Excerpts and GiveawayS Urban Harvest: Tales of the Paranormal in New York City

Published September 22nd, 2013

Description:

New York City--it's home to 8 million people trying to make their way through the day--a crop of humanity seething with hopes and fears, dreams and nightmares. Autumn comes, and nine authors harvest nine tales from this unique setting and people. From stories of everyday life in an otherworldly light to nightmarish tales of human darkness, Urban Harvest has something for everyone.

Urban Harvest contains tales of the paranormal from Alex Shvartsman, Laurie Treacy, Donna Ansari, Tara Hill, Laura Wenham, Andrea Stanet, Don Corcoran, Saif Ansari, and Sean Sakamoto.

In keeping with the spirit of harvest, all proceeds from this anthology will go to support City Harvest, an organization that feeds NYC's hungry.

EXCERPTS:

Donna Ansari:

Deciding that keeping him talking was the best strategy, she asked, “Are you going to turn me into a vampire?”

The man looked surprised. “No. Why? Do you want to be a vampire?”

“Sure. I mean, it sounds so interesting.”

“I guess it’s pretty cool,” he admitted. “Even though I’m kind of new at it.”

“What do you like best about being a vampire?” Claire asked.

“Besides the blood?”

Claire gave the generally accepted hand gesture for hurry it up.

“Well, doesn’t everyone want to live forever and stay young and beautiful?” he asked.

Claire tilted her head to the side and gave him a questioning look.

“I mean young,” he quickly amended.

Then what Claire had been waiting for happened. With a lurch, the train finally started moving again.

The man frowned. “Must be on some kind of a switch or a timer.”

But Claire didn’t want him to notice what was happening with the train, so she said, “What’s your name, anyway?”

“It’s Harold.”

“Do people call you Harry?”

“No.”

“Anyway, Harold, I’m Claire. So, can you tell me what it’s like being a vampire?”

“Well, I’m new at this,” Harold admitted.

“You said that. How new? Like are you less than a thousand years old or something?”

“I was just turned about a week ago. As I was saying, you are meant to be my first kill.”

“Me, specifically?” Claire asked. “Or just any idiot who wandered into the train alone at night?”

“Not you specifically,” Harold said, almost smiling.

Claire suddenly had an idea. “How about I bring you over my boyfriend’s apartment instead? He’s much bigger than me, and that means more blood for you.”

The man shook his head. “I’m not supposed to get off the train.”

The G train had just pulled into a station, and the doors dinged open.

“Well, that works out for me,” Claire said. She managed to twist around enough to land a pointy elbow in his inner thigh before jumping up and leaping off the train. Unfortunately, something caught her mid-leap.

Harry had caught her around the waist and pulled her back into the train as the doors closed.

“Good try. I’m not letting go of you again.” He sat back down and pulled her beside him. Then he yanked her head to the side until her throat was by his mouth.

Alex Shvartsman

A Shard Glows in Brooklyn

“Philippine Energy Beetles are nasty critters,” I lectured him as we walked, straining to be heard over the noise. “They nest by the power lines and feed off the electricity. Those flickering lights the power company says are caused by faulty wiring are often caused by an infestation.”

Having finished with the cars, I fumbled with the lock on the front door of a vacant house.

“This place is lousy with beetles,” I explained. “We’re gonna have to fumigate.”

“That’s just great,” said the prospect. “I can’t stand bugs. Now you tell me the Watch is in the exterminator business? This couldn’t possibly get any worse.”

But, of course, it could. He hadn’t seen the beetles up close yet. The prospect’s problem with insects was part of the reason I had brought him to this place. I needed to know, when push came to shove, that he’d be able to handle himself. I needed him to overcome whatever phobias and preconceived notions he’d been living with, before he learned about any of the really bad things that are out there.

“Relax,” I told him. “There’s some good news. These critters hate loud noise.”

