Free Usher's Passing by Robert R. McCammon Page A

was something Rix had all but forgotten—a small carved wooden box. Rix opened it and felt like a kid again; inside was an assortment of polished stones, marbles, and old coins. His collection had remained intact over the years. He gently closed the lid of what he'd called his "treasure box" and went to the closet. His garment bag and suitcase were inside.
    "Is it all right? Your mother wants to know."
    "I guess it's fine. I still can't believe this! She went a little overboard, didn't she?"
    "It's her way of showing you how pleased she is that you're back," Edwin said. "And I am too, Rix. Cass and I have missed you more than you'll ever know." He touched Rix's shoulder gently.
    "Is Cass in the kitchen? I'd like to see her."
    "No, she drove over to the farmer's market in Foxton for some fresh vegetables. She's making a Welsh pie for you tonight. Uh . . . you did bring a coat and tie, didn't you?"
    Rix smiled thinly. "I knew that if I didn't I wouldn't be allowed to eat." His mother barred from the dining room anyone who wasn't wearing what she considered civilized clothing. "She'll never change, will she?"
    "Your mother was brought up to be a lady," Edwin said diplomatically. "She has certain standards. But please, Rix— remember that she's under a terrible strain right now."
    "I'll be on my best behavior," Rix promised.
    "We'll talk later, then. I want to hear about your newest book. What's its title? Bedlam?"
    "Right." He had explained the plot of Bedlam to Edwin one night during a long telephone call about six months before, and he remembered Edwin's silence when he had gone into detail about the carved-up bodies hanging in the apartment building's basement. Edwin did his best to be enthusiastic about Rix's writing projects, though Rix knew his taste ran to American history and biographies.
    When Edwin had left him, Rix put his suitcase on the bed and opened it. Inside, amid the clothes, were a dozen bottles of vitamins. He'd begun consuming megadoses more than three years ago, when he'd looked in the mirror and seen himself aging almost supernaturally fast. He thought that if he took enough vitamins his appetite would pick up. Still, he ate barely enough to keep a bird alive. He thought that they were doing some good, though. At least his hair had stopped falling out in clumps.
    In the bathroom, he drew tap water into a glass and downed several capsules from each bottle.
    "Welcome home," he said to the old man in the mirror.

Two

THE MOUNTAIN BOY

4
    THE SUN WAS DESCENDING IN AN ORANGE SLASH ACROSS THE HORIZON.
    A chilly wind had strengthened, whispering through the pines, scarlet oaks, and dense whorls of inch-long thorns on Briartop Mountain.
    A fifteen-year-old mountain boy named Newlan Tharpe stood on the smooth, jutting boulder he knew as The Devil's Tongue. In each hand he held a plastic bucket brimming with blackberries. His fingers, lips, and chin were stained vivid blue; his alert, dark green eyes were fixed on the vista almost seven hundred feet below.
    The thick forests and black lakes of Usherland were dappled with deep shadow and orange light, like an intricate quilt woven with Halloween colors. And on an island at the center of the largest lake stood the biggest house in the world. Usher's Lodge, it was called. New had decided long ago that the whole town of Foxton could fit inside it, and there'd still be room for a horse ranch. His ma said even the Ushers themselves couldn't stand to live in it, and the house had been empty for a long time—except for the thing that dwelled in it, all alone, in the dark.
    But what that thing was, she would not say.
    For a few minutes now, the dying sun would paint the Lodge's walls the color of fire. New could see the sparks of light on the dozens of weathervanes and lightning rods mounted on the slanted slate roofs. On a granite ledge running beneath the roofs were statues of lions, some resting, some stalking. When the sun caught them just right, as it did now, the