Authors: Bethany Griffin
“He'll be saying good-bye to his family,” I say.
“I suppose so. He doesn't speak of them.”
This does not surprise me. Roderick can be extremely focused, thinking primarily on what is in front of him. It can be as unnerving to be the recipient of his complete attention as it is to have him walk away and completely forget that you exist. “Except his sister, he always talks about her. He was quite distressed, said she lost a friend, some sort of tragedy. That's why I couldn't stay at the house.”
A friend. Not a dog. I thaw toward Roderick a bit.
“He should be distressed.” He turns toward me too quickly, his brows raised. “If she lost a friend,” I finish in a rush. “If he loves her.”
“Oh, he loves her. More than anything. It makes me ashamed for how little I think of my own family. Except my family is safe, and I feel Roderick's may be in some sort of peril.”
He loves me more than anything. Perhaps he understands more than I believed.
“What makes you think they're in peril?” I ask.
“Roderick is troubled by nightmares. I would help him, if I could. He knows that I would move heaven and earth to help him.”
I stare at him, rapt. To have a friend like him . . . I cannot imagine how wonderful it would be.
“I don't know what to think,” he continues. “When the nightmares come, he wakes the entire dormitory with his screams, and there are times when he is . . . dark. But you are from this area; you must be familiar with the family.”
“Yes.”
“And are my fears for my dear friend unfounded?”
“No one goes to the House of Usher, unless they must.”
“But he speaks of it with great pride, has plans to renovate the rooms, bring the house back to its former glory.”
“It is a stately home,” I admit.
“Roderick does not feel he can invite me to stay, though he has visited my home many times.”
I want him to speak of his home. For his voice to soothe me and create pictures that I can cherish, of a faraway world of sunshine and blooming flowers that border green lawns.
But in the distance, we hear the pounding of hooves. The coach is coming, and he will leave.
I imagine climbing on the coach and going with him. What would Roderick think? Colors swim before my eyes.
What if I fall into a fit? If something terrible happens, how could I bear it, in this boy's company?
Looking down, I see that a tiny little vine, a bit of ivy, has curled around my ankle.
Panic washes over me, along with memories of another coach, long ago. I cannot go. Not now, not yet. Not with Roderick back at the house. Who knows what it would do to him?
The coach rushes up.
“This is good-bye, I suppose.” He takes my hand, raises it to his lips, and kisses it.
I
watch the coach roll away, moving much more slowly than it arrived, and then I lean down to remove the bit of ivy from my ankle. It's a strain similar to what I've planted all around the base of the house. I feel faint. This is not good. I'm too far from home to have one of my spells.
I stand and take a few steps. It isn't so far, the moors are fairly flat, and then there's the forest of saplings. Maybe some of the servants will be coming along this way. They've never had to carry me from beyond the grounds, but I've collapsed in the house, on the grounds.
I force myself to keep walking as far as I can, watching for a glimpse of the house, until my strength fades away. I force one foot in front of the other, and then I fall.
“Madeline, dearest Madeline . . .” I look up into an expanse of blue sky and the even bluer eyes of Dr. Winston. “I've been looking for you everywhere.”
I try to speak, but my mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton. My dress is wet, and so is my skin.
“Can you stand?”
I cannot find the strength to shake my head. Or speak.
“Of course you can't. I will carry you. Everyone is searching for you. The servants, the doctors.”
And my brother? Surely Roderick is searching for me as well.
I close my eyes, and Dr. Winston lifts me. As we trek back to safety, with his strong arms cradling me, I am uncomfortably aware of each movement of his body.
“I've found her,” he calls. I feel shadow on my face and dare to open my eyes. The shadow of the house moves over my skin like something alive.
He carries me over the causeway. I imagine the tarn parting as we pass, like the Red Sea.
The servants line the entranceway, like they do when Roderick makes one of his dashing returns. They watch me solemnly. I cannot tell if they are happy or sad that I have been returned. As we cross the threshold, I find it easier to breathe. Dr. Winston carries me up the stairs, and everything goes dark.
Â
I wake up in bed, listening to the sound of voices. I stare at them, light head and dark head, bent together, talking quietly. Roderick curses and glares at Dr. Winston.
“Dr. Peridue says she must have a keeper,” Dr. Winston says. “With that dog gone, she can't be allowed to wander freely, not with the chance that one of the fits will take her. It's too dangerous.”
“I cannot leave school. I cannot come home to be a caretaker for Madeline,” Roderick tells him.
“Of course not. Dr. Paul has already asked me to do it.”
“M
adeline?” Dr. Winston is behind me.
I want to tell him I don't need to be followed; I'm fine. But I can't find the words, because a story is hovering at the edge of my consciousness. He's trying to be kind, isn't he? I see so little kindness, I should cherish his, and yet . . .
“Come with me,” he says. I hear a slight ticking and realize that he has gotten himself a pocket watch from somewhere. Does that mean he's trying to avoid the notice of the house?
He leads me into Roderick's bedroom.
“Tell me,” he says.
Does he know that a story is hovering near? Or just guess? I can't tell from looking in his eyes. Can't tell from the way his mouth turns down.