The lock finally surrendered to my ministrations and the door was forced open by the pressure from the inside. Hundreds of fully grown beetles burst out of the house. Each of them was two to three feet long and stood at least a foot tall. The entire swarm rushed past us and toward the sewer, trying to get as far away from the roar of the sirens as they could. The prospect turned white as a sheet, but he didn’t run. This one just might be a keeper.

“They are . . .” the prospect gulped, “enormous.”

“This is New York,” I told him. “We don’t sweat the small stuff. You should see the size of the troll under the Verrazano Bridge. Come on.”

Laurie Treacy

Wished Away

I haven’t hung out with Colton in a few years. He was always quiet and intense. He still seems the same way. We stick by the lone Amtrak track. We both know we’re trespassing but shrug it off. Colton laughs. “Do you hear it?”

He tugs me towards the river bank as a school of clouds pass in front of the moon. We hear voices. Stopping before the land slopes down, he draws me beside him. His arm slips around my shoulder. “Close your eyes. Clear your mind of everything. Listen.”

I do. We’re wasting our time, but I shut my eyes and don’t complain. Keeping my mouth closed comes easily living with my father. I like being around Colton. My mind turns into a smart board on Monday mornings.

Within seconds, they barge in. Voices. Sounds. Lots of them. At first muffled, then clearer.

“Captain!”

“Set sail soon.”

“Collection!”

Accented voices.

Then shuffling. Hurried steps. Climbing. Huffing from heavy lifting.

What the hell is this?

My heart races as I scan around.

The area is empty. But I can almost feel a presence of something big, something looming ahead. The waves are faster here as they crash against the bank, spitting froth onto our boot tips.

Colton’s grip tightens as I’m tucked in beside him. “Do you believe, Maire?” he asks, his tone excited.

“Um, kinda.”

He shakes his head. “No, you need to believe. Look again.”

I want to dismiss him as weird. I can’t. Something is going on.

Tara Hill

Don’t Be Afraid

Every night, I rise just as the twilight ends and night descends around the city. Walking through the old cemetery, I wander to the front doors of the church. Old Trinity Church welcomes me long after the last visitor’s steps have faded into the sounds of the bustling streets. Walking the long aisle, I always stop at the altar to pray. Only this night will be different. This is All Hallow’s Eve, the one night of the year when the veil between the Spirit World and the Living is thinnest. Every year at this time, I go back to the old neighborhood hoping to find the one that I lost.

Having said my piece, I exit the church and start the long, lonely walk. The city is busy with people and spirits roaming about. Another gentleman and lady from my time nod their heads as I pass by. I tip my hat in return, but there are plenty of spirits from all walks of life and eras here. If the Living only had the sight, they would see souls of people from modern times all the way back to the ancients who first walked the land. All gather together sharing ideas and helping to influence the ones on the physical plane when they can. Most come and go as they please, but others are stuck here on the Earth. I should know because I am one of them. While people use the terms interchangeably, the real difference between a ghost and a spirit is that a spirit has the ability to shift between the two realms at will.

How I died is not important. I do not really remember it being different from any other day. I seemed to wake up just as I always did. Actually, it was a lot like waking up from a nap. I opened my eyes to find myself fully dressed even though I thought I remembered having gone to bed the previous night. I was sitting in my study, only the shades were drawn and the windows were closed. I had always liked to have them open even during the coldest days so that a bit of air could get into the room. Standing up, I walked out into hallway and toward the center of the house. That’s when I heard the weeping. It was a sad sound that shuddered up and down as it came to me from across the hall. Astounded at the noise, I still swept forward to find the source of it. My hand stopped at the parlor door, which was wide open for a viewing. Everything was draped in black and candles burned all about the room amidst the overwhelming perfume of flowers.

My wife and our grown children sat in the parlor, surrounded by friends and other members of the community. The grandbaby sat on his mother’s lap, his fingers stuck in his mouth to soothe himself. They all wore black and grey. Shaking my head, I looked toward the raised dais in the back of the room. All conversation was lost on me for the moment; I had to see for myself to make good their words.

