“No. Isobel had a mild concussion and a
broken ankle, and Henry had whiplash and a
cut on his wrist.”
Isobel and Henry, the same names under
the bridge!
“But since the accident,” Mrs. Whyse
continues, “no one really goes near the bridge
anymore, except the teenagers who think their
love can withstand, despite the curse. And the
city installed those new barriers to keep
them away.”
“So it
is
haunted,” I say. “You think so too.”
“Every story has two sides. Check the
library sometime for the old articles,” she
says. Her office phone rings. As she gets up to
answer it she says over her shoulder, “Decide
for yourself.”
I try to focus on the rest of my food, but I
can’t stop thinking about the bridge. I check
the clock. There’s fifteen minutes left before
lunch is over, and my curiosity wins out: I
hurry to the library. There’s no way I will be
able to concentrate on political science without
getting to the bottom of this story.
21
