The Waiting Room by T. M. Wright Page B

happened in there!"
    He studied the smear of dirt. "I told you what happened." He looked at me. "Reality happened." That smirk appeared yet again. "It's awfully cold out here. Let's go back inside."
    I was still pointing shakily at the house. I let my arm fall slowly, incredulous. I said, "I'm not going back into that house. Do you think I'm a moron? I'm not going back into that house."
    He shook his head. "Sam, I've told you, they won't allow you to--"
    I jabbed his chest suddenly with my finger. "And what I want from you, my friend , is for you to call them off. You got that? Call them off! Now!"
    "Good Lord, Sam, they're not like dogs, they're people. I don't have any say over what they do or don't do—"
    "I don't believe you, Abner." I jabbed his chest again. "I think they're your pets, they're your gruesome little pets, I think they'll beg for you, roll over, fetch, play dead"—he grinned at that—"and I think you can tell them when to rise up"—I lifted both hands palms down—"when to lie down, and when to hang around and look spooky."
    "I don't think they're going to like this one tiny bit, Sam. I'd watch what I said, if I were you." It was hard to tell if he was joking.
    "Is that a threat, Abner? A threat directly from the spooks themselves? I'm impressed. What are they going to do? Are they going to have a garbage truck run me down? Are they going to send two little dead girls into my bedroom to embarrass me to death? Tell me, Abner, Mr. Abner Spook-keeper, just what are they going to do?"
    He shook his head. "You're babbling, Sam. It’s understandable. I babbled, too, in the beginning. It's a defense mechanism. You try to fight the impossible with nonsense, but then, after a while, you learn to accept, and to enjoy . . ."
    "Listen to yourself, Abner. You sound like a damned religious fanatic."
    "Sam, please—just come back to the house with me, I need you at the house."
    "Call them off, Abner."
    "I can't 'call them off.' I don't even know what that means. Even Madeline couldn't 'call them off.' That's really stupid, Sam—it's unkind, too—"
    I hit him on the jaw. Hard. With My open hand. He fell backward, sat down hard on the sand. His hand went up, he cursed, he massaged his jaw while I stood above him shaking my head in disbelief at the violence that confusion and fear had coaxed from me.
    Then, from behind the house came the kind of deep and resonant noise that I had heard only hours before—the low, ominous, monotone rumble of a truck engine.
    What could I do? I sat down close to Abner on the beach, my back to that noise. I took his hand away from his jaw, studied the bruise that was starting there, and said, "Sorry, Abner. I didn't mean that."
    I paused. "Well, yes, I did. But I don't anymore." He grinned sadly. Behind us, the roar of the truck engine grew louder. I glanced back quickly, then looked at Abner again. "Tell me what the hell is going on. Please, Abner. I need your help here."
    "Yes," he said, "and I need yours."
    "Okay, then we'll help each other. Like when we were kids. Remember? When one of us got into trouble, the other one was always there to help. Like when ... " The rumble of the engine stopped abruptly. I hurried on, "Like when you were writing all those dumb, unsigned love notes to Mrs. Singer in American history and I said I wrote them. Remember that?" I glanced nervously around at the beach house, then back at Abner. "Remember?" I coaxed.
    "Yeah, I remember," he said; his brow furrowed. "Why'd you do that, anyway?"
    I flashed him a quick, falsely magnanimous smile. "So you wouldn't get into trouble, of course." It wasn't really true. I had something of a crush on Mrs. Singer, myself, but my letters, which went unsent, were not nearly as poetic as Abner's. "So now you can return the favor, Abner. Just, please, call these ... these people off, okay?"
    He shrugged, began, "I told you, Sam, I can't just `call them off.' You don't seem to