IN THE GATEHOUSE, RIX HAD MADE A DISTURBING DISCOVERY.

One of the books he'd brought up to his room from the library the night before was a ledger, dating from 1864, that listed the names, duties, and wages of every servant at Usherland. There were three hundred eighty-eight names, from apprentice blacksmith to master of the hounds, and everything in between.

But the volume that riveted Rix's attention was the casebook of a Or. Jackson Baird, director of a place called the Baird Retreat, in Pennsylvania. The Baird Retreat was a private insane asylum. The casebook, old and brittle, with many missing pages, monitored the month-to-month progress of Dr. Band's patient: Jessamyn Usher, Ludlow's first wife and the mother of Erik.

Rix sat at his desk, the casebook opened before him and light spilling over his right shoulder. For the past hour he'd been engrossed in a chilling account of madness, his reading interrupted only when an occasional ferocious blast of wind jarred his concentration. Jessamyn Usher, Dr. Baird wrote with a rigid hand, was brought to the Retreat in November 1886. Judging from a portrait Baird had seen when he'd visited the Lodge, Jessamyn Usher had once been an elegant young woman with curly ringlets of light brown hair and softly luminous gray eyes.

On November 23, 1886, a snarling madwoman in a strait-jacket was locked in a padded room at the Baird Retreat. She had pulled out most of her hair, her lips and tongue were mangled from being continually bitten, and her eyes were red-rimmed, burning craters in a moon-white face. Ludlow did not accompany his wife; she'd been brought by four servants, including Luther Bodane, Edwin's grandfather. When Jessamyn was admitted to the Retreat, she was twenty-six years old, and hopelessly insane.

Rix had continued to read, fascinated by this new-found skeleton in the Usher closet. Though Jessamyn was the well-educated daughter of a millionaire New England textile manufacturer, in the seven years of her marriage to Ludlow Usher she had deteriorated into something very nearly animalistic. It was four months before Baird could even stay in the same room with her and not fear an attack. Her symptoms, Baird wrote in December 1887, included profligate violence, profanity, gnashing of teeth, garbled and meaningless prayers shouted at the top of her voice, and physical seizures "during which the unfortunate Mrs. Usher had to be bound to her bed with leather straps, her mouth stuffed with cotton, lest she bite off her tongue."

Jessamyn's condition, Baird wrote, seemed to have had its beginning with the birth of Erik, in April 1884. On several occasions, Jessamyn - whose favorite pastime had been working with her roses, dandelions, and camellias in the estate's greenhouse - had tried to murder the infant.

It took Baird until the summer of 1888 to persuade the madwoman even to talk about her son. Up until that point, the name "Erik" would send her into a tirade of cursing and praying. But during that fateful summer, the storm that raged within Jessamyn's mind began to abate - or perhaps, Rix thought, Baird had simply found the hurricane's eye. In any case, Jessamyn was lucid at times, and gave the doctor an insight into her condition.

She had to kill Erik, she informed Dr. Baird, because he'd been touched by Satan.

Erik was still an infant when it happened, she'd said. A violent thunderstorm had awakened her after midnight; she feared the thunder and lightning almost as much as Ludlow did, because she'd been taught by her puritanical father that in the voice of thunder was the booming disapproval of an angry God, and the lightning was His spear to cut down sinners. Many times, as she huddled under the sheets while a storm raged outside, she imagined she felt the entire Lodge shake - and once the windows of her magnificent bedroom had burst after a particularly loud blast of thunder.

On this night, a frenzy of rain slashed at the Lodge. As thunder boomed and echoed, she imagined she heard the walls cracking. Somewhere in the house, glass broke: a window shattering. Rising from her bed, she went down the hallway to Erik's nursery. And as she opened the door, she saw the thing, illuminated by a blue flare of lightning: a figure, standing over Erik's crib, that had the shape of a husky, broad-shouldered man - but was not a man. Its flesh was a pale gray, and appeared to have the sheen of wet leather. In the lightning's glare, Jessamyn had time to see that the creature's hand was placed on the sleeping child's forehead - and then the thing swiveled toward her with violent but graceful motion, like the spin of a ballet dancer.

