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Post by distantlight on May 2, 2008 4:26:13 GMT -5
new york city ghost story 1) To wake. Cold and shivering in the blanket, when, in all recollection, it had been so warm. It had been such a nice, warm evening, even turning dark, so pleasant. Hot. Then, end up awake like this.
That window was open, again. Why did she always forget the window? Newton, peeling herself from bed, crackling parts in her neck, got up to address the window.
"Why are you open?" she asked. Then having laughed with a shrug, for speaking to inanimate objects, she slammed it shut.
To wake. To an open window, again.
Wearily, Newton slanted over again. "I'm not going to talk to you this time," she said, then laughed at herself. A siren took off, and she nodded. "Perfect drama, this cursed city." She edged forward, pushing her weight on the sill. She stretched, and the view danced below her. Nothing but the wall of the next building, and a long drop into where the superintendent would rummage in garbage upon the cursed, noisy morning. "I am shutting it!" she said suddenly, and slammed the window to a close.
To wake. Again, in dead of night, to the window, open once more.
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Post by distantlight on May 2, 2008 4:27:07 GMT -5
new york city ghost story 2) "Beeees!" giggled little Anton, spraying his hands over Newton's body. She placed him carefully on the small garden pedestal, and then went to re-adjust her clothes. Anton fell on his seat, laughing, and called out again to her, "Bees!"
"He likes you a lot. Nobody else can manage him like this."
Newton gathered herself and turned around. She laughed, almost a little too loud. "Mrs. Delaporte. You're back!"
Mrs Delaporte scooped Anton, placing him almost firmly between her thighs. Newton made a note of the position, as the boy seemed to cease his flailing. "I am back," laughed Mrs. Delaporte, shrugging. "And now I am off again." With that, she walked off to the street exit, Anton mumbling from her thighs, 'Bees, bees."
.
"You must face the window head on. You must ask where it wants to lead you."
"What the fuck are you talking about, Choudry?" said Newton, flicking the notebook into the man's face. It fell, binding first on the desk, leaving both of them silent.
"I'm sorry, Newton," said Choudry carefully, after some time. "I had something of a long night. Maybe - maybe I should try to listen to you again?"
"Again? Maybe you can run along and find me a real doctor. So I can ask him why I keep thinking I"ve shut my bloody window, when I haven't?"
Choudry stood up. "Newton! I will not take your abuse. We already agreed. I have passed all my exams."
"Okay, okay," said Newton, and sat herself before the doctor again. "So how do we cook you?" She laughed, then covered her mouth.
"It is very sick how you laugh at yourself," said Choudry, looking intently at her from his dark face and white coat. He took her hand. "Newton, not everything is over between us, you know? There is no despair. There should be no pain. I am still here for you."
She snorted and snatched her hand back. "Dude, I fucking dumped you!"
Choudry held his hands back, clear from his chest. "Ok, ok. Whatever. I'm just trying to figure out what your problem is. That is what I do here. Kind of my job, you know?"
"Whatever. Just. Just come home with me, ok? Stay with me tonight? Just show me I'm bullshitting myself, and then I'll be ok."
Slowly, Choudry nodded. "Yeah. I can do that."
"Ok. I'll wait for you."
"I can make my special south-indi-an vege-tari-an appe-tizers to boot," said Choudry, his voice mechanical and like a robot.
"Fuck you, you're from North India."
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Post by katrienakatryn on May 10, 2008 9:28:04 GMT -5
Interesting story, Distantlight. You've got me hooked. Now carry on.
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Post by distantlight on May 18, 2008 23:35:56 GMT -5
appreciate it - thanks. it's going a lot more slowly than i hoped - work, etc. but here's a little more.
