"So let me get this straight," Mike began, driving with Micky down the road to some irrelevant location to the story at hand. "First, the refrigerator door refused to close. *Then* the breadbox refused to open. Then the fridge door closed on its own and the breadbox door opened on its own. Then Peter says he heard a tapping he couldn't have heard from you because he was on the other side of the room. Am I right so far?" Micky rapidly nodded feeling Mike understood everything completely. "So what happened next? The coffee maker start squeezing orange juice?" Mike chuckled at his joke as Micky's brow turned in at Mike's immaturity.

"All you had to say was you didn't believe me," Micky said sitting back in the passenger seat, arms folded.

"And if I did, you'd explain it to me again," Mike added. "And again...and again...and a--"

"You don't have to patronize me," Micky retorted.

"...and then the breadbox was stuck?" Davy asked unconvinced as he sat at the kitchen table watching Micky's re-enactment of his experience the night before.

"I swear, it wouldn't open," Micky pleaded playing with the breadbox cover as it opened and closed with ease then.

"Mick, maybe you weah dreaming oah maybe you weahn't opening the breadbox," Davy suggested. "Maybe you weah trying to open the toastah. I mean, it was two o'clock in the moahning."

"Davy, as much as we've tried this, this Pad cannot get pitch black no matter how hard we try," Micky answered.

"Sorry man, I don't believe you," Davy shrugged.

"Well," Micky began optimistically to himself, "third time's a charm."

"Micky, you're scaring me," Peter pleaded timidly and frightened.

"But it wasn't me making that noise last night like I said," Micky tried to explain. "It couldn't have been me; I was over there and you were here." He pointed to the adjacent wall in comparison to Peter's bed where the head of the bed was next the window and not the kitchen.

"But you said you were making a tapping noise in the kitchen," Peter continued whining. "I heard a tapping. It had to be you."

"Listen, cut the Frank Sinatra lyrics and take a listen." Micky marched out the room leaving the door open ajar and began tapping the breadbox in the kitchen counter. "Hear that, Pete?" he called from the other room. "That was me. Was that what you heard?"

Peter had to stop and think now that he had heard the tapping; the sound he had witnessed was not a tapping at all! It was more of a pounding of sorts. And it was not emanating from the adjacent wall but rather the window itself. This struck more fear in Peter and he grabbed instinctively for his bear. Micky marched back in to find Peter quivering on his bed with his eyes closed, bear in hand.

"I take it that wasn't the sound," Micky concluded aloud observing his friend's positioning.

"There's no such things as ghosts. There's no such things as ghosts..." he quietly repeated to himself rocking back and forth on the bed.

"Are you implying there are ghosts haunting the Pad?" Micky asked.

"No, because there are no such things as ghosts," Peter answered timidly and halfheartedly.

Micky walked closer to the bed and sat in front of his good buddy, all seriousness in his eyes and manor. "Peter, tell me something," he began. "Mike and Davy aren't tricking me, right?"

"Uh-huh," the cowering man answered.

"And you *did* hear a tapping, right?"

"Well, it was like a banging on the window," Peter corrected.

"And Mike and Davy couldn't have done it, right?"

"I guess not."

"Then Peter," Micky began matter-of-factly, "I think the Pad is <dramatic pause> haunted."

Peter dramatically gasped. His bear fell in slow motion to the ground taking up valuable time which could be used more productively if this sense was not as dramatic.