“No,” New said, “it was just an accident. The Lodge…ain’t alive. It’s just made out of stone.”
“You got to promise me,” she begged, “not to ever go down to Usherland. Don’t let nobody else know you can move things with your mind. And most of all, don’t talk about the Pumpkin Man—especially to no damned outsider!”
He had no intention of going to Usherland, and he was too stunned by this new-found ability to even conceive of telling anyone about it; but the last point stuck in his craw. He felt that the Dunstan woman sincerely wanted to find out more about the Pumpkin Man, and maybe by telling her what he’d seen, he could, in some small way at least, help Nathan—or atone for his own guilt at having been unable to free Nathan from the creature’s grasp. He was the man of the house; shouldn’t he make his own decisions?
“Promise me,” Myra said.
It took an effort for him to nod his head.
She seemed to breathe easier. “You ought to go on to bed now. Get your rest. Your hurts still botherin’ you?”
“A little. They itch.”
She grunted softly. “Your pa taught me how to make that medicine I put on you. Said it would take the sting out of just about anythin’.” Wind rattled the window behind her, and again she peered into the darkness. Birdie’s bark had changed to an occasional guttural baying. “Dog’s makin’ a lot of noise tonight, ain’t he? It’s the wind, I reckon, that’s got Birdie spooked. Your pa knew a lot about the weather. He could sit and watch the clouds and say right to the minute when the next rain was comin’.” Her voice had become wistful, and now she pressed the fingers of one hand against the cold glass. “Bobby was a good man. You know, he used to like to believe that his pa was a sailor. The captain of a ship. An admiral, even. At the school, when he was growin’ up, he liked to read about the Pilgrims and such, all those folks who came over from England in boats. He used to dream about boats with big white sails stretched in the wind—though I don’t think he ever saw the ocean, ’cept in pictures. He was a good man, and full of life.”
Wind whined through the wall cracks once more, and in his mind New heard the whistling of his brother’s toy.
“Wind’s been risin’ two nights in a row,” Myra said. “Your pa always told me that meant rain three, four days away. Might be in for some bad weather.” She glanced up at the roof. “Ought to get some new timbers and shingles up there before the cold hits, I reckon.”
“Yes ma’am.”
She looked at him for a few seconds, then said, “Better get on to bed.”
“I will directly.”
“We’ll talk more about it tomorrow,” she said, and they both knew what she meant. Then Myra turned away and left the room. New heard her door close behind her.
He sank down into the chair again. His insides were quaking, and his mind was a storm of confusion. Why had his pa been able to do such things? And why was he suddenly able to, when for years he’d just been as normal as anybody else? It was too much for him to grasp: a floating knife, a hovering lamp, dancing furniture, and a truck that reared like a wild stallion were things of witchcraft—the kind of sorcery, New thought, that only the Devil himself could command.
It was no secret that evil prowled Briartop Mountain in many guises, from the Pumpkin Man to the black panther known as Greediguts by the locals. They were never seen, but everyone knew they were out there in the darkness, waiting.
And now New had to wonder what kind of man his pa had really been. He looked at the picture on the mantel. It didn’t tell the whole story. What kind of power had been hiding behind Bobby Tharpe’s face? And what had been trying to lure him down to Usherland with the promise of wealth and luxury?
New felt as if his back were bending under the weight of his thoughts. After some more thinking that only took him in circles, he stood up and took the lamp off the mantel, then went back to his room. As he readied himself for bed and blew out the flame, he heard Birdie howl. The howling went on for almost a minute—then abruptly cut off. After that, New didn’t hear Birdie anymore.
And in the dense woods across the road from the Tharpe cabin, the figure that had been standing there for more than an hour slowly turned away and disappeared into the night.
18
“YES SIR,” LOGAN BODANE said, “it looks like you’re into something you’re not supposed to be in.” He was leaning against the wall just inside the library door, and his sly, knowing grin was maddening to Rix. Logan had been outfitted with an Usher uniform—dark slacks, light blue shirt, striped tie, and gray blazer—but he was already asserting himself. The tie was missing, the shirt open down the neck, the blazer wrinkled where Logan had been careless with it. A curl of his copper-colored hair tumbled over his forehead, and above the grin his cold blue eyes were mirthless.
