Usher's Passing (46 page)

Margaret said stiffly, "I think you'd better go to your room, young man."

A strangled scream caught in his throat. Couldn't she understand? Couldn't
anyone
understand but him? No amount of fine clothes or furniture or food or expensive cars could alter the simple, terrible fact that the Ushers
fed
on death! "Better still," he said, "I'll get the hell out of here!" He whirled away from her and stalked out of the room with her shouts flung at his back.

Halfway up the stairs, he knew he'd let himself go too far. Pain rippled up the back of his neck and hammered at his temples. Colors and sounds began to sharpen. He staggered, had to stop to grip the banister. It was going to be a bad one, he knew—and where could he hide? His heartbeat was beginning to deafen him. Jagged images tumbled through his mind: his emaciated father, dying in the Quiet Room; the Lodge's open door, leading into darkness; a shining silver circle with the face of a roaring lion; a skeleton with bloody eyeholes, swinging slowly in a doorway; Boone's distorted face saying "Peed your pants, didn't ya?; Sandra's hair floating in the bloody water . . .

His bones ached as if they were being pulled from the sockets. He stumbled up the stairs, heading toward Katt's Quiet Room. Che skin on his palms sizzled on the banister.

In Katt's bedroom, Rix pulled open the closet door. The closet was large, with clothes hung from metal racks and a hundred pairs of shoes on wall shelves. He pushed the clothes away from the rear wall, as the pain increased and his eyes were almost blinded by the frenzy of colors. He felt wildly along the wall, sweat oozing down his face.

His fingers closed around a small knob, and he turned it frantically, praying that it wouldn't be locked.

It came open. Rix squeezed himself into a space as small as a coffin. The walls and floor were covered with thick foam rubber. When Rix pushed the door shut, all sounds—water thundering through pipes, the hiss and moan of the wind outside, the artillery-boom of a ticking clock—were dramatically softened. Still, the noise of his own heartbeat and breathing was inescapable. He moaned, clamped his hands over his ears, and curled into a tight ball on the floor.

The attack was worsening. Under his clothes, his flesh stung and sweated.

And, to Rix's horror, a sliver of light was entering beneath the door. Normal vision would have been unable to see it, but to Rix it pulsated like a white-hot ray of neon. The light's heat scorched his face; it became the blade of a sword that lengthened across the floor, quickly becoming sharper and brighter.

Rix turned his face away—and into the fierce red glare of what felt like a heat lamp. The light was reflecting off an object on a shelf just above his head. He put his hand up there—felt earplugs, a velvet mask with an elastic band, and a small metal box. Light was hitting the corner of the box, exploding like a nova. Rix slipped the mask over his eyes and waited, trembling, for the attack to fade or strengthen.

Over the booming of his heartbeat came a nightmarish, garbled sound that at first he didn't recognize. It steadily grew louder, and at last he knew what it was, and from where it came.

The Quiet Room.

It was his father's mirthless laughter.

Rix's spine bowed under the full weight of the attack, and when he cried out, his head almost blew apart.

—
NEW—

The voice was as smooth as black velvet. It reached him in his sleep, probing delicately into his mind.

—
come home—

He turned restlessly on his cot, entwined in the thin blanket.

—
come home—

The Lodge oozed light that shimmered in gilded streaks on the lake's surface. The night was warm, scented with roses from the gardens. New was standing on the lakeshore, at the entrance to the bridge, and he watched the figures moving back and forth past the glowing windows. On the night breeze came a whisper of music—a full orchestra, playing, of all things, the kind of jumpy hoedown tune his pa had liked to listen to on the Asheville radio station.

—
come home—

New cocked his head to one side. The music faded in and out. The Lodge was calling him. The beautiful, magical, fantastic Lodge wanted him,
needed
him. He blinked, trying to remember what his ma said about Usher's Lodge. Something bad, but now he couldn't remember exactly what it was, and the thought drifted off like the notes of music and the lights on the water.

Hooves clattered on stone. A coach led by four white horses was coming across the bridge. Its driver wore a long black coat and a top hat, and he flicked a whip over the horses to keep their pace crisp. When the coach drew closer to New, the driver smiled.

"Good evening," the man said. He wore white gloves, and there was a feather in the band of his hat. "You're expected, Master Newlan."

"I'm . . . expected . . . ?" He was asleep, he knew, in the cabin on Briartop Mountain. But everything looked so real; he touched the bridge's stone and felt its roughness beneath his lingers. The coachman was watching him like an old friend.

New realized he was still wearing what he'd gone to bed in: his long woolen underwear and one of his pa's flannel shirts.

The coachman said patiently, "The landlord expects you, Master Newlan. He wants to welcome you home personally."

New shook his head. "I . . . don't understand."

"Climb in," the coachman said. "We're celebrating your homecoming—at long last."

"But . . . the Lodge isn't my home. I . . . live on Briartop Mountain. In a cabin, with my ma. I'm the man of the house."

"We know all that. It isn't important." He motioned with the handle of his whip toward the Lodge. "That can be your new home, if you like. You don't have to live on the mountain anymore. The landlord wants you to be comfortable, and to have everything you desire."

"The . . . landlord? Who's that?"

"The
landlord
," he repeated. His smile never faltered. "Oh, you know who the landlord is, Master Newlan. Come on now, he's waiting. Won't you join us?" The coach's door clicked open. Within were red satin seats and padding.

