What Moves the Dead (40)

The door shook under a blow and actually shoved me forward an inch. I set my feet and braced my back against it. The tarn was far stronger than Madeline had ever been.

“Alex, I’m begging you!”

“It’s not her,” said Roderick. He was listing sideways but I didn’t dare reach out to catch him. “Easton, sir, it’s not really her.”

“I know,” I told him. “I know it isn’t.”

“Alex, you have to help me save the tarn!”

“Sir … I hear her.…”

“So do I, Usher.”

Blows rained against the door. How was it so strong? I imagined Madeline’s fragile wrists beating against the wood. Surely the skin would split under such punishment—but perhaps the tarn didn’t care. Why would a fungus care about broken flesh? It didn’t feel pain, and now, neither did she.

“Alex!”

Tinnitus roared in my ears, drowning out everything. I welcomed it. It didn’t last nearly long enough.

“I’m sorry, Maddy,” I said. I don’t know if she heard me.

“It sounds like her,” Roderick said, “but it’s not. It’s the other thing.”

“I know.”

Loud scraping noises heralded the arrival of Denton with a long bench. “Here,” he said. “This ought to be big enough to brace on the opposite wall.”

It was. Barely. The door opened a crack as he shoved it into place and I saw Madeline’s blue-black fingers slide around the edge. Bits of hyphae caught in the rough edges of the wood. The bottom of her hand had been hammered raw, dangling gelid bits of flesh and long white threads.

Her hand caught the door and shoved. The bench struck the wall and I heard the groan of wood—but it held.

“Eaaaastonnn…” said the voice from behind the door, no longer Maddy’s. “Eaaastonn…?”

“Get the servants out,” I told Denton. All one of them, probably. I shoved my arm under Roderick’s and dragged him to his feet. My back screamed at me that I was no longer young and I would pay the price. Later, I told it. Later I can fall apart from the knees on up.

Roderick sagged against me. “I knew I would have to kill her,” he whispered. “I knew it. I never expected you to come here.”

“It’s all right,” I told him. “It’s all right.”

We got down the stairs somehow. Roderick started to take more of his own weight. My back was grateful, even if he was slow.

“I meant to have Denton visit then leave,” he said. “When he saw how sick she looked, no one would be surprised that she had died after.” He lifted a shaking hand to his face. “I’m so sorry, Easton. I’m sorry. I had to end that thing.”

I nodded. It was unthinkable, but after what I had seen, I no longer questioned his motives. “It’s all right, Roderick. I understand.” I thumped him on the back as if he were a dog I was seeking to reassure. Oddly, this seemed to soothe him. “It will be all right.” Which was a lie, but one we both needed.

Denton had the servants in the courtyard by the time we reached it. There were only two of them, the ubiquitous manservant and a woman that I supposed was the cook. “I sent the stable boy to the inn with my horse,” he said, and I nodded.

Roderick stood on his own, swaying. He nodded to the two servants. “Aaron. Mary. It’s over. Please go to the village. I’ll…” He swallowed. “I’ll catch up to you when I can.”

Mary turned away, expressionless. Aaron lingered. “Sir … may I assist you?” He eyed me with cautious distrust, clearly not sure if I was the architect of Usher’s condition or his salvation.

“Not this time.” Roderick smiled weakly. In the morning light, his skin was a ghastly shade. “Please, go with Mary. So I don’t worry.”

“Very well, sir.” Aaron drew himself up and bowed, then followed the cook down the road and away from the house.

And then it was only Denton and Roderick and me, standing in the courtyard looking up at the cursed house, at the windows gazing down like alien eyes. The tarn flickered with light and woke reflections in the glass.

“How long until she gets out, do you think?” asked Denton.

I swallowed, remembering those hammer-like blows against the door. “Not long. If it doesn’t just break her body apart trying.” And even that might not stop it. Why should it? I scanned the archway that led to the garden, looking for hares.

“It is simple,” said Roderick. “The Ushers have allowed this monstrous thing to grow. The last Usher will see that it does not get out.” He nodded quietly to himself.

“You can’t go alone,” I said at once.

“Yes, I can.” He gripped my shoulder. “I still hear her,” he added. “I can hear her now. She’s in there. She isn’t dead. She isn’t dead enough. And I can hear the thing in the tarn talking back.”

“But what if it…”

He smiled angelically at me. “Go, Easton. You are the last of my friends, and the best. Do only this for me.”

I swallowed. And then I thumped his back one last time and stepped away and Denton and I staggered away from that accursed house, while Roderick Usher went back inside.

We were halfway down the road, still in sight of the manor house, when the first flame reached the roof.