RIX DROVE PAST THE GATEHOUSE AFTER LEAVING DUNSTAN'S, HEADING toward the Lodge. He was in no hurry to return to the house, where masking tape had been placed over all the light switches. He would have to do his searching in the library tonight by candlelight. Walen's stench was getting stronger, it ambushed Rix from around corners, crept under doors, and permeated the clothes in his closet. At the breakfast table, when Rix had announced what Walen wanted done, Margaret had sat like a statue with her fork halfway to her mouth; she'd blinked slowly, lowered the fork, and looked across the table at him as if he'd lost his mind.

Katt had been shaken as well. "You mean we've got to live in the dark?"

"That's what he told me. We can use candles, of course. We've got enough silver candelabras around here to light up a cathedral."

"Not one electric light?" Margaret had asked in a soft, strained voice. The glassy sheen on her eyes worried Rix; she looked close to a nervous breakdown. "Not one?"

"I'm sorry. He said no electric lights or appliances of any kind, except those in the kitchen."

"Yes," she murmured. "Yes, of course. Otherwise, how would we eat?"

"I'm surprised Dad didn't call you in to deliver the message," Rix had told Katt. "I didn't think he trusted me that much."

Katt had showed him a twitch of a smile. "That's because he knows how much I hate the dark," she'd said nervously. "I have to sleep with the lights on. He knows that. It's stupid, I know, but. . . the dark scares me. It's like . . . death closing in around me or something."

"Come on, it won't be that bad. We'll have candles. We can all walk around like we're in a Vincent Price movie."

"Trust you to think of it that way!" Margaret had snapped at him. "We're in a dire emergency, and you make tasteless jokes! My God!" Her voice got higher and more shrill. "Your father's sick, and you make jokes! This family is in crisis, and you make jokes! Did you make a joke when you found your wife dead in the bathtub?"

By sheer willpower, Rix had stopped himself from smashing his breakfast plate against the wall. He'd forced his food down and gotten out of the room as soon as he could.

He saw the Lodge's chimneys and lightning rods through the thinning trees, and he involuntarily slowed the Thunderbird. When he reached the bridge, he braked the car and sat with the engine idling. Before him, the bridge's paving stones showed the wear and tear of a hundred years of hooves, carriage wheels, and automobile tires. Black lake water was ruffled by the wind, and ducks fed on reeds in the rocky shallows.

The mountainous Lodge, with its bricked-up windows, stood like the silent centerpiece of Usherland. What secrets had it watched over? Rix wondered. What secrets did it still contain?

He heard the high whine of the Jetcopter approaching, and looked up as it roared over the Lodge and veered toward the Gatehouse helipad. Frightened birds rose from the trees and fled. Who was coming in this time? The two men he'd seen a few days before? If Walen permitted them to use the Jetcopter at a time when he couldn't stand noise, then they were obviously important to him. Walen was working on his last project - what was it? What had he been researching in the old books?

A movement near the Lodge caught his attention. There was a palomino horse tied up Under the stone porte-cochere that guarded the Lodge's main entrance. Spooked by the helicopter's noise, it was pulling at its tether. The reins held fast, though, and after a minute or so the beautiful animal settled down.

Someone was inside the Lodge, Rix thought. Boone? Katt? What were they doing in there, prowling around in the dark?

Rix's hands tightened around the wheel. He guided the Thunderbird forward a few feet, onto the bridge, and stopped again. Then a few more feet - at a crawl, as if he feared the stones might collapse beneath him. At the bridge's midpoint, Rix felt sweat trickling down under his arms. The Lodge seemed to fill up the horizon. When he reached the far end of the bridge, he saw that the face of the Lodge was covered with minute cracks. In some places, chunks of stone and marble had toppled to the ground. The decaying carcasses of birds lay around the bases of the walls, their feathers caught like snowflakes in the untrimmed hedges and flowerbeds. Ornamental statues of fauns, centaurs, Gorgons, and other mythological creatures stood around the island, guarding marble fountains, meandering pathways, and overgrown gardens. Rix peered up through the windshield at the array of gargoyles and statues that decorated the upper ledges of the house. From the rooftop more than a hundred feet above, the stone lions watched him approach.

The Lodge was clearly in need of attention. Vines were snaking up the walls, probing into cracks and crevices. Black stains indicated water seepage. The driveway was pitted with holes, and the island's expensive grass had eroded away to show the rough, rocky soil beneath.

