to, but not anymore.”
“Not at all?”
“Not a drop.”
We were standing at the base of the wide, crumbling cement steps. I held my hand out toward them. “Shall we?” I said.
And Phyllis said, her eyes on the middle of the building, apparently on her parents’ apartment, “This is a very special night, Abner. You have no idea how special. This has not been done before.” And she started quickly up the steps, her movements now very fluid and graceful.
I followed.
At the Hammet Mausoleum, Halloween, 1965
Sam said to me, “We’re just having some fun, Abner. Don’t you think this is fun?”
I shrugged. “I’m getting cold, Sam.”
“It’s the demon’s breath on your bones.”
“Shit, too!”
“What are you—afraid we’re going to get caught?”
I shrugged again. “Maybe.”
” ‘Cuz who’s gonna catch us, you know?” He nodded to his right, then his left. “You think these people here could care less? Shit, they’re probably happy for the company.”
“Uh-huh.” Another shrug. “Maybe we should go, Sam. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“We won’t touch ‘em, for Christ’s sake!”
“Who said anything about touching ‘em, Sam? I didn’t. I’m not sick —” I changed my position again on the cement floor; my entire right leg was asleep. “Jees, Sam, if we stay here much longer my whole damn body’s gonna be asleep.”
“Quiet!” he said, and his finger went to his mouth. “Shh!”
“Gimme a break—”
“Quiet! I hear something!”
I put my hand on the floor, prepared to stand.
“Sit down , Goddamnit!”
I sat.
“I really do, Abner.” A short pause. “I hear someone talking.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I have learned this, too, in the past six months; I have learned that even the dead are ignorant.
Phyllis and I had to walk up to Apartment 506. The elevator clearly was not working; its doors were stuck open, and the car itself was stalled several feet below floor level.
“When was the last time you visited your parents, Phyllis?” I asked.
We started for the stairway, to the right, across the lobby. The lobby was dark, but not pitch dark; there were several low-wattage, bare bulbs installed at regular intervals in dull beige, leaf-motif ceiling fixtures.
Phyllis answered, “Not for a long while, Abner.”
The building’s interior was clean—which I’d expected, despite its outward appearance, because the Pellaprats had appeared to be very clean people.
“Have your mother and father been here long, Phyllis?” I asked.
We started up the stairs. They too were lit by the same kind of low-wattage bulbs in the same kind of ceiling fixtures. She answered, “Yes, Abner, I believe that they have.”
The stairs were made of metal, so her high-heeled boots made a lot of noise.
“You don’t keep in touch with them, do you?” It was more a statement than a question.
“We find it difficult to keep in touch, Abner. We always have. We have different … approaches to living, I think.”
We got to the second-floor landing. I looked up, toward the third floor; there was no light. “Be careful,
“C’mon,” I said. “That bus isn’t going to wait forever.”
Thomas and Lorraine Pellaprat lived in what appeared, at first glance, to be a long-abandoned apartment house not unlike several thousand others in Manhattan. It was a ten-story building, the color of dirty cream, with tall, narrow windows, and it was streaked brown here and there from air pollution. Several of the windows visible from the street had been covered by plywood, and a few others appeared to be broken.
“This is where your parents live, Phyllis?” I said. I was confused; the Pellaprats had looked very much like they had money.
She answered, “Apartment 506, Abner.”
“We’ll probably have to walk up, right?”
“Probably.”
“I was going to bring them a bottle of wine, some rose—”
“No,” she cut in. “They don’t drink. They used to, but not anymore.”
“Not at all?”
“Not a drop.”
We were standing at the base of the wide, crumbling cement steps. I held my hand out toward them. “Shall we?” I said.
And Phyllis said, her eyes on the middle of the building, apparently on her parents’ apartment, “This is a very special night, Abner. You have no idea how special. This has not been done before.” And she started quickly up the steps, her movements now very fluid and graceful.
I followed.
At the Hammet Mausoleum, Halloween, 1965
Sam said to me, “We’re just having some fun, Abner. Don’t you think this is fun?”
I shrugged. “I’m getting cold, Sam.”
“It’s the demon’s breath on your bones.”
“Shit, too!”
“What are you—afraid we’re going to get caught?”
I shrugged again. “Maybe.”
” ‘Cuz who’s gonna catch us, you know?” He nodded to his right, then his left. “You think these people here could care less? Shit, they’re probably happy for the company.”
“Uh-huh.” Another shrug. “Maybe we should go, Sam. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.”
“We won’t touch ‘em, for Christ’s sake!”
“Who said anything about touching ‘em, Sam? I didn’t. I’m not sick —” I changed my position again on the cement floor; my entire right leg was asleep. “Jees, Sam, if we stay here much longer my whole damn body’s gonna be asleep.”
“Quiet!” he said, and his finger went to his mouth. “Shh!”
“Gimme a break—”
“Quiet! I hear something!”
I put my hand on the floor, prepared to stand.
“Sit down , Goddamnit!”
I sat.
“I really do, Abner.” A short pause. “I hear someone talking.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I have learned this, too, in the past six months; I have learned that even the dead are ignorant.
Phyllis and I had to walk up to Apartment 506. The elevator clearly was not working; its doors were stuck open, and the car itself was stalled several feet below floor level.
“When was the last time you visited your parents, Phyllis?” I asked.
We started for the stairway, to the right, across the lobby. The lobby was dark, but not pitch dark; there were several low-wattage, bare bulbs installed at regular intervals in dull beige, leaf-motif ceiling fixtures.
Phyllis answered, “Not for a long while, Abner.”
The building’s interior was clean—which I’d expected, despite its outward appearance, because the Pellaprats had appeared to be very clean people.
“Have your mother and father been here long, Phyllis?” I asked.
We started up the stairs. They too were lit by the same kind of low-wattage bulbs in the same kind of ceiling fixtures. She answered, “Yes, Abner, I believe that they have.”
The stairs were made of metal, so her high-heeled boots made a lot of noise.
“You don’t keep in touch with them, do you?” It was more a statement than a question.
“We find it difficult to keep in touch, Abner. We always have. We have different … approaches to living, I think.”
We got to the second-floor landing. I looked up, toward the third floor; there was no light. “Be careful,
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