Walking over to the coffin, I stared down at the remains of the body that I had only recently occupied. There was the strong, square jaw, the jet black hair laced delicately with grey at the temples, the broad shoulders and wide chest. I had been in the peak of health for a man in his sixties. What had happened? Surely someone must know.

Laura Wenham

Coexistence

I knew I had to have an excess of proof in order to not be seen as another Bigfoot or Loch Ness Monster hunter. I spent months, and then years, creating the most thorough maps of the NYC underground. During this time, I became increasingly oblivious to events on the surface. The friend whose apartment I had been using moved during one of my long periods underground. When I resurfaced to shower and pick up my unemployment checks, I was very surprised to knock on his door and meet a nice Asian couple who had no idea who I was. My belongings, and one of my few remaining connections to the surface world, were gone without a forwarding address.

I can’t explain the patterns I saw without my data, which the FBI confiscated when they arrested me. It’s probably collecting dust in an FBI basement now, but back in the spring of 2014 with everything right in front of me, I thought I had developed enough of an understanding of the markings that I was considering altering them to attempt communication with my theoretical life forms. Before I could do anything, however, the decision was taken away from me.

I was camping in a small open area formed by the intersection of two of the marked tunnels when I saw it. This was not a small tube worm or hydrogen-sulfide breathing scorpion. Emerging from the smaller tunnel was what I would best describe as an earth dragon. Not a winged creature like Toothless fromHow to Train Your Dragon, but instead similar to a large worm-snake with a scaly covering of rock in every earth-tone imaginable.

As the dragon stretched to pull itself out of the tunnel, I could do nothing but stare in awe. The tangled asbestos fibers were clearly from a pelt that covered the dragon’s ventral side. As it emerged fully into the room, I realized it had a “head” end which had circular shiny, almost polished areas, and a “mouth” area which had shiny white crystals inside, while its “tail” end came to a sharp point. It was, I would find out later, on the smaller side for a dragon—but at the time the fact that it was probably three feet around and six feet long was impressive enough.

Andrea Stanet

Under the Mattress

A fresh bouquet of assorted flowers added the only splash of color to the otherwise dismal family plot. Nate’s eyes roamed over the simple engraving on the stone, stopping at the date. Three years ago. The end of good times.

As he kneeled to straighten the flowers, water seeped through his jeans.

The rain stopped. His hands stilled. Then they clenched into fists. Nate ground his teeth together so hard they hurt. “I’m so done with this shit, Dad. I’m supposed to be the kid, not the parent! She’s useless!” Sitting back on his heels, he ran a hand through his curly black hair. “Ever since she came back—”

“I know, Nate.”

The voice came from behind him.

Nate gasped. He whipped around, fell over, his butt squelching into the wet grass, his spine smacking against his father’s headstone. Nate visited the grave often because he always felt his father’s presence, somehow. But he had never expected to see his Dad again—not in this world, anyway.

His father stood in the at-ease stance, his chin held high, across the grassy aisle that separated his section from the next. He wore his dress blues, the ones he had been buried in. Nate could see rows of headstones behind the transparent figure. It was impossible, yet there he was.

“Dad?” He reached for his father, then let his hand flop back to his lap. That’s it—I’ve finally cracked.

Don Corcoran

An Elegant Cross

“Let’s begin. I can’t wait for William.”

Smitty held bottles and burning incense for Mama’Jo as she weaved her conjure. He sang, as he had so many times before, the song never quite escaping the back of his throat. Mama’Jo took a long draught of rum, finishing it by pouring the rest of the bottle over her head. Smitty danced in tight circles around the shop, the lavender smoke of the sage wafting in lines until it filled the small room with haze.

The door opened. Smitty and Mama’Jo stopped and stood stock still. The mambo’s back was to the door. Smitty stepped closer, relieved to see it was William. He brought the new man’s saddle bags.

William said nothing, but emptied their contents. Smitty and William jumped back at the sound of a rattle and the appearance of a snake among Murphy’s belongings.