Rix had straightened up at the first sound of the voice. Around his feet were the pages that had fallen from the book. “What are you doing in here?” he demanded, anger taking over now that the scare was seeping away.
“I was out walkin’. Decided to come in and have a look-see around the house before I went to sleep. I saw the light on in that room with the pool tables, and I heard you messin’ around in here.”
“The Gatehouse is off limits to you,” Rix snapped.
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but that’s not what I understand. The way I hear it, I’ve got the run of the whole estate. See?” He held up a ring of keys and jingled them. “Anyway, I figured you folks would appreciate my comin’ in and checkin’ around. Can’t be too careful these days.” He ambled around the library, examining the books on the shelves. His eyes flickered toward the mounted weapons, and he gave a low whistle. “These are old ones, aren’t they? Antiques and all.”
“Does Edwin know you’re prowling around the estate?”
“Ain’t prowlin’,” he said, and smiled again. “Like I say, I’m checkin’.” He reached up and lifted the Mark III pistol from the wall mount. “Heavy gun. Couldn’t hit a damn thing with a gun this heavy.”
“Maybe I’ll just give Edwin a call and tell him you’re making a nuisance of yourself.” Rix reached toward the telephone on the walnut writing desk.
“You don’t want to do that, Mr. Usher. You’ll wake Cass and Edwin up for nothin’. Part of my job is makin’ sure everything’s buttoned up good and proper for the night. That’s why Edwin gave me these keys.”
Rix paid no attention. He dialed Edwin’s number and waited while it rang. Now maybe this cocky bastard would get his ass kicked out of Usherland. The phone continued to ring. Rix glanced at his watch. It was ten minutes before two.
“Go on, then.” Logan shrugged, gave the revolver’s cylinder a whirl, and then returned it to its mount. The spilled pages caught his eye, and he walked over to look down at the cardboard boxes. “Seems to me you’re the one who might not be where he ought to be,” Logan said. “Kinda peculiar to be studyin’ books at two o’clock in the mornin’, ain’t it?”
Someone picked up the phone. Edwin said sleepily, “Bodane house.”
At that instant, Rix realized he’d made a mistake. Of course it was Logan’s job to make sure everything was locked up for the night, and the keys Edwin had given him said so. It was Rix who was in jeopardy, because how would he explain being in the library at this time of the morning, especially after Logan told of seeing Rix rummaging through the old documents? Edwin would know at once what Rix was up to, and might feel compelled by the vow he’d taken to report it either to Walen or to Margaret.
“Bodane house,” Edwin repeated, with a trace of irritation.
Logan had picked up a volume out of one of the boxes, and was watching Rix sharply. Damn it! Rix thought. He put the telephone back on its cradle. “No answer,” he said. “I don’t want to wake them up because of you, anyway.”
“Yeah, Edwin sleeps like a rock. I can hear him snorin’ right through the wall.” His gaze penetrated, and for a second Rix thought that Logan’s expression indicated he saw through the
lie.
“Just leave,” Rix said, “and that’ll be the end of it.”
“What’s all this stuff?” Logan nodded toward the boxes. “Scrapbooks?”
“Some of them are, yes.”
“Edwin told me you write books for a livin’. What are you doin’? Research or somethin’?”
“No,” Rix said, too quickly. “I just came downstairs for a book to read.”
“You must be a night owl, like me. Hey! Pictures!” He reached down into one of the boxes and brought out a handful of yellowed photographs.
“Be careful with those. They’re fragile.”
“Yeah, they look pretty old and all.” Still, he handled them as if they were as tough as tree bark. Rix could see that they were more views of the Lodge, the pictures creased and cracked, marred by the passage of time. “Big old place, ain’t it?” Logan asked as he examined them. “Bet you could put about ten factories inside there. Edwin says nobody’s lived in it for about forty years. How come?”
“My mother didn’t choose to.”
