We are fairly ordinary people, Walter and I. Not the
norm, maybe; I" think we add up to something quite
graceful and special, something that both enriches and
adorns the small world we live in. Our friends say so.
But not, surely, the stuff of People magazine.
And yet there we are, this week, Walter and I. Sit-
ting on the white wrought-iron patio chairs, looking
just like what we are--mildly affluent people in their
middle thirties, well and casually dressed, tanned from
a summer of not-so-good tennis at the club, pleasant
people who like their lives and appear to love each
other. Two people leaning a bit forward, looking
across a lawn that doesn t appear in the photograph to
a house, a house built on a pretty, hilly, wooded lot
next door, which doesn t appear in the photograph
either. But the house is the reason we are there. The
house next door is haunted, and I am the one respon-
" sible for all the publicit
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