Knock knock ghost
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My daughter has not eaten for a year and a half, said the girl’s mother. Suddenly at his feet a pattern of light fell. From the high ridge on which the station was built, he looked down into the shrouded valley and wondered at its darkness-why, even so late in the night, there should not be a single light gleaming through the fog from a single cottage. The young man looked around outside the deserted station, hoping to find an attendant. The night gave the false hope that when one was summoned to the door by a stranger’s knock, one’s most horrible fears could be realized by the appearance of ghosts, bats, ambulatory corpses, and the headless hounds of hell. We get, oh, five hundred to six hundred words an hour.
#Knock knock ghost free
He puts his right hand lightly on the cup, I put my left, leaving the right free to transcribe, and away we go. On our Grand Tour, whenever we felt lonely in the hotel room, David and I could just unfold our instant company. Besides, it’s so easy to make your own-just write out the alphabet, and the numbers, and your yes and no (punctuation marks too, if you’re going all out) on a big sheet of cardboard. The commercial boards come with a funny see-through planchette on legs. I gather you use a homemade one, but that doesn’t exactly help me to imagine it or its workings. If you enjoy these free interviews, stories, and poems, why not subscribe to The Paris Review? You’ll also get four new issues of the quarterly delivered straight to your door. Read on for James Merrill’s Art of Poetry interview, Joy Williams’s short story “ Tricks,” William Faulkner’s ghost story “ The Werewolf,” and Bhanu Kapil’s poem “ Three Ghost Stories: 1944–48,” paired with photos from Flavia Gandolfo’s portfolio “ Masks.” This week at The Paris Review, we’re telling scary stories.