--- new york city ghost story 3)
"Where do you get it all from, Arvind?" asked Newton. They were lying in her bed, her head on Choudry's hairy chest. She was looking straight at the window. They had shut it together, each confirming it was locked. Choudry had pulled so hard, he'd fallen slapstick on his behind. She had laughed at that, but she wondered, as she pulled the grumbling fellow up, whether he was just humouring her. Choudry could be a big clown sometimes - perhaps he thought falling on his ass would make her feel better. It didn't, of course. Not as she would feel if she knew he believed her. Yet, it was certainly nice to have him there. In any case, the window was tightly shut - and locked. Above her head, Choudry rolled a slip of paper, packing it tightly. "Oh, here and there," he said. "I don't stick to one source." He lit the roll-up, took a deep puff, then reclined on the pillow, blowing the smoke into her hair. He lowered his hand next to her lips, offering her a drag. "You know I don't do drugs," she said, pushing his hand away. "Anyway, I thought you were supposed to be here to protect me." "This is not a drug, Newton," said Choudry. "Don't believe everything they tell you." "I just find it funny to see a would-be neurosurgeon who kills his own brain cells," she replied. She felt his stomach tighten on her cheek, heard his short sigh, and knew he was shrugging. It made her smile. "Anyway, is it still Fat Angelo? The guy who sleeps in the Kinko's on 23rd?" "Pfft. No, not from him anymore. That guy is on the run. You know what he did?" Newton shook her head. "That fucking guy - you know how he was always complaining that the homeless shelter has too many cockroaches in the bathrooms? You know I told you how my friend, Bora, suggested to him that he should mail the cockroaches to the city council?" "Oh no - he didn't!" "Not only does the nutcase send them a large envelope full of fucking cockroaches - he bloody puts his name and return address! He got kicked out of the shelter, and no one has seen him since." Newton's shoulders shook, for a long time, against his body, and Choudry slid a hand over her arm, caressing. It was nice to see her laugh like this. And the ganja wasn't too horrid either. "This is a nice place, you have. Nice studio. Not too big, not too small. Wooden floors. Radiator. Some cracks on the walls, here and there, but it's an old building, you know? Nice. I want a place like this when I graduate." "Mmm," she said, closing her eyes. "I always thought you were the mansion type." "Don't tease me, honey," said Choudry, taking another long puff. "Who the -" he said as he blew out - "fuck - would want to live in - a damn suburb? People go there to - bloody - die." Newton opened her eyes sharply. The window stared back, silent and shut. "Shh. Don't say things like that." She felt Choudry shrug again, then heard him yawn. He raised his hand again, and she felt the smoke hit her neck moments later. He was still stroking her arm gently, but ever so gently, increasingly gently. Her eyes drooped. "Does it make you sleepy?" Choudry was silent for a moment. Then, he said, "Not - not really sleepy." He paused again. "Just more - everything goes slow. I mean - I go ... slow ..." His hand stopped, clinging lightly to her arm, and Newton fell alseep. . "Arvind - wake up. Arvind!" said Newton, whispering frantically as she shook him. A cold breeze blew into the dark room, sneaking over Choudry's silhouette and making her shiver. He was sleeping on his side, with his back to her, and she crept up, clutching his shoulder. "Arvind. It's open again! Look, see! I told you, I told you." She looked up from his back, and the window blew again at them, pushed up, wide open. She shook Choudry even harder and finally, with a grunt, rolled him over, onto his back. Choudry's eyes were wide open, but not moving, staring fixedly into the ceiling. His mouth was slightly apart, and his tongue rested on his lower lip.