For an instant she saw its face - cruel-featured but strangely handsome, its thin mouth twisted into a half-smile, half-sneer -  and she almost swooned. Its eyes were like a cat's: dark golden green, hypnotically intense, the pupils wide.

And before the lightning's glow could fade, the creature had disappeared.

She screamed; the baby awakened, and began screaming too. She knew what she'd seen, and feared she was losing her mind. She could not bear to approach the baby; turning from the room, Jessamyn fled down the hallway in a panic until she fell down a flight of stairs, almost breaking her back. And there she lay until a servant found her and Ludlow was summoned from his chamber.

She'd seen the incarnation of evil touch Erik, Jessamyn told Dr. Baird. Had seen the creature place its hand on the child's head in a gentle, protective gesture. The meaning, at least for Jessamyn, was clear Erik had Satan's work ahead of him. He would grow up with the mark of Satan on his brow. There was no end to the calamities he would bring upon the world if he was allowed to live. Erik had to be killed before his inherent evil manifested itself. To that end, Jessamyn tried to poison the infant, but was interrupted by his nanny; tried to throw him down a stairwell, but was restrained by Jenny Bodane, Luther's wife and the family's cook. After this, she was locked in her room, but got out by way of the window ledge, stole Erik from the nursery, and took him down to the roaring fireplace in the banquet hall.

Ludlow himself found her as she was about to fling Erik into the flames. As he rushed her, she picked up a poker with her free hand and slashed viciously at her husband's head. Ludlow blocked the blow with his ebony cane, but then she struck again - with all the strength of desperation in her arm - and the poker hit Ludlow squarely across the temple, knocking him to the floor, where he lay motionless, blood pooling around his head.

Then Jessamyn held the screaming child by its neck, like an unwanted puppy, and stepped toward the fire.

But in the next instant Erik was snatched away from her. Incredibly, Ludlow had staggered up from the floor, his face a grotesque mask of blood, to save his son. Jessamyn launched herself at his throat, and they grappled before the flames. Ludlow, though dazed with pain, was able to hold her back with his cane until servants could restrain her.

All through 1888 and 1889, as Rix saw in the entries, Jessamyn's condition fluctuated from calm lucidity to raving madness. At the end of October 1889, Dr. Baird decided to write to Ludlow Usher with the news that his wife's condition was hopeless.

Ludlow arrived in December, in the company of Luther Bodane and two other servants, to see Jessamyn for one last time. Less than two months later, Jessamyn Usher was found dead in her room; she'd ripped open the goosedown pillow with her teeth and swallowed feathers until they were jammed in her throat, choking herself.

"Lovely," Rix muttered when he finished the casebook. He pushed it aside as if it were covered with slime, and wondered if Ludlow would have been so eager to save Erik if he had known what lay ahead for both of them. Jessamyn's description of the creature standing over Erik's crib sounded like something from a Roger Corman horror flick. Of course, she was looking for an excuse to rationalize her hatred of Erik, maybe because she felt the child had come between her and Ludlow. Whatever the motivation, it was lost in the past.

Someone tapped quietly at Rix's door, and he tensed. It was almost two o'clock - who would be prowling around except Puddin'? Boone had left around eleven for his club and the inevitable poker game. Rix went to the door, which had a chair and suitcase stacked against it, and said, "Who's there?"

"Mrs. Reynolds. Would you open the door, please?"

Rix did as she asked. The corridor's lights were off, and Mrs. Reynolds held a silver candelabra with four burning white candles. It was the first time Rix had seen her without the surgical mask, and his initial impression of her sturdiness was emphasized by her strong, square jawline. Still, it was obvious that caring for Walen was wearing away her rocklike constitution; her face was haggard, the candlelight illuminating dark blue hollows beneath her eyes, and fine wrinkles etched around her mouth. Her gaze was vacant, unfocused - she was running on empty.

