By T. M. Wright
A photographer borrows his friend's long island condo and is brought to Manhattan's spectral underworld through a stunning girl ghost, with whom he falls in love. Reissue. motion picture tie-in.
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Extra resources for A Manhattan Ghost Story
He asked. "No," I answered. He cursed under his breath. " "I did. " The headlights of cars on Route 23A filtered through the grimy window on the north wall and played dully on the ceiling of the mausoleum. " Sam said. " "Fuck the candles. " It had once been his cat. He'd raised her from a kitten and called her Flora in honor of a girlfriend who'd moved from Bangor to Albany a year before and whom he missed terribly. I nodded at Flora's skull. "That's kinda sick, you know," I said. Sam nodded.
And then she shot herself in the head. That was a very masculine thing for her to do-only men shoot themselves in the head, you know. " "Please shut up," I said. "I can't help it, Mr. Cray. I see what I see, and what am I supposed to do with it? " I closed my eyes. I said nothing. " she asked. Still I said nothing. " I opened my eyes, looked to my left, away from her. She said, "There's your mother, Mr. " I turned my head back; she was nodding at the aisle. "She's there, Mr. Cray. " I looked.
He had a thin, pink face, then, and coal-black hair that was continually in disarray, quick, intelligent green eyes, and a nose that, for several years after the onset of puberty, was too large for his face. Eventually, his face matured around it; it stopped being the brunt of bad jokes, and he grew into a kind of lighthearted, if slightly swaggering self-confidence that was vaguely macho, but which, by itself, lots of otherwise intelligent women found attractive. We went to the same high school in Bangor.