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Post by distantlight on May 19, 2008 1:17:54 GMT -5
new york city ghost story 4)
"Don't clown with me, you bastard!" yelled Newton through her teeth. She slapped Choudry on the face, once, twice, but there was no change in his expression. "Arvind!" cried Newton, bursting into tears as she shook him some more. "Oh my God oh my God," she said, as the window blew cold upon her, and Choudry lay motionless. She got off the bed, swiping her cellphone from the night desk, and pointedly ignoring the open window, stamped towards the bathroom. "Oh my God oh my God, he's OD'd," she said, repeating, into the bathroom, "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God." . Mr. Lyle Taylor Everett lowered himself gently onto his bed, holding onto the head board for support. His fingers rustled the spines of some of his books, and he found the one he was looking for by touch, just as he slowly sat. He sighed with tired pleasure. It was a very good head board. Susan Leolah from the Willingsworth branch at Noho had recommended it, saying it would be a very good way to economize on space in a small room. You could keep up to three racks of books in it. It was simply fantastic. He put the book on his lap and, groaning slightly, bent over to undo his shoes. Outside, a siren wailed down Church Street, approaching Canal. The noise wasn't particularly insulated in his room, but it wasn't as bad as some places could be. For what you could get with a pension, the place was fine - lots of architects and such milling about, a lot of quieter art studios. It was quite a steal really, in this area. Thank God he had spoken to and met poor old Ellenah's landlord before she'd passed on. Wonderful woman, Ellenah, even after the stroke. In any case, the place was steps away from the blue line - he could take the A, C or E up to the Blind Center on 23rd. He sighed, stretching his back as he sat up again. This had been a tiring day, indeed. Well, at least he was still clear-headed enough to read, although he wasn't sure if that was really a good thing or bad thing. He had taken some of the blind folk to O'Connell's pub just down the street from the Center, and, oh boy, those blind folk sure could be a cantankerous lot in the alehouse. He couldn't get too in over his head while they were under his care. He smiled - it was a good time, nevertheless, and helping out at the Center gave him something to do. He smiled some more, recalling how Lil' Mary had started caning the poor chap who kept stumbling on her leg on his way to the restroom. Fellow was a broker, or something, and drunk as a fish. And, yes - at least he could have a little read tonight. Slowly, he swept his legs onto the bed. He fluffed his pillow, then, sinking mostly under the comforter, opened up "The Doors of Perception" by Aldous Huxley. He was thumbing through to one of his preferred parts, when his cellphone rang from the coat pocket, inside his coat closet. "Blast. That damn phone!" Everett had only reluctantly bought the device. At his age, honestly - who would even call him? In the end, however, that Newton could be very persuasive. She had looked positively shocked that someone in this day and age would not have a phone, and as they both got drunk together late one night at O'Connell's, had slowly peeled him like an onion on the issue. He finally gave in, after she began mumbling endlessly something about how it would be horrid if he were to die all alone in his old age, and nobody could call him. "Bloody phone," he muttered now, and tossing "The Doors of Perception" aside, got up painfully from his bed. He hurried to the coat closet and picked up the phone. It was Newton. "At two-thirty in the morning?" He shook his head and put the phone to his ear. "Lyle," said Newton, her voice low and faint. "Newton? What's going on? It's two-thirty!" "Lyle. I'm sorry." Everett pressed the phone to his ear and hobbled to his bed, sitting down. "Newton, what's wrong?" "I'm so, so sorry," said Newton on the other end, and it was then that Everett realized she was weeping. "Newton - has something gone wrong? What is wrong, dear? Where are you?" He heard her sob some more. "I'm at home. I'm sorry." "Newton? Newton! Why are you sorry? What on earth are you sorry for?" "I'm sorry, Lyle. I am so sorry." She sobbed softly again for a moment, then the line went dead.
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Post by distantlight on May 19, 2008 3:01:07 GMT -5
