The old rattletrap hesitated at the fork in the road, its engine sputtering and threatening to go out. The driver blinked through the insect-smeared windshield, searching for anything that might be of use solving his dilemma. Finding nothing, he stepped out of the car, his foot sinking a little in the soft earth. After a brief search through the underbrush, he located a neglected roadsign and pulled back the overhanging moss to reveal the lettering. Cuthbert Village lie a mere fifteen miles down the left branch.

Roads in New England always baffled Colin. Having been built long before the automobile, they didn't follow the sort of logic he was accustomed to. The day was creeping to a close and light dwindled over the horizon. He wanted very much to find the bed and breakfast where he had reserved a room for the next few nights before darkness ate up the landscape. With a dufflebag of clothing and his equipment stowed in the backseat, he pressed on down the left road.

The Rogg Inn turned out to be right where he'd been told he would find it. A weatherbeaten sign welcomed him as it swung from a post beside the road. He pushed on, up the twisting drive flanked by alder trees to the quaint house which looked to be getting on in years, though not in an unpleasant way. He parked the car in a pebblestrewn space which seemed to be intended for cars. The moonlight poked through the willow branches as though it were checking up on him. He crossed the driveway and stepped onto the porch, imagining he felt it sag under his weight. He passed through the double doors into the house. Where he expected to find a lobby of charming yet impersonal décor embodying the essence of New England sensibility, he instead found a typical living room, one that wasn't expecting visitors. It was decorated in a color that looked much like yellow but wasn't. A coffeetable was strewn with woodworking magazines and coffee coasters. He was greeted by a portly Siamese cat who regarded him as exactly what he was—a guest stopping in for a few nights. The cat sniffed momentarily at his trouserleg, then lost interest and headed elsewhere.

"Halloo?" Colin called into the depths of the house. He distinctly felt like an intruder, even though he had been expected. His voice didn't echo, but gave the impression that it had. He stepped cautiously towards the kitchen, half-expecting to discover a body lying on the floor with a cooking knife in its back and the silverware missing. Instead he found a bowl of water set out for the cat, which he nearly stepped in.

He called out again with no result. The house was apparently empty. He hovered in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, unsure of what to do next. Maybe it would be best to make himself comfortable on the sofa and wait for the Roggs to return. He ran his fingers through his tousled brown hair restlessly. Someone must be expecting to return soon—they'd left all the lights on.

Just as he settled on the sofa there was a creak on the stairs, followed by a shrill voice that pierced the air like a crossbow bolt.

"What's making all that racket down there?"

He sprang to his feet, his face flushed with guilt. "Erm, it's me—Colin Brogan. I've only just arrived. I have a reservation." He banged his shin on the edge of the coffeetable as he came forward.

The creaks on the stairs lowered in pitch as the owner of the voice descended with careful deliberate steps. The legs appeared first, their feet tucked into grey canvas shoes. She fully came into view moments later, using the railing to steady herself. She wore a colorless sweater even though the late May evening was not particularly cold. Her greyish hair looked as though it had been ironed against her face. The pinpoints of her eyes glinted at him.

"Well?" she snapped, now level with him. "What is it you want?"

"I'm Colin," he repeated in a strong voice in case she was hard of hearing. "I have a reservation. You must be Mrs Rogg."

"Oh." She considered this. "Would you like some crackers?"

"No thank you." He stooped a little to massage his sore shin.

"Do you play Canasta?"

"Not really, no."

"That's a shame. I can teach you how if you'd like to learn."

"Erm, perhaps later. I'd rather just see my room, if you don't mind. It's been a long drive."

"Oh." She swiveled towards the stairs. "I'll show you to your room then."

Their creaking steps produced an odd harmony as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. She led him down a hallway with an angled ceiling, pausing midway to ruffle through a linen closet. "Everyone always wants towels."

He agreed that towels would prove most useful.

An open door at the far end of the hallway turned out to lead into his appointed bedroom. It was a small but pleasant room, its twin-sized bed neatly made. The wallpaper had obviously been painted over light blue at one point, and vertical lines were visible at regular intervals. The ceiling was slanted and he had to watch his forehead as he moved towards the far window. The window overlooked a portion of the backyard, which must have been a garden at one point, but had since been swallowed up by weeds. Behind this was an orchard containing a stone well, also disused. On branches and powerlines squirrels and sparrows seemed to be engaged in a turf war.

Colin dumped his bags on the wicker chair beside the window and thanked Mrs Rogg.

"Now, about money," she began.

"Yes?"

"Would you like to pay now, or..."

"I was hoping you could run a bill for me for everything I'll owe and I can pay it before I leave. I have an expense account, you see."

"I suppose." Mrs Rogg didn't look very pleased with this idea. "My husband and I turn in early," she said, turning to go. "So I do hope you'll be considerate and not cause a lot of noise."

