Catastrophe on 68th Street
Some neighborhood spirits just won't give up
My legs moved faster than my mind. I could feel the heat emanating from the walls all around me, the floors above and below. I only had minutes. Maybe even seconds. And I was six floors up.
"Drop them and go!" I shouted at Mrs. Remington. Her face shone pure horror as she dropped the items she was carrying. Picture frames, heirlooms. History. I kept going up. I had to get to the eighth floor.
I slammed open the heavy oak door, briefly hoping its weight would stave off the flames. My voice hoarse, I called out.
"Priscilla!"
About the Creator
David Spivak
Management consultant by day, writer by afternoon, and beer/wine lover by night.
Author of The Tribunals.
www.david-spivak.com
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