“Why? Is there something wrong with the Jackson cottage?” Mrs. Mallory asked.
“Maybe not,” the man said. “But Mrs. Jackson’s been dead near two years now.”
At his words, the Mallorys all stood quite still. The room seemed to fill up with silence. Then, a little uncertainly, Mr. Mallory laughed. “Well, that’s interesting. But of course, there’s some mistake. I just spoke to Mrs. Jackson on the phone the other day. She sounded very much alive. So perhaps you can give us directions to her cottage.”
“Well, I suppose I can do that,” the man said. He shrugged his shoulders and began to explain the way to Black-wood Lake. Soon, however, it all grew quite complicated and Mr. Mallory had to borrow a pencil to write things down.
“I guess we can find it all right,” his father said at last, with a sigh.
“Wouldn’t be anything else you folks need, would there? Bug spray, or cleaning stuff, or worms for the fishing, or something like that. Quite a drive back here to get things, you know. Must be a lot of dirt and bugs in that cabin — hasn’t been used in a long time, you know.”
“I don’t understand this at all,” Mr. Mallory said. “I thought Mrs. Jackson told me she’d had other renters in July.”
“I wouldn’t know about that,” the proprietor said.
“WHAT’S THE POINT?” the parrot croaked. “WHAT’S THE POINT?”
“I’m beginning to wonder myself,” Mrs. Mallory said.
“I was going to ask you…,” Chip began, then hesitated. “By the way, what’s your name, sir?”
“Bascombe,” the man told them. “Peter Bascombe.”
“That figures,” Lee said.
“PETER BASCOMBE,” the parrot said. “OLD DADDY PETE.”
“I was going to ask you who might own the white horse I saw on the way here. It was a great-looking animal, just galloping free through a field beside the hills over near the big swamp,” Chip explained.
Peter Bascombe gave him an odd look, and for the first time pulled down his sunglasses to reveal his eyes. Chip took a step backward. They were dark eyes — youthful, penetrating, and shrewd — and they completely belied the man’s age, and his quaint and bumbling manner.
“You saw the white horse?” the man asked. His low, soft voice conveyed both disbelief and something like awe. “Hmmm… Sorry, no, young fella. I can’t help you with that one. Have no idea what you’re talking about. Now if you’ll excuse me, folks, I think I hear the telephone sounding off in the back of the store.”
Mr. Bascombe retreated quickly, slipping along behind the counter, and fetching Captain Howdy’s cage quite neatly as he swept past. Before any of them could say a word, he had disappeared with the parrot behind the bead curtain at the rear of his store.
Mr. Mallory looked at his wife and children and slowly shook his head. It was obvious to all of them that there was no telephone in the back of the store.
“This is crazy,” he said. “I think we’d better head over to the cottage.”
“I just hope we can find it,” Chip said.
“Maybe it would be better if we didn’t,” said Mrs. Mallory.
3
Unpleasant Surprises
They drove out of Bascombe and followed a winding road for a few miles through desolate farm country. At last they reached a small lake where a narrow causeway led them past a clean, pleasant farmhouse with a big red barn beside it and a wishing well out front.
“The place should be just ahead,” their father said.
They turned down a rutted road that ran between a wide stand of evergreen forest. The day had grown cloudy, and all at once they felt claustrophobic again, and a bit anxious, as they had on the hillside.
After a few miles, though, the evergreens had given way to a stretch of flat, rocky land, beyond which, at last, they could see the lake.
“It’s enormous,” Chip said.
“Spectacular,” Lee added. “That’s one big drink of water. And those islands! But look at the cottage! Oh my God!”
“That can’t be it,” Mr. Mallory said.
“It’s right where it’s supposed to be,” their mother said.
The dirt road divided and continued around both sides of the lake. But straight ahead on a narrow spit of land stood a small white-and-lime-green cabin — a shabby-looking place with sagging foundations, tiny windows covered with plastic sheeting, and broken gutters with drooping empty birds’ nests that looked like wisps of hair falling down from the bald, flat roof.
They all groaned aloud and their father swore. “Damn it! That’s not what the web picture looked like.”
Chip shook his head. “You know what you once told me, Dad. With photo-editing programs you can do anything.”
“You can edit reality,” Mrs. Mallory reflected. “You can make a dead cabin seem alive, but can you bring the dead owner back to life?”
“If she’s still alive I’ll gladly shoot her,” their father said. “She’s ripped us off something else!”
Nonetheless, they parked the SUV safely on the thick, wet grass, climbed out, and began to take in the surrounding landscape. Their father, mumbling to himself, circled the place three times, shaking his head and looking grim.
“Are you casting a spell?” Mrs. Mallory asked. “Or trying to make the cabin disappear?”
“You’re not thinking of staying here,” Lee asked bluntly, as Mr. Mallory groped among the concrete blocks in search of the key.
“I’m thinking of getting inside to confirm my worst suspicions. I plan on taking some pictures myself. And carrying them along to Mrs. Jackson to get my money back.”
“If she’s dead will she be liable?” Lee queried.
“Stop that, will you?!” their father commanded. “It’s just not funny.” Lee and Chip exchanged wicked smiles.
Chip shook his head in disgust and turned away. He strolled down toward the lake. It was a little cooler, but the air was stagnant, stifling. Having reached the end of the grassy point on which the cabin stood, he saw that the place was situated at a closed end or bay. The site felt a bit claustrophobic, especially since the shallow half-circle of water, although quite large, seemed clogged with reeds and cattails over much of its surface.
Chip shrugged and inspected the bank. Just below stood a rickety dock and an old, half-submerged rowboat. He lay on the dock, reached down, and slapped at the water with his hands. It felt warm, and somehow reassuring.
He yawned and walked back to the cabin where his father, still locked out, was getting frustrated.
“No key, Dad? Why don’t I go through that window?” Chip suggested. “That one doesn’t seem to be latched properly.”
“All right, let’s force it. And if we break it, all the better!”
But they didn’t have to break the glass. The sash was very stiff, but with the help of a stout stick they pulled from the dishevelled woodpile, they got it up.
Chip grabbed hold of the rotting frame. Twisting his body, and bracing himself with his arms, he slipped through — and found himself in a stifling, murky kitchen.
“You okay?” his father shouted. “What’s it like in there?”
Chip