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