Free A Manhattan Ghost Story by T. M. Wright

Phyllis,” I said.
    She did not answer. She was walking several feet ahead of me, to my right, and as we climbed toward the third floor, I found that the only way I could tell where she was, exactly, was by her white coat and her white boots and the sound her high heels made when they hit the metal stairs—a kind of rhythmic, echoing clop-clop noise.
    I heard her say: “They liked you, Abner. They didn’t like Art. Art was cruel. And Art had money.”
    She was speaking, again, in the same, low, husky monotone I’d heard her use when we were making our way to the bus stop. “Yes,” I said, “you told me about Art.” I quickened my pace on the stairs to catch up with her, but she stayed several feet ahead of me, though the timing of her heels on the metal steps didn’t change. “I still can’t believe it, Phyllis—”
    “I remember St. Ignatius, Abner. I remember I hurt, and I remember that I bled.”
    I took a chance, then, and mounted two stairs in one stride; “It must be awfully painful to remember,” I began, and found that she still was several feet ahead of me, her heels clop-clopping on the metal steps. “I’ve never had surgery myself, Phyllis.”
    “And I don’t blame him anymore, Abner. I did at first—in the first couple of days.”
    “That’s very generous.”
    “I remember thinking, Abner, how strange it was that there still were days.”
    “I’m sorry, Phyllis. I don’t understand that.”
    “Of course you do; of course you understand it, Abner.”
    We got to the third-floor landing. I stopped a moment, to rest, because the air here was stale and hard to breathe. “Want to hold on a moment, Phyllis, until I can catch my breath?” She kept walking. “Phyllis?” I called. I saw her white coat and white boots merge with the darkness. I still could hear the clop-clop of her heels on the metal steps, and I called to her again, “Phyllis, hold on, okay?” And I sensed something like desperation in my voice. I grinned, as if to chase it away. “Jesus, it’s pitch dark down here, Phyllis.” The clop-clop of her heels ended. She called back, “Abner? Are you there?”
     “Yes, right here, Phyllis. Hold on.” I started up the stairs, toward the fourth floor.
    “Abner, where are you? I can’t see you!” And now I could hear desperation in her voice.
    “It’s okay, Phyllis!” I called, and quickened my pace. “It’s okay; I’m coming!”
    “Abner, I can’t see you; where are you?” It was more than desperation that I heard in her voice now. It was something closer to panic.
    “I’m right down here, Phyllis. I’m coming up to you.”
    “Abner, please, Abner—”
    “Don’t worry, Phyllis; I’m coming!” I got to the fourth-floor landing. I stopped. “Phyllis?”
    “Abner, where are you?” She was pleading with me.
    “Here, Phyllis. Just below you.” I looked up the stairs, toward the fifth floor. I saw nothing. “Where are you, Phyllis?”
    Silence.
    “Phyllis?” I started for the fifth floor. “Phyllis, are you up there?” I could see the suggestion of light above me. “Phyllis, please answer me.” I heard nothing.
    I became aware of a cold draft from above, apparently from the fifth floor. “Phyllis?” I called again. Still nothing. The light was brighter now. I could see that there was another leaf-motif ceiling fixture with a bare low-wattage bulb installed in it. I could see, also, the top edge of the fire door that opened onto the fifth-floor hallway.
    I called to Phyllis again. And again I heard nothing. I thought, This is a kind of game she’s playing . I didn’t believe it. I didn’t believe she was capable of such games.
    “Phyllis?” I called. I had reached the fifth-floor landing. “Phyllis?” I pulled the fire door open all the way and stepped into the hall.
    Apartment 506 was directly in front of me. I stepped across the hall and knocked softly on the door.
    Phyllis answered my knock at once. She was smiling playfully, and I could