new york city ghost story 5) Newton stamped back into her studio. On her right, Choudry was still lying on the bed as she'd left him, head slightly atilt, tongue perched on his lower lip, and eyes still steady on the ceiling. To her right, the window was open. "What do you want from me?" yelled Newton. Trembling, she picked up her arm, and threw her cellphone as hard as she could at the lifted glass pane. She crouched, half expecting the window to smash to pieces, but the phone simply bounced off with a dull creak of glass, and landed somewhere under her sofa. She cried, then, crouched next to the bed, Choudry's hand hanging limp next to her. She took his hand in both of hers, and put her face in it. "You killed him," she wept. "Why? I just - I just wanted him to see! I wanted him to see you! Why did you have to kill him?" A siren wailed in from outside, and a cool wind blew in, through the window. "Oh my god," said Newton, fumbling at Choudry's palm, "he's so cold. He's so cold, his hand!" The siren got louder - no, it must have been two sirens. No, three. Three sirens wailed into the studio, and a long flush of wind chilled through Newton's hair, through her camisole, around and under her slip. Like fingers, it crept under her garments, up her body, and over her arms, reaching her fingers, then sliding onto Choudry's stiff hand. "No," said Newton, her tears suddenly stopping. "No! Don't touch him! You will not touch him!" She got up angrily, and stamped to the window. The sirens outside kept wailing, and the gale of wind grew stronger, but Newton stood there, in the middle of it all. "You're going down, motherfucker," she said. "I'm shutting your ass down." With that, she dug her fingers into the bottom end of its frame, and heaved with all her might. The window shut with a loud slam, and then, there was silence. The sirens stopped, and the wind was gone. Newton stayed there, her fingers firm on the bottom frame, her eyes closed. She was breathing heavily. Finally, she managed to swing the latch, snapping it to the locked position, and only then did she release her hands, rising slowly. She took another deep breath, and straightened her slip. She stared, through the window, into the brick wall beyond it until her breathing came down. "There. That's how you stay shut," she told the window. "Let's see you move now, you coward. You never make your move when anyone is watching, do you? No, no. You wait until they're asleep, or in another room, and then you come out." The window simply creaked quietly, from the cold wind outside. "Thought as much. Coward." She stared at it, and it stayed silent and shut before her. Then, something creaked behind her. "Ha ha ha!" Startled Newton turned around. "Choudry?" Just as she saw Choudry slowly turn his head from staring at the ceiling, the window burst open behind her, pushing her forwards and into a stumble with an icy gale. The glass crashed as it slammed open, and Newton cried out as small slivers struck her back. Dozens of sirens wailed into her ears. She looked up, to the bed. Choudry was laughing. "Whoa, dude, I saw you! I saw you talking to the window. You were like a cartoon!" "Arvind, you saw it? You saw the window?" She stood up, despite the prickling glass. "Wait. Were you fucking awake all this time? Have you been clowning with me?" "What? No, you were talking to it! You were moving so fast!" She peered at Choudry. He neck was turned, face straight at her, face twisted in some mad laughter. Then she turned back to the window. "You! You cheap, filthy fucking coward. You've possessed him. How dare you? Let him go this instant!" With that she stamped back to the shattered window, throttling the frame with her hands. "It's like a Charlie Chaplin flick," said Choudry from behind. "Like those old jerky movies. Whoa, look at you go. It's like some trippy stop-motion animation." "Stop it! Stop it! Stop doing it to him!" yelled Newton, falling on her behind. She picked herself up again, finding her cellphone, and ran back, swinging it at the window, smashing it against the frame. Choudry howled with laughter from the bed. "Bitch has fucking gone crazy. Holy shit. Ha ha ha." He closed his eyes and laughed, tears streaming down his eyes. Then there was silence. Choudry lifted his head from the mattress. "Newton?" But she wasn't there. He strained a little more. "Newton? Where did you go? Ok - look, I'm sorry that I laughed," he said. He giggled a little. "Ok, no, I'm really sorry. Come on now, don't fucking go crying in the damn bathroom, ok?" She didn't answer, and Choudry, tired from laughing so heavily, slapped his head back on the mattress. "Look, come on. I said I'm sorry, ok. Don't cry in there. Come here. Come to my arms. Newton. Come on. Don't be like that." And like that, saying those things, Choudry fell asleep. . Lyle Everett did knock several times on the door, before trying the knob. He had heavily considered just going back home, and waiting for the morning. Then he would ask that Newton what in the world she had been talking about. But he had made the trip here anyway, switching two trains, from south to north, west to east. There was also just something about how she was crying. He had known her for three or four years, from O'Connells. He'd seen her worse for liqour many times, but she had never, absolutely never, seemed so - broken. So he turned the knob, and the door gave way. Walking in, he found a young Indian man sleeping peacefully on the bed, arms folded comfortably over his bare belly. There was no sign of Newton. He gently pushed the door to the bathroom, and when it gave, peeked in, very tenderly. "Newton? You in there?" There was no reply, and when he peeked in some more, he found the bathroom was empty. "Hey, who the hell are you, man?" said the young man suddenly, starting