"Don't worry," he assured her. "I have to be up early tomorrow myself. I plan on just having a quick bath and hitting the sheets."

He thought he heard her hmph on her way out.

After a warm bath in a paintflecked ironclaw bathtub which he located down the hall, Colin returned to his room to prepare for bed. He had to lower the shade because the harsh moonlight which streamed through the window would have kept him awake. He pulled the covers up to his chin, noting how scratchy the top blanket was. Lying there, he pondered the expanse of white ceiling and how all unfamiliar places had the same white ceilings.

He nearly nodded off a few times, but couldn't quite get himself to cross the threshold. His somnolent eyes formed strange shapes out of the shadows cast by the stubborn moonlight which poked around the edges of the blind. It almost looked like a little face peering at him from the foot of the bed.

His body jerked in surprise. He tried to jump out of the bed and dive under the covers at the same time, and the result was to tangle himself up in the covers. The bedposts groaned at his effort. His heart beat like a kickdrum in his chest. A tiny giggle reached his ears. A young girl emerged from shadows at the foot of the bed, her eyes like two fierce black olives. She held a hand to her mouth to stifle another giggle.

"Hush, you'll wake the house," came a scalding voice from elsewhere.

At first Colin thought he was seeing in double exposure until a second girl came forward and he saw that they looked enough alike to clearly be sisters. The one who had spoken glared at the other through disapproving slit eyes.

"Erm, what are you girls doing in my room?" Colin felt modest and out of sorts.

"We couldn't sleep," said the giggly one, through her fingers. "We thought maybe you could tell us a story."

"I don't know many stories," Colin admitted. "Won't your grandmother be upset if she finds you up?"

"Yes," she tittered.

"She's not our grandmother," the girl with the stern manner said. "She's our mother."

"Oh, sorry." He suddenly felt very foolish lying there with the covers drawn up tight as though to conceal his state of undress. He let his arms relax. "Well, what are your names?"

"My name is Alma. My sister is Elva."

Elva peered at him, brimming with curiosity. "What's your name?"

Colin introduced himself. He swung his legs out so that he was sitting on the edge of the bed. "Shouldn't you girls be getting some sleep? You must have school or something in the morning."

"We're not tired."

"You'll certainly be tired tomorrow if you don't get enough sleep. You want to be awake for your studies, don't you?"

"I'm the only one who pays attention to her studies," Alma declared loftily. "Elva would rather chase squirrels."

Elva's eyes grew gigantic. "Their tails are so puffy!"

Colin studied the girls, their round acorn faces, their long raven hair. He was taken by their articulation. Someone had spent a good deal of effort teaching them proper enunciation. He couldn't imagine Mrs Rogg being concerned with such matters and decided the girls must attend a fairly prestigious private school.

"Why are you staying here?" Alma asked.

"Are you a fugitive?" Elva added, enamored by the possibility.

He laughed. "Not exactly. I'm a photojournalist."

"What's that?"

"It means he takes photographs for magazines and publications," Alma lectured her sister.

"Yes, that's right. I've come to New England to do a piece on old covered bridges."

Elva squealed, prompting a shush from her sister. "I lurve covered bridges. There's one behind the orchard that's lovely. Are you going to take its picture?"

"But that's on Mr Grimes' property," Alma pointed out. "You'd have to get his permission first."

Elva pouted. "He chased us off his property. He's an old codgerhead."

"Well if it's as nice a bridge as you make it sound, I'm sure he'd be pleased to have it featured in our magazine. Maybe I'll talk to him in the morning."

"What else do you take piccies of besides bridges?" Elva wanted to know.

"Oh, lots of things. Landscapes for one. Sometimes people."

"Famous people?"

"Sometimes."

"Like who?"

He rattled off some names but none were met with recognition.

"I want to be a photojournalist," Elva decided, and nodded with finality.

"What are you talking about?" Alma retorted. "You've never even seen a camera before, let alone know how to operate one."

"I don't care. I want to take piccies of covered bridges."

"Why don't you see if your mother will buy you a camera so you can starting practicing the craft," Colin suggested, trying to be helpful. " I mean, if that's what you want."

Elva looked crestfallen. "She wouldn't do that."

"Maybe if I spoke to her."

Both girls looked alarmed at the thought.

"No, you mustn't mention to her that we came to visit you," said Alma. "She would be very upset."

"Well, alright. But if Elva wants to take up photography, it seems to me your mother should be supportive."

"You just don't understand Elva," Alma sniffed. "Today it's photography. Tomorrow it'll be calligraphy."

"What's calligraphy?" Elva asked.

"Fancy lettering."

"Ooo! Can I do that too?"

"She's hopeless," Alma sighed.