“Bet you could get lost in there,” he said, and Rix tensed. “Bet it’s got all kinds of secret rooms and stuff. You ever been inside?”
“Once. A long time ago.”
“Edwin says he’s going to take me in. Going to show me how you Ushers used to live. I’ve heard you people threw some mighty strange shindigs inside there.”
How Edwin planned to smooth this cretin’s rough edges, Rix didn’t know. His manner of speech grated on Rix’s nerves. He probably had, at best, a high-school education. It was ridiculous to think this boy could fill Edwin’s shoes! “Why don’t you leave now?” Rix asked him.
Logan put the photographs down on the desk and stared at him for a silent moment. Behind his shoulder, Rix saw, was Hudson’s portrait. Both of them were staring at him. Then Logan blinked and said, “You don’t like me very much, do you?”
“Right.”
“Why not? Because Edwin wants me to learn the ropes?”
“You’ve got it. I don’t think you’re capable. You’re arrogant, rude, and slovenly, and I don’t think you give a kick about working on Usherland. I believe you saw this as a way to get off the assembly line. Within a month after Edwin retires, I think you’ll take whatever you can get your hands on and run off with it.”
“Now why should I do that? This looks to me like a pretty cushy job. Oh, there’s a lot of work to be done and all, but it’s mostly organizin’ other people and makin’ sure they’re not layin’ around. Edwin says the secret to success is in lettin’ everybody know you’re boss, but not pushin’ too hard. He says the trick is anticipatin’ problems, knowin’ how to take care of them before they crop up. The pay’s good, I get my own house and car, and I get to drive that big limo. Why should I run off from all that?”
“Because,” Rix replied evenly, “you’re not cut out for the job. I don’t care if you’re a Bodane or not. You haven’t got Edwin’s style or education. You know that as well as I do, and why Edwin can’t see it I don’t understand.”
“I can do the job. Maybe I’m not as smooth as Edwin, but I can do it. I worked my ass off on that assembly line, and two years in a row I won the highest-production trophy. Nobody’s ever accused me of not tryin’. Whatever Edwin teaches me, I’ll learn, and I’ll do a damned good job.”
“That remains to be seen.”
Logan shrugged; he’d said all he cared to say, and Rix’s opinion clearly didn’t concern him. He moved to the door, then stopped and glanced back. “If you go out on the grounds at night,” he said quietly, “you’d best be real careful.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You never know what might be out there in the dark. I’ve heard that all kinds of animals run wild in them woods. Old Greediguts might decide he wants you for a midnight snack. Or you might run right into the Pumpkin Man. So if you want to go walkin’ after dark—you’d best just call me first.” He smiled thinly. “’Night, Mr. Usher.” And then he left the library, closing the doors behind him.
Rix scowled and uttered a soft curse. He knew that the local people referred to the mythical black panther that roamed Briartop as Greediguts; only a few hunters had ever glimpsed the thing, and they were so hysterical that their accounts—written up in the Democrat, of course—took on ludicrous proportions. The creature was supposed to be as big as a car, and to move so fast that it was only a blur. One poor soul who’d “seen” Greediguts at close range swore that it was not totally a black panther, but it was a weird combination of predatory cat and reptile. The thing supposedly had the tail of a rattlesnake, the cold, lidless eyes of a lizard, and a forked tongue that flashed like quicksilver from its mouth. If there was a panther up there, Rix thought, it was probably some old, broken-down descendant of the animals that had fled Erik Usher’s zoo the night he had—for unknown reasons—set it aflame.
Rix, unnerved by Logan’s intrusion, picked up a couple of books at random from one of the boxes. There were some old letters tied up with rubber bands, and he took those, too. Then he looked through the photographs Logan had set on the desk.
Included with the exterior views were pictures of some of the Lodge’s rooms. They were massive chambers decorated with oversized leather- or fur-covered furniture, medieval tapestries and suits of armor, hunting trophies, huge crystal chandeliers, and fireplaces large enough to park a truck in. On the backs of the photographs, identifications of the rooms were written in faded black ink: Guest’s Parlor, Breakfast Room, Second-Floor Sitting Room, and Main Gallery. The Nautical Room was filled with ship models, ship’s wheels, portholes, and other maritime fixtures. Stuffed polar bears stood in menacing postures, and fake icicles hung from the white ceiling in the Arctic Room. On the walls of the cavernous Gun Room hung hundreds of examples of Usher pistols and rifles, and at the center of the room was a charging stuffed buffalo.
