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I asked. Are you fucking insane? Do you know how old this building is? And how am I supposed to live with all these people?! The building will hold up, it always does.
I shouted into the phone. What am I going to do? How am I going to live? Bright sunlight was pouring in from the kitchen windows. So many people laughing and singing and dancing, and the food — spectacular displays taking shape all across my unused counters, and all across the rooftop. And yet none of them were inside my kitchen. They leaned over the sills, grabbing whatever they needed, but I was still the only person inside my apartment. All that unused space was still mine.
I walked through the small hallway into my bedroom.
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But on the left side of the room, next to the bed: a door. I walked over and opened it. Beyond the door was a terrace, lined with terra cotta brick, and hundreds of tall palm trees and plants. The air was warm and humid, and brightly colored birds dripped from branches, darting and singing. I walked out onto the terrace, and turned around the corner to the right. From where I stood, all I could hear was bird song, the trickling of water, the rustle of leaves.
Someone in the party looked up at me, smiled, and then walked away. I turned around, away from the party, and walked past the wall of plants into a secret palazzo. In its center was a small square of a pool, aqua waters rippling from the to-and-fro passage of koi, surrounded by a walkway embedded with intricate murals of serpents, griffins, and other ancient creatures.
At the back of the palazzo, sliding glass doors revealed a study: one massive wooden table piled with writing tablets and pens, and two sumptuous leather chairs. Small glass globes of light hovered just above the ceiling, filled with soft yellow lightning.
I turned back to the pool. Beyond the edges of the palazzo, Manhattan spread out under the infinite afternoon sun, a lush and wild and abandoned Manhattan, filled with gigantic trees and smoking volcanoes, and the lush, peaceful sound of wind and bamboo chimes and empty spaces. I stood there, with the secret study behind me, a secret Manhattan before me, my lifeless apartment to my right, and the glint and glimmer of two hundred and fifty thousand new roommates dancing and feasting just beyond its quiet edges.
I dialed my landlord. I wasted so much time, I said. I was so miserable here, and I could have been happy. All these years, I could have had everything I wanted. And that, my friends, was And, what will be Yes, still alive, still writing. Podcast infamy. ToC for The Monstrous. New collection coming out next year. Busy as a caffeinated sloth that is not a bee.
Fever Dream.
Last night, my flu and NyQuil-induced fever-dream: I was living in the apartment I live in now, but it was somewhat more labyrinthine, with strange arrangements of rooms, all mean and dirty and run-down. Are you serious? Two hundred and fifty thousand?
What are you talking about? Martin weaves a sinister yarn about a young woman encountering a neighbor who is overly enamored with her in The Pear-Shaped Man. Combining acclaimed masters of the macabre, such as Clive Barker, Poppy Z.
Brite, and Thomas Ligotti, with bold new talents to the genre, including Kelly Link, Neil Gaiman, and Stephen Kings son, Joe Hill, this distinctive collection of stories will delight and terrify. Similar manuals: Craster, GBR, Johann, AUT,