Elva tugged on Colin's pajama sleeve. "Wanna see my doll?" She scrambled back behind the foot of the bed and fetched a small doll outfitted in white lace where she must have dropped it earlier. She held it out for Colin to see. The doll had seen better days. One arm dangled loosely and the dress it wore was frayed at the edges. "Isn't she pretty?"

"She's rather tattered," Colin admitted.

"I know. I was supposed to get rid of her, but I didn't want to hurt her feelings. So I hid her instead. Don't tell."

"I won't."

"You're handsome," Elva confided. "Would you like to be one of my husbands?"

"You have several?"

"Uh huh," she said proudly. "I collect them. But only if they're worthy."

"It sounds like an honor."

Elva beamed.

The girls stayed a little longer, and Elva tried to instigate a game of hide and seek in the small bedroom, but Colin was tired and needed rest. He ushered them out as politely as he could. Exhausted, he tumbled into sleep.

The next morning Colin awoke to a nostril full of sizzling bacon aroma. He dressed hastily and bounded downstairs, where he was gruffly introduced to Mr Rogg, a laconic crookbacked fellow in a spotless gardening apron. Mrs Rogg served them a pancake breakfast with coffee and strawberries. The pancakes were soppy in the middle and the coffee tasted like tree bark, but Colin gulped it all down without complaint.

"So where are you off to today?" Mr Rogg asked through a mouthful of bacon.

"Off to track down some picturesque covered bridges," Colin replied. "I thought I'd start by asking your neighbor Mr Grimes if I could snap a few photos of his bridge."

"Grimes, huh?" Mr Rogg mused. "You're not likely to get far with him. He'll refuse you just to be contrary."

"Well, it can't hurt to ask."

"That's what you think."

Colin dabbed his mouth with a napkin and reached for a second helping of bacon. He felt a scrape against his leg. Glancing down, he saw the Siamese cat had appeared and was stretching its paw up towards him.

"Looks like you've made a friend," said Mr Rogg.

"I think he's after my bacon." Colin held the bacon out of the cat's reach while scratching him behind the ears. When the cat realized the bacon was not intended for him, he gave up pursuit and strode away, having more important issues to concern himself with.

"Your daughters must have already left for school this morning then?"

Mrs Rogg spilled her coffee.

"What's that you say?" said Mr Rogg, leaning closer.

Colin repeated his question.

"What makes you say a thing like that?"

Mrs Rogg began clearing the half-eaten breakfast, taking Colin's plate out from under him.

"Nothing." Colin grabbed at a fleeing strip of bacon. "I just wondered, since you didn't set places for them."

"I think you'd best be on your way now," Mr Rogg said. He rose and disappeared into the back of the house.

Mrs Rogg was at the sink, absorbed in washing the dishes. Colin thought she looked rather ill. He thanked her for the breakfast, then he fetched his equipment and set out.

Mr Grimes proved to be uncooperative, as Mr Rogg had predicted. In fact, he nearly chased Colin off his porch with a firepoker. Colin spent the rest of the day driving around looking up sites from a list he had compiled before setting out on his trip. He located two or three bridges which looked promising and snapped a dozen of photographs while the light was good. The rest on his list were duds, in various states of disrepair or else obnoxious tourist traps. It took him most of the day to find that out.

He returned to the Rogg Inn that evening tired and cranky. Nobody seemed at home, just like the night before. He nabbed a few items of food from the refrigerator that he didn't think his hosts would miss, then he retired to his room.

He settled into bed, anticipating the return of the previous night's callers. He tried keeping one eye alert, but it had been a long day and he dozed off in spite of himself. When he snapped awake after what seemed like only moments, the two girls were sitting together at the foot of his bed. They had managed to climb onto the mattress without waking him.

"Hi Colin," Elva gestured wildly. Her saucereyes looked enormous in the dusk.

"Hi there. I wondered when you two would be round again." He pulled himself sleepily into a sitting position.

"Did you bring us any bridgies?"

"I'm afraid not. The few I did find are still in my camera. That Mr Grimes of yours turned out to be very little help."

"I told you he wouldn't be," declared Alma.

"He's a mean old hoptoad," Elva pouted.

"I hate him," said Alma. "I hope he steps on a rake."

"So this means if I don't have better luck tomorrow, I probably won't have enough material for my assignment."

"What if we distracted him while you sneaked around and took piccies?"

Colin grinned. "I admire your cunning. But no, I'm afraid I need his permission, otherwise the magazine would be in legal trouble after we published the article."

"That's stinky."

"Yes, rather."

"Let's play with the weegee board!" Elva burst out excitedly. "We can ask it where you can find a nice bridgie."

"We don't have that anymore," Alma told her.

"It might be under the bed. I'll look!" She dropped to the floor and her acorn face disappeared under the bedframe. She reappeared a moment later and uttered a tremendous sneeze.

