Deserted woods, remote make-out spots, creaky mansions—these are ghost story locales. The stretch of West 42nd between Sixth and Seventh is not. With Condé Nast headquarters at one end and Tad's broiled steaks at another, it appears at once too corporate slick and too cut-rate smarmy to allow for the otherworldly. But here, in an unheated theater with uncomfortable chairs, playwright Anne Washburn unveils a heavy-booted maniac, a backyard demon, a vanished spirit (whiskey, with soda), a forest full of weevils, and the... More >>>