Mama’Jo’s voice was low, “Smart boy,” she said using her lips, her lungs. Mama’Jo reached down and picked up the dead rattler. “Perfect.”

The mambo slid about the tiled floor holding the serpent up high.

William found a rosary, a bull-sack pouch filled with tobacco, and a wooden comb. He put the rosary around Mama’Jo’s neck and began to recite a prayer. He emptied the pouch, mixed a few crushed herbs together, and poured piss from a bottle into the mixture. Smitty drew an elaborate pattern on mirrors with soap.

Mama’Jo snapped one of the serpent’s fangs and added it to William’s poultice. She began to dance. William stripped the comb of errant hairs and added it to the pouches contents. Carefully he put the pouch in Murphy’s mouth.

The mambo began to chant in Creole, calling her snake god, all the while shaking the rattle.

At the ceremony’s crescendo she opened Murphy’s mouth. The pouch was gone.

“It’s okay, young buck,” she whispered in his ear. “I got you.”

When they were done, Smitty and William cleaned up. Mama’Jo sang to the dead serpent in soft tones, devoid of the furrowed brow and set jaw that had her earlier.

“This is a good sign, William.” She smiled at the snake. “Is everything in order?”

Saif Ansari:

Pipes

Six months ago I started working in the Goldbar building. It’s art-deco facade reflected by the other buildings on the block. All of them tall, tapering skyscrapers washed clean and well maintained by the wealthy corporations housed within them. The Goldbar building had just become the home of a computing firm that was dissatisfied with its data pipeline. Old buildings are notoriously difficult to rewire, especially when they want to connect directly on private lines to their main office half way across the island. I was assigned to this building as part of a team to come up with a solution. Our head engineer, Doug O’Brien, had discovered one.

“Pneumatic tubes,” he said, the self-satisfied grin on his face that spoke of a successful youth. When a flat silence returned his grin he slapped his hand against one of the old tubes next to him, creating a hollow sound that filled the cramped office. At the moment, the tube was cleverly disguised to appear as part of the room’s streamlined corporate appearance. But the masquerade was easily dispelled once it was pointed out.

“The Goldbar has these things crawling around everywhere. Now, they’ve been blocked off for about sixty years, but that doesn’t mean they’re not useable.” The complete confidence he exuded was tangible, palpable. He was the kind of man that seemed successful no matter what. He was the kind of man who made you feel as if your life were missing something very specific in it, even if it was just a really great tie or a solid suit.

“What we need to do is split up into smaller teams and start mapping the network. Once we have a full schematic, we can move on to figuring out how to run the wires through them. Now, in the intervening years, things may have gotten a bit…” he hesitated casting about for a word but the smile never faltered. He managed to make it all seem playful. “Cluttered insides the pipes. One of the primary exit points was the former mailroom, which is in the third sub-basement. It’s been empty for over forty years. That’s going to be our check spot. Building management wants that area locked at all times so each team will have a set of keys.”

Doug never went down into the Mail Room. He was instead set up in a spare office on the thirtieth floor with a sliver of the park visible between two buildings across the street from his window. After my first visit down to the Mail Room, I never called it that again. Maybe it had been a Mail Room once, but it was something else, now.

Sean Sakamoto

Ghosts of New York

“Hey, loser! Outside already? Why not noodle on your guitar for a few hours at home and call yourself a musician?” The words were a whisper, but their meaning was loud and clear. Bill, a man in his late 30s, winced into the insults and kept walking down Grand Street, heading to the Delancey Street station.

“Great isn’t it? That moment of optimism before the coffee wears off?” The mist hissed as it formed into an oblong face inches from Bill’s nose.

“Morning, Spork,” Bill said. The mist ignored him, as usual, and continued its tirade.

“Going to an interview, eh? This is gonna be good. I wonder how long it’ll take ‘em to figure out you’re completely useless?” The voice came from a misty figure that hovered in the air, floating backward as Bill walked. It breathed its misty words just inches from his face. Bill called the ghost “Spork” because its forehead bulged like the back of a spoon and the wisps of mist that made up its head tapered into points like the tines of a fork.