New approached the coach and ran his fingers over the ebony-painted wood. A sheen of dew came off. I'm asleep! he thought. This is only a dream! He looked back at the dark mass of Briartop, then at the glowing Lodge.

"Would you like to drive?" the coachman asked. "Come on, then. I'll help you up. The horses are easily handled."

He hesitated. Something evil lived alone in the Lodge, his ma had said. Something all alone, waiting in the dark. He remembered the Mountain King, and the old man's warning to stay away from the Lodge. But the Lodge wasn't dark now, and this was a dream. He was asleep in his bed, and safe. The coachman stretched out his hand. "Let me help you up."

What was inside that massive house? New wondered. Wouldn't it be all right to enter it in his dream? Just to see what it looked like inside?

The orchestral music swelled and faded. "That's right," the coachman said, though New didn't remember speaking.

New slowly reached up and grasped the man's hand. The coachman smoothly pulled him up, slid over, and gave him the reins. "The landlord's going to be pleased, Master Newlan. You'll see."

"Giddap," New said, and flicked the reins. The horses trotted forward and maneuvered to turn the coach around. They started over the bridge, their hooves clopping on the stones. The coachman put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

Before New, the bridge began to telescope outward, to lengthen so that the Lodge receded in the distance. They had a long way to travel, maybe a couple of miles or more, before they would reach the front door. But that was all right, New decided. This was a dream, and he was safe on Briartop Mountain. The coachman's hand was reassuring on his shoulder. The Lodge isn't evil, New thought. It's a beautiful palace, full of light and life. His mother had probably lied to him about the Lodge, and that crazy old man on top of the mountain didn't have a lick of sense in his head. How could the Lodge be evil? he asked himself. It's a beautiful, magical place, and if I want to, I can live there—

"Forever," the coachman said, and smiled.

The horses' hooves made a rhythmic, soothing cadence on the stones. The long, long bridge continued to telescope, and at the end of it was the brilliantly lighted Lodge, waiting for him, needing him.

"Faster," the coachman urged.

The horses picked up speed. New grinned, the wind whistling past his ears.

And as if from a great distance, he heard someone shout,
No!

New blinked. A freezing chill had suddenly passed over him.

The coachman's whip snapped. "Faster," he said.
"Faster!"

New was listening. Something was wrong; he was trembling, and something was wrong. The horses were going too fast, the coachman's hand was gripped hard into the meat of his shoulder, and then a voice ripped through his mind with a power so intense it seemed to strike him square in the forehead—

NO!

New was jolted hard, his head snapping backward. The horses reared, straining against their traces—and then they distorted, changed, whirled away like smoke. Beside him, the coachman fragmented into pieces like dark wasps that snapped around his head before they, too, vanished into threads of mist. The coach itself altered shape—and in the next instant New was sitting inside the pickup truck, with his hands on the wheel. The engine was running, and the lights were on. New, wearing only what he'd gone to bed in, was totally disoriented; when he looked over his shoulder he saw that he'd driven the truck about fifty yards from the house.

The Mountain King, his single eye like a blazing emerald, hobbled into the range of the lights. He thrust his cane forward like a sword, and though the old man's mouth didn't move, New could hear the voice in his mind:
No! You won't go! I won't let you go down there!

The engine was racing. New realized his foot was still pressed to the accelerator, yet the truck wasn't moving. He took his foot off; the truck shivered violently, and the engine rattled dead.

"New?" It was his mother, calling from the house. Then, her voice panic-stricken: "New, come back!" She began running toward the truck, fighting against a blast of cold wind.

The Mountain King stood firm, his coat billowing. The veins were standing out in his thin neck, and his eye was fixed on New with fierce determination.

Oh, Lord, New thought, I would've kept on driving, right down the mountain to the Lodge. It wasn't a dream . . . wasn't a dream at all . . .

He opened the door and started to get out of the truck.

And a black, huge shape leaped into the light, attacking the Mountain King from his blind side.

New shouted, "Look out!" But he was too late. The old man sensed movement and tried to whirl around, but the black panther was on him, clawing into his shoulders and slamming him to the ground. The cane spun past New and landed in the dirt. Greediguts bit into the back of the Mountain King's neck, the monster's eyes shining like moons in the headlights.

New leaped out of the truck. The old man was screaming as Greediguts flayed the flesh off his back. Rubies of blood sprayed up into the air. New looked for a weapon—a stick, a rock, anything!—and saw the gnarled cane lying a few feet away. He picked it up, and as his hand closed around it, an electric tingle coursed up his forearm. He ran toward the panther. It released the Mountain King and started to rise on its hind legs, the rattles on its serpentine tail chirring a warning.

New feinted. Greediguts swiped at him, missed. New leaped to one side and struck Greediguts across the triangular skull with all his strength.

There was a
crack!
that made his eardrums pop, and blue flame burst from the tip of the walking stick. New was knocked flat. The stench of charred hide reached him. Greediguts was spinning in a circle, snapping and clawing at empty air. Where the cane had struck, the animal's skin was burned raw red.

The stick had scorched New's hands. Flickers of blue flame danced up and down its length. Before New could recover and strike at the panther again, Greediguts leaped into the foliage. New heard it crashing away—and then it was gone.