Interrupting the East River between Manhattan and Queens lives a small patch of land called Roosevelt Island. I'll be the first to admit-- I only realized Roosevelt Island existed recently after moving nearby. Prior to that, I was a commuter into the city every day for a year and a half... and never knew this tiny island was quietly sitting there, inhabitable, and furthermore... haunted.
Halloween is my Christmas. It's the most wonderful time of the year, the only month my fiancée can't protest to me watching horror movies every night or critique the fact that the window in our apartment I decorated with fake spider webs and little pumpkins looks out onto a dark alley where no one will even see. So when he casually remarked his work was having a Halloween Party the next weekend, I lit up like a Christmas tree.
Ryan, a mid-thirties banker in tastelessly expensive attire, stumbles out of a bar and into the silhouette of a bundled-up woman on the street. Huffing in annoyance, he bumps her out of his way and stumbles on toward his car.
The flickering light of my late husband’s family lighthouse spoke to me, as though in morse code. Cursing me? Congratulating me? I couldn’t yet make out its meaning—and communicated by whom? His ancestors reaching out from beyond the grave? Or was he himself the one flickering at me? Good. So be it. I sucked in a fury of sea air.
Follow this quick-step recipe for making a burnt Ahi Tuna dinner while processing devastating news.