Rix stopped the car. He hadn't been this close to the Lodge since he was a little boy; he was amazed to find his feeling of irrational fear slowly changing to a sense of awe. No matter what he'd thought of the Lodge, he knew it had once been a stunning masterpiece. The craftsmanship that had gone into the gargoyles, finials, arches, balconies, foliations, and turrets was truly majestic; much of the work probably couldn't be duplicated today at any price. How much would a house like the Lodge be worth? Rix wondered. Thirty million dollars? At least that much, without one stick of furniture. He guided the car beneath the porte-cochere. The palomino was tied to one of several iron hitching posts near the sweeping stone stairway that led to the massive oak front door. Rix cut the engine, but did not leave the car. The front door was wide open. Above it was a green-and-black marble representation of the Usher crest: three rearing lions separated by bendlets.

Rix didn't have long to wait. In less than ten minutes, Boone, carrying a bull's-eye lantern, came through the doorway. He stopped abruptly when he saw the Thunderbird; then he recovered, pulled the door shut and descended the stairs.

Rix rolled his window down. "What's going on?" His voice quavered; in the presence of the Lodge he was a jittery fool.

Boone kicked away dead leaves that had been blown onto the steps. "What're you doin', Rixy?" he asked without looking at his brother. "Spyin' on me?"

"No. Are you doing something worth spying on?"

"Don't be cute," Boone said sharply. "I thought you stayed away from the Lodge."

"I do. I saw your horse from the shore."

"And so you drove across the bridge to have a look, huh?" Boone smiled slyly. "Or did you want to have a closer look at the Lodge?"

"Maybe both. What were you doing inside there?"

"Nothin'. I come over here sometimes, to walk and look around. No harm in that, is there?"

"Aren't you afraid of getting lost?"

"I ain't afraid of nothin'. Besides," he said, "I know my way around the first floor. It's simple when you figure out how the corridors run."

"Does Dad know you come over here and walk around?"

Boone smiled coldly. "No. Why should he?"

"Just curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat, Rixy. You know, I'm surprised at you. You must have more nerve than I thought. After what happened to you inside there, I never thought you'd get even this close to the Lodge. How's it feel, Rixy? Can't you remember gettin' lost in there? The way the dark closed in on you? The way you screamed, and nobody could hear you?" He leaned against the car, snapping the lantern on and off in Rix's face. "I've got a light. How's about you and me goin' in the Lodge again, together? I'll give you the grand tour. Okay? How about it?"

"No, thanks."

Boone snorted. "I didn't think so. Long as you're in that car, you figure you're safe, huh? Bad ol' Lodge can't get you in that car. See, you ought to be like one of the heroes in those books of yours - they've got the guts to go into dark places, don't they?"

It was time to strike. Rix said, "Dad told me. I know about the freaks."

Boone's thin little smile was jarred. It began to fade; a wildness surfaced in Boone's eyes, the look of an animal trapped in a corner. Then he got himself under control and said easily, "So he told you, so what? I run a good business. Place talent with carnivals and sideshows all over the Southeast! Hell, I made a half-million bucks last year, after taxes!"

"Why the charade? Because you didn't want Mom and Katt knowing what sort of 'talent' you really promote?"

"They wouldn't understand. They'd figure it was beneath an Usher. But they'd be wrong, Rixy! There's a demand for freaks. Armless, legless, midgets, alligator-skinned boys, Siamese twins, deformed babies and animals - people pay to see 'em! Somebody's got to make a profit off it. And somebody's got to find the freaks, too. Which ain't as easy a job as you might think."

"It sounds like a real heartfelt career," Rix said. He could imagine his brother driving out to some dusty old farm where a deformed animal pulled at its chain in the barn, or haggling with a lowlife abortionist who kept "extra-special" fetuses floating in jars of formaldehyde.

"What now? You gonna tell everybody within shoutin' distance?"

"If you're not ashamed of what you do, I wouldn't think you'd mind."

Boone put the lantern down on the hood of the Thunderbird. He crossed his arms and looked at Rix through hard, dead eyes. "Let me spell out how things are, Rixy. After Dad signs over the business and the estate to me, I can either put you on an allowance or cut you off clean."

Rix laughed; his hand was resting on the knob to roll up the window if Boone reached for him. "Dad's passing everything to Katt! Don't you understand that yet?"

"Sure. And I'm the man in the fuckin' moon! A woman can't handle the business! I've got ideas, Rixy. Big ideas, for both the business and the estate." When Rix was silent, Boone plowed ahead. "There's a town in Florida, near Tampa, where only freaks live. That's all the town is, just freaks. 'Course, they don't allow no tourists. But what if I was to build a town between here and Foxton, and fill it full of freaks myself? Then folks could come in, pay one price, and poke around all they pleased! It'd be a freakshow that went on twenty-four hours a day, three hundred sixty-five days a year!" Boone's eyes had begun to gleam with excitement. "Hell, the damned thing could be like Disney World, with rides and everything! And if you'd mind your manners, I'd see that you got a cut of the gate."