"He sent me," she said, accustomed to whispering. "He wants to see you."

"Right now?"

She nodded, and he followed her along the hallway. When Rix paused to switch on the lights, she said quickly, "No. Please don't do that. I've had the servants turn off most of the lights in the house."

"Why?"

"Your father ordered it," she explained as they walked. "He says he can't stand the sound of electricity running through the wires."

"What?"

"He says it's a high, crackling whine," Mrs. Reynolds continued. "Sometimes he can hear it more acutely, and he says it disturbs his sleep more than any other sound. I've been increasing his dosage of tranquilizers and sleeping pills, but they don't have much effect on his nervous system anymore."

They were nearing the stairs to the Quiet Room. The smell of decay - which Rix had gradually gotten used to on the other side of the house - was now so strong and sickening that he stopped at the foot of the stairs, fighting nausea. I can't go up there again! he told himself, as his stomach quaked. Jesus Christ!

Mrs. Reynolds looked back at him from a few steps ahead, the yellow candlelight throwing her long shadow across the wall. "You'll be all right," she said. "Just try to breathe through your mouth."

He followed her up, toward the white door, and put on two surgical masks and a pair of gloves; then he held the candelabra for her while she did the same. Just before Mrs. Reynolds opened the door, she took the candelabra back and blew the candles out.

The darkness enveloped him; for a terrible few seconds he felt the icy panic of being lost in the Lodge again, not knowing in which direction to move. Then she gripped his hand and led him into the Quiet Room. The door was closed noiselessly, and she guided him across the room to Walen's bed.

The oscilloscope had been turned off. Walen's low, irregular rasping was the only sound. Rix rapped his shin against a piece of furniture, but said nothing. Mrs. Reynolds released his hand, and he could feel himself being watched. Walen's breathing continued until it was finally broken by a hoarse, almost unintelligible grunt. Rix had to strain to understand his father's voice.

"Get out," Walen commanded the nurse.

Rix didn't hear her leave, but he knew she must have obeyed. Walen shifted - slowly, agonizingly - on the bed. He spoke, and once more Rix had to concentrate to understand: "Bitch'll have me in diapers next." He sighed painfully; the sound of that exhaled breath - a precious breath, let go only with hesitation -  wrenched at Rix's heart. It was such a human sound, almost gentle, as soft as smoke.

"I abhor the night," Walen whispered. "The wind comes at night. I never listened to it before. Now I hear myself as if I'm screaming in a hurricane."

"I'm sorry." Though Rix had said it as quietly as possible, he heard Walen gasp. Rix flinched, his hands gripped into fists at his sides.

"Keep your voice down, damn it! Oh God . . . my head . . ."

Rix thought he heard his father sob, but it could have been a curse instead. Rix squeezed his eyes shut, his nerve about to break.

It was a minute or two before Walen spoke again. "You haven't been up to visit in a while. What's wrong? Do you have something better to do?"

Did the old man know what he was up to? Rix wondered. No, of course not! There was no need for paranoia. "I . . . thought you needed your rest." He whispered so softly he could hardly hear himself.

This time there was no mistaking Walen's short, harsh laugh. "My rest," he repeated. "Oh, that's a good one! Yes, I must have my rest!" He stopped to catch his breath, and when he spoke again his tone was more vulnerable than Rix had ever heard it. "I'm almost ready to die, Rix. This isn't my world anymore. I'm tired . . . I'm so tired."

Rix was caught off guard. Perhaps the idea of death was finally weakening Walen, but he sounded completely different from the way he had when Rix had come in here a few days before.

"How's Margaret?" Walen asked. "Is she bearing up?"

"Pretty well."

"I can hear Boone and Puddin' arguing at night. At least it occupies my mind. And Katt? What's your judgment about her?"

Judgment? Rix thought. A strange choice of words. "She's okay."