Bill sighed. “Just…go back in that hole you came out of!” he shouted. A woman walked by, caught his eye, and gave a wary look of sympathy before she quickly passed him; a big-nosed wisp hovered by her side.

Bill wanted to pretend that Spork wasn’t striking a nerve, but he just couldn’t fake it this time. The morning coffee kick was just running out, as Spork had predicted. The bright future buzz that Bill relied on to get him out of the apartment was fading into the mid-morning crash, and he needed to stay happy for his first job interview in months. It was a perfect time for Spork, the ghost that haunted him, to show up. Perfect for Spork, anyway. Not so good for Bill.

“Are you going to tell them about the arrest?” Spork hissed into Bill’s face. The sprite’s breath was a cool mist with the musty smell of a subway tunnel on a damp day. Six months ago, Bill would have taken a swing at Spork, but it never mattered. None of the sprites ever reacted to anyone, aside from a moan when someone smiled. But that didn’t happen much anymore; smiles were in short supply. But talking to them? Useless, like yelling at a cloud. They just kept doing whatever they were doing, oblivious. Only, unlike a cloud, they tormented the people of New York City.

AUTHORS

Donna Ansari:

Tell us about Urban Harvest. Why urban fantasy? Was this your first anthology? How did you settle on City Harvest as the charity of choice? 

New York City is so full of people that on one hand, it seems a highly unlikely location for paranormal activity. But on the other hand, it also seems like the perfect location—lots of places where all sorts of nasties can hide in plain sight. 

There are so many worthwhile charities, so picking one was a difficult decision. But you can't live in NYC without seeing how many people are going hungry. It's often a stark contrast to the amount of cheap junk food that's available. And with the season now being autumn, the harvest, I couldn't help but think of those who go without enough food. 

As an editor, what do you look for when reading submissions? Can you share any tips for writers (like something you see repeatedly or things that bother you)? 

Apart for being good stories in their own right, each story that goes into an anthology has to fit in and play nicely with all the others. In this anthology, I tried to feature a mix of different kinds of stories, while having them all feature NYC in a prominent way. As to what particularly bothers me as an editor--that would be writers who don't proofread their work! You could have a brilliant idea for a story, but if I'm going to have to spend several hours picking through the mistakes, it's not worth it.

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Alex Shvartsman

What do you like about writing in the paranormal genre?

I would classify my story as more of an urban fantasy. I am fascinated by the idea of secret history, wizards and monsters walking among regular, everyday people, hiding in plain sight. It’s usually more interesting for me to set stories in modern, urban setting than writing more traditional fantasy.

What prompted you to write this story?

Brooklyn, NY has been my adopted home for nearly 25 years now (since I immigrated from the former Soviet Union). I enjoy writing stories that are set in New York and surrounding areas. The idea of interesting, supernatural stuff happening in locations I often visit in real life really appeals to me. I wrote several Conrad Brent adventures and each explores different neighborhoods and draws in some small way on the history and culture of Brooklyn. 

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Laurie Treacy

What do you like about writing in the paranormal genre? 

As a writer, I like the possibilities presented by the paranormal genre, not knowing about the unknown, about ‘otherworldly’ creatures and realms. What a creative playground for writers to play in! 

What prompted you to write this story? “

Wished Away” was originally a short story I wrote in 2012 titled “Scarecrows and Sunflowers” to enter into a competition. I didn’t win, didn’t expect to, but I wanted to explore the short story format. What I discovered was I liked creating shorter pieces. When I read the call for submissions for Urban Harvest, I thought “I can do this. I’m a New Yorker!” My favorite place in the city is the banks of the Hudson River, especially the Metro-North station at Riverdale. Many an hour I’d spent there and I’d also walk down to Spuyten Duyvil. There was my setting. While researching for another story, I discovered the urban legend of Henry Hudson’s “ghost ship.” There was the foundation of my urban lore. The Scarecrow story was still in my mind so I opened the file and began thinking. Ghost ship. Riverdale. The word “wish” popped into my mind. I was intrigued and a new story began to take shape. Within a few days I had my first draft of “Wished Away.”