Rix came to the photograph—badly cracked and faded—of a little girl sitting at a huge white grand piano. Her fingers were poised over the keyboard, her face smiling toward the camera. The child was wearing a ruffled dress with long sleeves, her high-topped shoes dangling over the piano’s pedals. She had long, shining dark hair and lively almond-shaped eyes that revealed her Oriental heritage. Her face seemed carved from a beautiful piece of ivory. On the back, in strong, even printing, was written simply “My Angel.” Rix knew it had to be a picture of Shann Usher, Aram’s daughter by an Oriental wife.
But it was the next photograph that fully riveted Rix’s attention.
It showed Erik sitting in a chair covered with thick white fur. The ebony cane was propped against the chair, and Erik regarded the camera like a king facing a commoner. On Erik’s left knee sat a boy who appeared to be four or five years old, dressed in a dark suit with a little striped bow tie. The child, blond and curly-haired, was smiling gleefully and reaching toward the lens.
And standing behind Erik was a tall blond woman with a lovely but strained face, her eyes dark and haunted, as though by some inner sadness. Her hair was upswept, secured by a diamond tiara. In her arms she cradled an infant, probably not more than a year old.
Rix turned the picture over. It was inscribed “Walen and Simms. August, 1923” in Erik’s spidery handwriting.
My God! Rix thought. He could see his father’s eyes in the little boy’s face. The mass of curly hair glowed with light and health. But who was Simms? The infant in the woman’s arms? Was that Nora St. Clair Usher, cradling a second child? Simms was an ambiguous name—was the child male or female?
It was the first time Rix had ever seen the name. Was this a picture, then, of Walen’s younger sibling? Rix had always thought Walen was an only child. What had happened to this infant, and why had Walen never mentioned Simms?
The eyes of Nora Usher, if that was who this was, pierced him. She was as beautiful as he had imagined, but something in her face was empty—drained of life. By contrast, Erik’s gaze mirrored an indolent, self-satisfied boredom.
> Rix slipped the photograph into one of the books he carried. He wanted to find out more about Simms. Was it possible he had a living aunt or uncle he’d never even heard of before?
The unanswered questions were multiplying, and Rix realized the immensity of sorting through all the materials for his research. He had to see Dunstan’s manuscript! He switched off the lights and left the library, locking the door behind him. In the safety of his bedroom, he examined his father’s beaming face in the photograph, and was amazed as a knot of sadness formed in his throat. Walen Usher was human, after all. He’d once been a smiling child, unaware of what the future held for him. What had turned him into the decaying monster that lay upstairs? Simply the passage of time—or something more?
When Rix finally slept—restlessly, jarred by the rush and call of the wind—the dreams came to him.
He was lost again in the winding hallways of the Lodge, and he could feel its immense tonnage poised over him like a fist about to smash down. Ahead in the gloom was a single closed door, and as Rix approached it he saw the floating silver circle with its embossed, roaring lion’s face. He watched his arm telescope out, saw his hand close around the circle; it was freezing cold, and began to shrink in size.
The door came open, and inside, the skeleton with bloody eyeholes swung like a macabre pendulum, lit by a flickering reddish light. There was blood all over the floor, streaming in thick rivulets. Rix recoiled and tried to scream, but his voice wouldn’t work anymore. He had the sense of something coming down the corridor behind him, something large and dark and monstrous, rushing toward him with hideous speed.
And then Boone pushed the plastic bones aside and peered through the door with a sadistic grin on his face. “There you go, Rixy!” he crowed. “Peed your pants, didn’t ya!”
Rix sat up in the dark. There was a sweat on his face, and he was shaking. The wind bumped and growled outside the house. He got out of bed, bracing himself for an attack if it should come.
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