"Bless you."

"Shankum." She wiped her nose with her wrist.

"Wasn't there, was it?"

"No." She looked crestfallen. "Just a herd of dust buzzies."

"I told you," said Alma. "It was taken away long ago."

"But I want to play a game." She pouted. "Let's play hide and seek."

"Be quiet, Elva. We're all much too grown up to play your stupid games."

"I know, let's show him our hiding place!"

Alma looked skeptical. "I don't know if that's such a good idea."

"Your hiding place?" wondered Colin.

Elva was giddy. "Come on, he'll like it. He can take piccies for his magazine, if he can't find any covered bridgies in time."

"Alright." Alma gave Colin an appraising stare. "But you must be absolutely quiet and not wake up anyone."

Colin agreed to these conditions. Elva let out a "yay" and was promptly shushed by her sister.

Alma started for the door and Colin began to follow, but she halted him.

"You'll want your shoes."

Colin glanced down at his toes. "Will I?"

"What we're going to show you is outside. But wait until we're downstairs to put them on so you won't make any noise in the hallway."

With a shrug, Colin took his shoes in hand and followed the sisters through the sleeping house. The sound of Mr Rogg snoring could be heard as they passed the master bedroom. Downstairs, Alma fetched a lantern from a nook off the kitchen. At the back door, Colin slipped on his shoes and the trio entered the backyard. He stood blinking in the moonlight as Alma strode and Elva skipped over nettles in the direction of the orchard.

"Are you taking me to Mr Grimes' bridge? I've already told you I can't use it without his permission."

"No," Alma called back. "First we're taking you to the shed."

He hadn't noticed the garden shed before. It must have been hidden from view from his upper window. Alma undid the latch while Elva tried conversing with an owl who spied on their activities from a high branch. Colin stood back, stifling a yawn, until Alma signaled him over.

"We need to get out the ladder," she indicated.

"Is what you're going to show me up in a tree?" he asked. "I'm not good with heights."

"Don't worry. Just take one end and I'll take the other."

Carrying the wooden ladder between them, they made their way deeper into the orchard. Colin winced as a splinter jabbed his thumb. It was a very old ladder and he wondered how sturdy it was. Alma stopped before the stone well.

"Down here," she directed.

"Down in the well?"

"What we're going to show you is at the bottom of it."

"What, a bucket?"

Alma glared impatiently. "Do you want to see it or not?"

"Alright, alright."

Together they slid the ladder into the mouth of the well. It descended nearly to its length, just a few rungs short of disappearing. Elva had become preoccupied with an owl pellet she had found. When she realized what she was missing, she hastened over.

Alma handed Colin the lantern. "You'll want this to see."

The sisters faced him expectantly.

"You want me to go down alone?"

"Of course. We already know what's there."

Feeling very ambivalent about the whole affair, Colin tested the ladder, which seemed secure. Then, bracing himself, he started his descent into the dank shaft.

If they pull up the ladder when I reach the bottom, I'm going to be not at all happy, he thought. The dread of what else may lie at the bottom of the shaft nagged at him. What if there were rats? He disliked rats immensely. The small circle of moonlit sky above him was interrupted by the two little faces peering down at him. Elva waved as he looked up.

Soon his foot touched something that wasn't wooden and he realized he had reached the bottom. Holding the lantern close to the bottom, he was grateful to find there was nothing moving. The well was mostly dry, just a bit muddy and caked with moist leaves. The stone walls were slimy with moss. He saw nothing worthy of his being lured out of bed in the middle of the night.

"What am I supposed to be looking at?" he called up. His voice sounded hollow and thin in the narrow space. The ladder was still firmly in place, he was relieved to note. He kept a hand on the closest rung just in case. He wasn't in the best of moods for children's pranks.

"One of the stones at about knee-height is loose," Alma responded, her voice sounding older and fuller than he remembered. He glanced down and spotted the stone she probably had in mind, less mossy than the others. Behind it was undoubtedly an old rusted teakettle they had hidden during an earlier game of treasure hunt. His fingers closed on the edge and he was surprised by how easily it moved. The stone was not nearly as heavy as it looked.

"Did he find it?" he heard Elva squeak excitedly.

"Did you find it?"

"Yes, I think so."

He pulled the stone out all the way and set it down on the leafy floor. The space it had occupied was fairly large—certainly large enough to fit the lantern with room for him to see past. He felt sleepy, ridiculous, and a little thrilled as he pushed the lantern into the hollow space and leaned in for a better look. There was something there certainly. Something white and lacy. Not a teakettle, he mused, likely another of Elva's dolls. He leaned in further until the lantern's brittle light illuminated the chamber. There, in the grimy tomb, he saw the bones of the two girls where Mrs Rogg had buried them after having poisoned them so many years ago.