Read Online The Waiting Room by T. M. Wright - Free Book Online
Authors: T. M. Wright
Tags: Horror
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that morning, feeling ravenous. It came to me that although I'd planned on sending out for a pizza during the game, I never had, so my poor stomach had staged a minor revolution.
I threw back the blanket, swung my feet to the floor, and sat up.
I sleep naked, and this late March night was damned chilly, so I reached for my pants, which were on the back of a chair near the bed. I heard low, suppressed giggling from the far corner of the room.
It was very dark in the roomâthe only light was the diffused yellow glow of a streetlamp four stories belowâbut I hurried into my pants, muttered, "Christ's sake, Abner, this is going too far," switched on a reading lamp over the bed, and looked at the corner where the giggling had come from.
There were two young girls, fourteen or fifteen, both in knee-length pink taffeta gowns, each with a blue corsage in hand, standing very stiffly and solemnly between the bookcase on one wall and the radiator on the other, and I said to them, my voice rising in pitch because they'd surprised me, "Who the hell are you ?"
Their mouths opened in unison. Two soft, suppressed giggles came out, but their bodies remained stiff, as if everything but their lips had been painted there, on the beige wall. And again their mouths opened, again two soft, suppressed giggles danced about in the room.
Below, on the street, a car horn blared.
Above me, in an apartment rented by a guy I knew worked the 8:00 P.M. to 2:00 A.M. shift, a radio was switched on, and a late-sixties protest song filtered down through the ceiling.
And from the corner, where the two young girls in pink taffeta stood so very, very stiffly, I caught the odor of waterlogged, decaying wood. I whispered at them, "Who in the hell are you?"
From above, the sixties protest song grew a little louder.
And the two girls in pink taffeta melted into the wall like ice.
NINE
Â
I called Abner's number again from the kitchen phone; he answered on the first ring. I heard him say sleepily, "Yes? Hello," and I screamed at him, "Goddammit, Abner, who are these people?"
"Sam? Is that you?"
"Damn it, AbnerâI wake up . . . I wake up, and I turn the light on, and there are these two girls in my room, and they're giggling at meâ"
"Sam, I'm sorry; I warned youâ"
"I'm coming over there, Abner, right now, and we're going to hash this out."
"You're coming here, to the house?" He sounded incredulous, happy. "That's great, Sam. Really. I'll make some coffee for you, we'll talk, we'll talk⦠Sam, this is very good news, I need a friend hereâ"
My anger began to fade under the influence of his sudden good feeling. "Sure, Abner," I sighed. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Great." A pause, then, "Sam?"
"Yes?"
"Do you remember the way here, Sam? To the house."
"Good Lord, Abner, of course I do." It was my pride speaking, and it spoke far too soon.
"Then I'll be waiting for you," Abner said.
~ * ~
I was on the subway an hour later. It was not quite five in the morning, and the train was all but empty, except for a young Puerto Rican couple necking in front of me, an older man in a stiff gray pinstripe suit in the seat to my right, and a red-haired woman at the rear of the car, seated facing away from me.
I was tired, I was hungry, and my head had started to ache shortly after I'd left the apartment. (I'd dressed like a madman, and didn't realize until I was on the street that my jacket was buttoned crookedly, that my shoes were untied, and that I'd forgotten to put underwear on.) I busied myself with reading some of the transit advertisingââJoin the Coffee Generation," "Join the Pepsi Generation," "Read The Me Generation ." I whispered that "generation" seemed to be the word of the hour.
"Sorry?" said the man in the stiff gray pinstripe suit.
I shook my head and explained that I'd been talking to myself, that I hadn't meant to disturb him.
He smiled. He had a round, smooth pink face, high cheekbones, and
I threw back the blanket, swung my feet to the floor, and sat up.
I sleep naked, and this late March night was damned chilly, so I reached for my pants, which were on the back of a chair near the bed. I heard low, suppressed giggling from the far corner of the room.
It was very dark in the roomâthe only light was the diffused yellow glow of a streetlamp four stories belowâbut I hurried into my pants, muttered, "Christ's sake, Abner, this is going too far," switched on a reading lamp over the bed, and looked at the corner where the giggling had come from.
There were two young girls, fourteen or fifteen, both in knee-length pink taffeta gowns, each with a blue corsage in hand, standing very stiffly and solemnly between the bookcase on one wall and the radiator on the other, and I said to them, my voice rising in pitch because they'd surprised me, "Who the hell are you ?"
Their mouths opened in unison. Two soft, suppressed giggles came out, but their bodies remained stiff, as if everything but their lips had been painted there, on the beige wall. And again their mouths opened, again two soft, suppressed giggles danced about in the room.
Below, on the street, a car horn blared.
Above me, in an apartment rented by a guy I knew worked the 8:00 P.M. to 2:00 A.M. shift, a radio was switched on, and a late-sixties protest song filtered down through the ceiling.
And from the corner, where the two young girls in pink taffeta stood so very, very stiffly, I caught the odor of waterlogged, decaying wood. I whispered at them, "Who in the hell are you?"
From above, the sixties protest song grew a little louder.
And the two girls in pink taffeta melted into the wall like ice.
NINE
Â
I called Abner's number again from the kitchen phone; he answered on the first ring. I heard him say sleepily, "Yes? Hello," and I screamed at him, "Goddammit, Abner, who are these people?"
"Sam? Is that you?"
"Damn it, AbnerâI wake up . . . I wake up, and I turn the light on, and there are these two girls in my room, and they're giggling at meâ"
"Sam, I'm sorry; I warned youâ"
"I'm coming over there, Abner, right now, and we're going to hash this out."
"You're coming here, to the house?" He sounded incredulous, happy. "That's great, Sam. Really. I'll make some coffee for you, we'll talk, we'll talk⦠Sam, this is very good news, I need a friend hereâ"
My anger began to fade under the influence of his sudden good feeling. "Sure, Abner," I sighed. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Great." A pause, then, "Sam?"
"Yes?"
"Do you remember the way here, Sam? To the house."
"Good Lord, Abner, of course I do." It was my pride speaking, and it spoke far too soon.
"Then I'll be waiting for you," Abner said.
~ * ~
I was on the subway an hour later. It was not quite five in the morning, and the train was all but empty, except for a young Puerto Rican couple necking in front of me, an older man in a stiff gray pinstripe suit in the seat to my right, and a red-haired woman at the rear of the car, seated facing away from me.
I was tired, I was hungry, and my head had started to ache shortly after I'd left the apartment. (I'd dressed like a madman, and didn't realize until I was on the street that my jacket was buttoned crookedly, that my shoes were untied, and that I'd forgotten to put underwear on.) I busied myself with reading some of the transit advertisingââJoin the Coffee Generation," "Join the Pepsi Generation," "Read The Me Generation ." I whispered that "generation" seemed to be the word of the hour.
"Sorry?" said the man in the stiff gray pinstripe suit.
I shook my head and explained that I'd been talking to myself, that I hadn't meant to disturb him.
He smiled. He had a round, smooth pink face, high cheekbones, and
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