"And you? What about you?"

"I'm all right."

"Yes." The sarcasm had returned. "I'm sure you are. Damn that wind! Listen to it scream! Can't you hear it at all?"

"No."

"Enjoy your silence while you can, then," Walen said bitterly. Wastes gurgled through the tubes under Walen's bed, and he gave a mutter of disgust.

Again, Rix's eyes were getting used to the darkness. He could see the skeletal shape lying on the bed. Across the pillow, beside Walen's head, was the dark slash of the ebony cane. Walen's thin arm was outstretched, the hand clenched around the cane as if he were about to strike out at something.

"What were you researching in the library before you got sick?" Rix asked; the question had come out before he could monitor it.

Walen was silent for a long moment. Then he said, "Sick? Sick? I wish I were sick. A sickness can be cured. Oh, you should've seen that goddamned doctor's face when he came up here the last time! He turned as white as a fish belly, and all the time he was bending over me with his little pencil flashlight, taking my pulse and temperature and all sorts of ridiculous things! He wants me to go to a hospital." He grunted hoarsely. "Can you imagine that? Reporters swarming around like maggots? Nurses and doctors bothering me at all hours of the day and night? I told him he was out of his mind."

Rix nodded. Walen had pointedly avoided the question. He decided to try another angle of attack. "I've been in the library," he said calmly. "I asked Edwin for the key, because I wanted something to read. I found a book in there. It was a book of nursery rhymes, and it was dedicated to Simms Usher." He had opened the lion's cage with the lie, and he waited for a response.

Silence from Walen.

Rix pressed on. "Today I rode over to the cemetery, with Katt. I found Simms's grave. Why have you hidden the fact that you had a younger brother?"

Still Walen didn't reply.

"What happened to him? How did he die?" He was curious as to whether Walen's story would jibe with Wheeler Dunstan's.

"What are you doing?" Walen asked finally. "Tearing the library apart?"

"No. I didn't think you'd mind if I went inside and looked around."

"I do mind! Edwin was a fool to let you in there without asking me first!"

"Why? Are you trying to hide something?"

"Those documents in there . . . are very fragile. I don't want them disturbed. Before I 'got sick,' as you put it, I was reading through some materials for a business project."

Rix frowned, puzzled. "What do family documents have to do with a project for Usher Armaments?"

"It's nothing that concerns you. But since you ask about Simms, I'll tell you; I haven't hidden anything. Simms was my younger brother, yes. He was retarded. He died when he was a child. That's the end of it."

"How did he die? Natural causes?"

"Yes. No . . . wait. It had something to do with the woods. I haven't thought of Simms in a long time, and it's hard for me to recall things. Simms died in the woods. He was killed by an animal. Yes, that's it. Simms wandered into the woods, and a wild animal killed him."

"What kind of animal?"

"I don't know. That was a long time ago. What does it matter now?"

Why indeed? Rix thought, then said, "I don't suppose it does."

"Simms was retarded," Walen repeated. "He liked to chase butterflies, but he'd never catch the damned things. I remember . . . when they brought what was left of him to the Lodge. I saw the body before Father pushed me away. There were flowers clutched in his hand. Yellow dandelions. He was picking flowers when the animal jumped him! I remember how much Mother cried. Father locked himself in his study. Well . . . that was a long time ago."

Rix was disappointed. There was no mystery about Simms's death, after all. Walen had never mentioned Simms because it was obvious he'd never fully recognized his younger brother as a human being, just as a retarded simpleton who was picking flowers when he was killed.

"I called you up here," Walen said, "because I want to announce something to the family through you. At breakfast you will inform them that there will be no more electric lights burning in this house. All electric appliances will be cut back as much as possible. I can't control the sound of the wind, or of heartbeats or of goddamned rats scratching in the walls - but sometimes I can hear electrical current running through the wires. Twice today it happened. The sound grates on every bone in my body. Do you understand?"

"I know they won't like it."