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Tara Hill

What prompted you to write this story? 

I was on the train going into the city, listening to music on my MP3 player. I was thinking about the project, wondering what I should write about when Josh Groban’s song, “The Bells of New York City” came on. I immediately stuck it on loop and kept on listening to it for the whole ride. Music often helps inspire my writing. The song is about a grey, snow filled night in New York City. At the time, I worked down near Wall Street so naturally Trinity Church’s cemetery came into my mind. Then in my head, I got an image of a man from the late 1800s walking down those streets and I just went from there. 

Anything else you’d like to add? 

I have created two Facebook pages, one to help showcase my online work as a writer and another calledGhost Fanatic to share my interest in ghosts. You can also check out my Twitter page,@TaraTheresaHill. I’m really excited about the Urban Harvest anthology. This is my first official story publication. 

Laura Wenham

Your story, Coexistence, is about dragons who live under NYC. What prompted you to write this story? 

The idea for my story began when I got my first job in Manhattan and walked every day past manhole covers that were constantly emitting streams of steam and smoke. At first I largely thought how inefficient the steam heating systems were to be losing so much heat. Then, as I kept walking past them, I thought all of that smoke would make a good cover for dragons hiding underground. Then I began to wonder how much evidence you would need to support the idea of underground dragons and what the likely reaction of the rest of society would be if a scientist claimed to have discovered dragons under Manhattan. I couldn’t figure out what might cause a scientist to seriously research this until the various steam pipe explosions began happening in Manhattan. Like the character in my story, I walked right past the hole left by the explosion in front of NYU’s library, which made quite an impression on me.

Andrea Stanet

What do you like about writing in the paranormal genre? 

The paranormal genre and I have had a long and tumultuous love affair filled with many sleepless nights for almost my entire life. To this day, I can’t get enough of vamps, were-creatures, and of course, ghosts. One thing I love about the genre is that you can do so much with myths and creatures. I enjoy turning tropes on their heads in wacky ways and I like to toy with the humorous side of the genre. For instance, a few years ago, on a whim, I thought a YA quartet of short stories that is a mash-up of vamps, werewolves, zombies, and aliens all living in a suburban community would be hilarious. It’s pretty silly, but I had fun writing it. 

What prompted you to write this story? 

“Under the Mattress” came from a very different place than most of my other short stories and novels, so I’m not completely sure what prompted me to sit down at the keyboard. Even at the time, I didn’t know where it stemmed from; it just popped into my head and bled out. I disliked it when I first wrote it because it felt so dark. The first draft left me sad and disturbed. I felt much better about the story once I revised and solidified Nathan’s arc, thematic issues, and the ending. 

At the time I had been thinking quite a bit about a family member, let’s call him “P,” who is an Iraq War veteran. This was almost exactly a year ago, and his birthday was coming up. Shortly after I finished the first draft, I learned that P had been experiencing an emotionally traumatic period and had been suicidal. Fortunately, he had the presence of mind to seek help. Since then I’ve felt that on some level his pain drew this story out without my knowledge. While the main character isn’t a veteran, like so many veterans’ families, his loved ones’ experiences still profoundly affect him.

Don Corcoran

What do you like about writing in the paranormal genre? 

The paranormal brings three things to my writing: Suspense, Wonder, and The Creep. Supernatural elements bring a level of uncertainty to the page. The idea that a protagonist can be threatened indirectly and must approach problems through the same murky process heightens the readers anxiety. Often the reader hasn’t internalized the rules of engagement making plot development and character interactions more of a mystery (without making the piece a stone cold whodunit). That mystery delivers suspense – what is the bad guy going to do and will the white hat, superior in many ways, be able to see it coming. 