Disgust had blocked Rix's throat. Boone was grinning, his face slightly flushed. When Rix found his voice, the words came out strangled. "Are you out of your damned mind? That's about the most repulsive idea I've ever heard!"

Boone's grin cracked. In his brother's gaze was a flash of hurt that Rix had never seen before, and he realized Boone had shared a dream with him - a twisted dream, perhaps, but a dream all the same. For an instant Rix thought Boone would react with characteristic anger, but instead he drew himself up straight and proud. "I knew you wouldn't understand," he said. "You wouldn't know a good idea if it bit you on the ass." He took his lantern and walked to his horse, untied the reins from the hitching post, and swung himself into the saddle. "I'm a reasonable man." He forced a chilly smile. "I'm perfectly willin' to give both you and Katt an allowance, provided neither of you lives within five hundred miles of Usherland."

"I'm sure Katt'll have something to say about that."

"She'll leave me alone, if she knows what's good for her."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I know some things about our little sister that might spin your head around, Rixy. Dad will never give her Usherland. It's gonna be mine. You'll see. Giddap." He kicked his heels into the horse's flanks and galloped away toward the bridge.

Bastard! Rix thought. He watched Boone ride into the distance, and then he started the engine. He was about to follow Boone when he glanced at the Lodge's door.

It was standing wide open.

He'd seen Boone close it. A flurry of dead leaves spun across the steps and was sucked into the Lodge's throat.

He sat staring numbly at the open doorway. An invitation, he thought suddenly. It wants me to come closer. He laughed nervously, but he didn't take his eyes away from the entrance.

Then he forced himself to get out of the car. He took the first and second steps with no problem; on the third step his knees turned to putty.

The darkness beyond the doorway wasn't total. He could make out the shapes of furniture in the gray twilight, and a violet-and-gold carpet across a leaf-littered floor. Figures were standing in the gloom, seemingly watching him.

See, Boone had said mockingly, you ought to be like one of the heroes in those books of yours.

He climbed the last four steps. His stomach was doing slow flipflops as he stood on the threshold of the Lodge for the first time in more than twenty years.

In his nightmares he had seen the Lodge as a dusty, horribly grim, haunted palace. What he saw now amazed him.

Before him was a beautiful, elegant foyer that was perhaps twice as large as the Gatehouse's living room. From white marble walls protruded a dozen life-sized brass hands, offered to receive hats and coats. He realized that the watching figures were statues of fauns and cherubs that gazed toward the door, their eyes made of rubies, emeralds, and sapphires. Suspended from the vaulted ceiling, an immense chandelier of polished crystal spheres glistened. Beyond the foyer, a few steps led downward to a reception area floored with alternating black and white marble tiles. At its center stood a fountain, empty now, where bronze sea creatures reclined on rocks. The rest of the house was shrouded in darkness.

Rix had forgotten how magnificent the interior was. The statues in the foyer alone must be priceless. The workmanship of the marble, the ceiling, the brass hands on the walls - all of it staggered his senses.

He imagined how the Lodge must have looked during one of Erik's parties, ablaze with festive lights. The fountain might be spouting champagne, and guests would dip their goblets in over the side. Aromas from the past found him: the scent of roses, fine Kentucky bourbon, Havana cigars, and starched linen. From deep within the Lodge he seemed to hear the echoes of otherworldly voices: faint notes of a woman's laughter, a chorus of men singing a bawdy song in drunken glee, a business conversation in hushed, stiff tones, a man's booming voice calling for more champagne. All of it overlapped, changed, became a silken, seductive whisper that said

- Rix -

He felt the voice in his bones. Wind swirled around him, caressing his face like cold fingers.

- Rix -

Leaves danced on the foyer's floor. The wind strengthened, and there was a suction that tried to pull him across the threshold. The eyes of the statues were fixed on him, the brass hands reaching toward him.

- Rix -

"No," he heard himself say, as if speaking underwater. He grasped the door's oversized bronze handle and started to swing it shut. But the door was heavy and seemed to resist him. As he pushed against it, he thought he saw something move in the deep gloom near the marble fountain. It was a slow, sinuous movement, like an animal stretching. Then his eye lost it, and the door slammed shut with a dull boom.

He abruptly turned away and descended the stairs, then slid behind the wheel of the Thunderbird. He was trembling, his stomach knotted with tension. Whom had he spoken to? he asked himself. What was in there, trying to lure him beyond the safety of the doorway? If the Lodge did have a voice, he decided, it was born of his own imagination and the moan of the wind roaming the long corridors and cavernous rooms.

He started the engine, and couldn't resist looking toward the Lodge again.

The front door was wide open.

He put the car into gear and sped along the driveway and back across the bridge.