"I don't care what they like or don't like!" he hissed. "While I'm alive, I'm still the head of this house! Do you understand?"

"Yeah," he said.

"Good. Then do it. You can go now."

Feeling like a dismissed servant, Rix started to thread his way through the darkness to the door; but then he stopped and turned toward Walen again.

"What is it?"

"I'll do the favor for you if you'll do one for me. I'd like to know about Boone's talent agency."

"His talent agency? What about it?"

"That's what I'm asking. You put up the money for it. What does the agency do?"

"It contracts and hires out talent. What do you think?"

Rix smiled thinly behind the two surgical masks. "What kind of talent? Actors? Singers? Dancers?"

"That's business between Boone and myself, and none of your concern."

Rix's senses sharpened. Walen's evasiveness told him he was walking on forbidden ground, and he was determined to find out why. "Is it something so bad you don't want anyone else knowing?" he asked. "What's brother Boone into? Pornography?"

"I said you can go now," Walen rasped irritably.

It dawned on Rix that whatever Boone was doing, Walen didn't want Katt or Margaret knowing. Maybe that was another reason Puddin' wasn't allowed to leave the estate - not only did she know too much about the Usher family, she had learned what Boone's talent agency did. "I can find out from Puddin'," he said calmly. "And I'm sure Mom would like to hear all about it." He started toward the door again.

"Wait."

He paused. "Well?"

"You've always despised Boone, haven't you?" Walen whispered. "Why? Because he's got more guts than ten of you? You've brought me nothing but shame. Even when you were a boy, I saw how spineless you were." The cold cruelty in his father's voice stabbed Rix. His stomach tightened in his effort to inure himself to the pain of Walen's contempt. "You never fought back. You let Boone step on you like a piece of dogshit. Oh, I watched you. I know. Now you've got hate festering in you, and you don't know how to let it out, so you want to hurt me. You never were anything, and you never - "

Rix stepped forward. Anger shattered his tense self-control. His face flamed, and he almost shouted, but at the last second he clenched his teeth together. "You know, Dad," he said in a barely checked whisper, "I've always thought the Gatehouse looked great all lit up. I could probably go from room to room right now and make this house shine like a Christmas tree."

Shame stabbed at him, but he couldn't stop himself, nor at the moment did he want to; he had to go on, to fight back, cruelty against cruelty. "Think of all that electricity running through the wires! Wouldn't that be great? Have you taken your tranquilizers lately, Dad?"

"You wouldn't do it. You haven't got the courage."

"I'm sorry" - Rix raised his voice to a normal speaking level, and Walen convulsed - "I didn't hear that. The agency. What does it do?" There were tears of rage in his eyes, and his heart was hammering. "Tell me!"

"Quiet! Oh God!" Walen moaned.

Rix mouthed the words with slow exaggeration: "Tell me."

"Your . . . brother . . . contracts performers. Entertainers . . . for shows."

"What kind of shows?"

Walen suddenly lifted his head from the pillow. His body was trembling violently. "Sideshows!" he said. "Boone's agency . . . finds freaks for carnival sideshows! Get out! Get out of my sight!"

Rix had already found the door. He stumbled on the stairs in the darkness, and almost fell. Mrs. Reynolds was waiting in the corridor with her newly lit candelabra, and as Rix tore the masks off his face he told her she could return to the Quiet Room, that his father had finished with him.

When she was gone, Rix leaned against the wall, fighting nausea. His temples were aching violently, and he pressed the palms of his hands against them.

What he had just done repulsed him. He felt unclean, tainted by Walen's decay. It was something, he realized, that Walen himself might have done, or Erik, or any of the Usher men who'd gone before them. But he wasn't like them! Dear God, he wasn't!

It took a few minutes for the sickness to pass. The headache lingered longer, then slowly faded away.

Left within him was a cold, unaccustomed excitement.

It was a new-found sensation of power.

Rix breathed deeply of the reeking air, and then he moved away into the darkness.