That mystery is the source of wonder. I am not a person that likes writing about fireballs and flying vampires. I like my fantasy to be subtle and in the background. I like my paranormal to incite curiosity and illicit the reader to want to learn more, a forever moving target, like dark spots in your vision to chase. 

It’s the ever-present, background weirdness that brings shivers to ones spine. When the reader starts to think about what’s going on and they think they’ve got it or they start to understand the implications and insert themselves into the narrative that the creep settles in. It’s not quite horror. It’s not disgust one gets from gore or the darkness revealed in a characters soul, rather it’s the inevitable. The slow crawling doom you see the characters approaching despite their best intentions. 

Sure, some of this can be maintained through mundane means but there’s a balance that further enhances the effect of paranormal elements. 

What prompted you to write this story? 

I write supernatural westerns. I saw the submission call for the anthology and thought about some of the material that gets lost in the research process of my other work. I recently read A Passionate Girl, by Thomas Flemming, watched Copper, and had been doing a lot of research on New York during the Civil War. I am writing novels set at the beginning of the war in New Orleans. There’s just not an opportunity to explore religious immigration and the roles of slavery in Manhattan in the mid-1800s in my books, right now. I have nowhere to talk about Tammany Hall, political corruption, and the gangs of Five Points. Writing short stories allows me to not only express the fascinating details of those spaces but also lets me create a more complete picture of the setting without diluting the novels.

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Saif Ansari:

What do you like about writing in the paranormal genre? 

My favorite fiction tends to be in the dark fantasy/Victorian ghost story genre, and while I’m not looking to emulate that specific style, I enjoy the mood and textures that sort of fiction cultivates. Putting together that sort of feeling myself is a lot of fun. 

What prompted you to write this story? 

I was thinking about buildings with old, residual architectural elements that are out of use, and what the buildings might be doing with these abandoned structures. The story kind of unfurled once I established the main character and his relationship and how it tied in with the structures.

Sean Sakamoto

What do you like about writing in the paranormal genre? 

Albert Camus famously said, “Fiction is the lie through which we tell the truth.” If that’s true, and I believe it is, then paranormal, or any speculative fiction, is an even greater lie through which we can tell an even greater truth. I love the freedom to create any device to get at the heart of a story, and genre frees me to do that. If I need to explore how blind optimism can be dangerous, then I can create a virus that causes optimism and wreaks havoc upon the world. If I want to explore the sheer terror of being stopped and frisked by uniformed police, why not show my city under occupation by aliens who can grope my mind and broadcast my secrets? Genre, and specifically paranormal, give me a language for going deeper into the horror, adventure, or hilarity of the human condition. 

What prompted you to write this story? 

In my story, Ghosts of New York, 8 million ghosts are released from a rotten seam of rock in the dig for the second avenue subway line. Every New Yorker gets one ghost, and that ghost tells the truth about them to everyone nearby. I wrote this story because I often feel like I’ve got a ghost on my shoulder that whispers my worst fears into my ear. “Your writing sucks. You have no imagination. Everyone knows you don’t belong at this party. You’re getting too old for this kind of fun.” ad nauseum. One way I have found to get on with living my life despite these nagging doubts is to admit that some of them are true. My worst fears are true, and once I’ve been honest about it, I have nothing left to hide. Yes, I’m no Shakespeare. Yes, I’m getting old. Yes, I’m usually not the brightest guy in the room. That’s fine. Once I embrace the truth, as unflattering as it is, it has no power over me. I wanted to imagine a way for all New Yorkers to confront this, and have it literally play out. I wanted to take the power away from the ghosts that whisper in all of our ears.

Anything else you’d like to add? 

I want to thank Donna for putting this together. I hope we feed some people with the proceeds of this book. I’m very excited to live in a time when interested readers and writers can put together a book around ideas that excite them and connect on a kindle, or any e-reader. This is an amazing time for fiction and I feel lucky to be able to read so much great stuff nowadays.

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