from the bed. Very quickly, he was on his feet, and stood with eyes wide open at Everett. "You ... you're that fella, yes?" said Everett, not flinching. "You came in sometimes, to O'Connell's, with Newton." He strained his forehead. "Choudry, isn't it?" Choudry lowered his head in thought. "Yeah. Yeah, oh, I remember you. Dude, what the hell are you doing here? You just walk into people's houses?" Everett grabbed the sides of his coat, a little taken aback. "Well, no. No, I don't just walk into people's houses. Newton called me." "What? Why? Why the hell would she call you?" "Why I - I don't really know. I don't know why she called me, specifically. Where is she, anyway? Choudry sat back down on the bed, rubbing his forehead. "Oh, I don't know man. She must've gone out, to the deli or something, maybe. Last thing I remember -" "She was crying, Choudry. When she called me. She seemed pretty broken up," said Everett, walking further into the room and looking around. "What was happening? Were you ... doing something to her?" Choudry snapped a glance back at him. "What the hell do you mean, grandad? What are you saying?" "Take it easy," said Everett, raising a hand. "Where is she?" Choudry put his hand in his face again, and groaned. "Oh, I don't know man. Last thing I remember -" He lifted his face from his hands. "Ha. Last thing I remember, she was, like doing some Charlie Chaplin schtick in front of that window there. Like ... really fast moving, jerky. Of course, I'd had some pot, so, you know ... who knows what was going on." He got up and went to the cabinet above the stove. "Man I hope she has some Tylenol." Everett peered at Choudry, then quietly stepped to the window. It was shut, locked from inside. "The window, you say?" "Yeah," said Choudry, his head somewhere inside the cabinet. Everett unlocked the window, and lifted it gently. The sky outside was just starting to turn blue, and already a few birds had started their morning song. The air was cool, but rather nice and crisp. He peered around, left to right, then looked down. He strained, past the ledges and airconditioners below. Then he started, and edged back from the window. "Choudry," he said urgently. "Wait, I'm looking for -" "Choudry, look." The young man looked from the cabinet, then, squinting at Everett walked up to the window. "What is it?" "It's Newton," said Everett, pointing at the window with a shaking hand. "Newton," he said again, as Choudry stuck his head out of the window. "She has dropped ... " Choudry's blood froze as his eyes found her below, his hands went rigid on the window frame, and gravity beckoned at him. " Like ... like an apple," was all he said. -end of part 1-
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Post by distantlight on Jun 16, 2008 19:23:42 GMT -5
nycghost2 (1) ----
"'Stop doing it to me'" he laughed internally.
"I'm sorry - what?" Then the teller, having re-examined, opened her eyes even bigger, and said "What did you just say, you pervert?"
Lyle got startled. "No!" he said, ran out of the bank into Madison Avenue. Another woman was flung aside in his small rush to get out. Her baby sat ensconced in the sideways pram, trying to peer into the rest of the world, only to hear the mother's sobs, and be damaged permanently, psychologically. The woman had incurred a cut knee from falling on the grisly concrete of that avenue, and was crying on the sidewalk with one part of the carriage weighing down on her other leg.
Lyle hobbled off quickly. It was too much information to process at once. "This is crazy," he breathed to himself as he bobbed up and down - "Where is the bar?"
He found a bar, open for business early on that Sunday morning, and hobbled in. The waitress at the place was irritated. Lyle, breathing heavily, stumbled onto one of the chairs, and asked for "Whiskey".
"It's nine."
Lyle looked up. "What?" The waitress had walked down to another part of the bar, where she was slicing some lemons. "It is nine dollars for whiskey," she said quietly chopping away.
"'This is highway robbery,'" said Lyle under his breath. reaching down into his pocket. He patted the side of his leg one more time, then again.
The waitress, who had had her bottom squeezed the previous night by some dick who thought he was a 'writer', and was in no fine mood to be fiddled with, said "Nine," again, sharply.
"I - I - " stuttered Lyle, stroking his leg vigourously in search, "I - I must have - I left my card at the bank!"
"Well, then. I guess you will just have to go back there," said the waitress, slicing the lemons off.
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Post by distantlight on Jun 20, 2008 19:15:39 GMT -5
[gravel in the throat] Her name was Newton. And she fell ... like an apple in New York City. Lyle saw it. Choudry saw it after Lyle. Is there an order, and is it important? Is there logic?
What about the window?
.
(spinning panoramic)
.
[more gravel] Now, Lyle is ... much older ... even though he was already old. And he's tipping mommies and babies over
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At banks.
(BOOM sound effect)
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