“Once there was a girl,” I begin. “An Usher girl, with long blond hair. Her father took her away from the house. He said that he had to. He said that if he didn't, she would die. The house would consume her. That it loved her like it had never loved another, at least in his lifetime, and he had seen the house go through love after love.
“He said that he'd listened to the house, done all that it asked of him, and still it had taken his mother, his sister, his fiancé. So many losses, the women in his life, consumed.
“He put a needle in her arm, and the girl had gone to sleep. He carried her through the woods, past the platform where the coach stopped.
“A hired black coach was waiting, a coach with a stoop-backed horse. He hurried, limping slightly, balancing the girl in her long nightgown and a small bag.
“Climbing into the coach, he thrust the same syringe into his own arm, expelling the rest of the sedative, and fell back against the upholstered seat, closing his eyes.
“With his daughter, he arrived in a village by the sea, and rented a cottage. But neither of them was well. Wealthy invalids passed the cottage on the path to the healing waters, escorted by caretakers and keepers. But the girl and her father remained inside, sleeping, mostly. The ceiling of the cottage was whitewashed, with beams made of driftwood like some enormous beast had swallowed them whole and they were living in the skeleton.
“She tried to be content with her father. Tried not to cry when he wouldn't wake. But in the end, she betrayed them both.
“She dreamed of the house, and thought of it, and somehow it found her and comforted her. She chose that comfort over her own father, over her freedom.”
My voice breaks, and then even the echo of it fades into the silence of this room.
“Go to sleep,” Dr. Winston says gently.
It isn't what I want him to say. I don't know what I want. Comfort? Absolution? Not this. Not to be told to rest.
“I don't think I'm going to have a fit. My head is clear,” I tell him.
“It doesn't matter, Madeline. I'll sit here while you sleep. I never mind sitting with you.”
Neither of us mentions that he's taken me to Roderick's room, that I'm lying in Roderick's bed.
“Why did you want to become a doctor?” I ask. “Was it because you are fascinated with blood?” What I wanted to ask was if it's because he is fascinated with suffering. But I want to stay on his good side. Despite myself, his regard means something to me.
He laughs.
“I became a doctor for the mystery. That's why we're all here. We want to discover what it is that's wrong with you.”
“What if nothing is wrong with me?” I sit up a little and try to look him in the eye, and that's when I catch sight of a sheaf of papers. They seem oddly familiar, even by the light of the single candle. I don't want Dr. Winston to note my curiosity, so I look at him, stare into his eyes. “What if there's no illness, and therefore no cure?”
He starts. Unlike the other doctors, he knows this is true. I'm not ill, I'm cursed.
“Either way, it isn't fair. Why should you bear so much pain? If I were in charge of the world, you would never feel any.”
He reaches out and touches my forehead, ever so gently. My head is throbbing, but I'm sure that no spell is coming on. Almost sure.
I close my eyes and force myself to relax. I must not have a fit. Must keep controlâeven if it's just to sleep.
“The house is speaking to you, isn't it?” he asks. “Saying that it loves you most of all.” Is there jealousy in his voice?
I keep my eyes pressed shut and wonder what the voices are saying in his head, and whether he believes that I am asleep.
Y
esterday there was a letter from Roderick, and when I tried to read it the words and letters shifted so violently that I could not read at all.
Weeds are growing in my garden, and I let them, because at least there is something, something green, something that wants to grow. The fits are growing stronger, closer together. My head is constantly throbbing.
The books are disappearing from the library. Furniture keeps moving, or being moved. I am always bewildered, always on the edge of collapse.
I slip through the haunted corridors, a shadow of my former self, and my shadow, when I notice it, is long and impossibly thin. Cassandra wouldn't want this, but the grief and loneliness overwhelm me. Will the doctors force me to eat, or let me keep wasting away?
The portraits stare down at me, tiny supercilious smiles twisting thin Usher lips.
They all died young, I remind myself. It doesn't lessen my grief.
I pass by the painting of the house, averting my eyes. The second painting stops me in my tracks.
My pitiful little garden is still there.
And . . . splotches of grey and black shadowy oils . . . a wolfhound romps in the verdant green grass.
I collapse onto the black floor.
And I weep.
W
hen I open my eyes, it is dark. Something is on the bed. Am I dreaming? No, when I shift, there is a thump, and I cower under the quilt as whatever it is scurries away. This is an ancient house, and it would be ridiculous to presume that the walls were not filled with rats. But the rats have never before been bold enough to climb onto my bed. Cassandra protected me from them.
I'm wide awake now, and though the hour may be late, I fear I will not sleep soon.
I light a candle and stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is dirty, and the skin beneath my eyes looks bruised.
“Miss Usher?”
Dr. Winston is in the doorway, holding a steaming mug. He is being very formal with me, calling me Miss Usher, when he usually makes a point of using my first name. But he doesn't sound unfriendly.
“Is it late?” I ask. Disorientation overwhelms me.
“This will help you sleep,” he says without answering my question. I take the cup but don't drink.
Dr. Winston's footsteps echo as he walks away, down the hall to Roderick's room. I wonder what my brother would think if he knew how often the doctor sleeps in his bedchamber. I slip past Roderick's door, gliding through the corridors, up and up, until I reach the trapdoor that leads to the widow's walk.
Resting my hand on the railing, I look out over the trees. Tonight I don't see any ghosts, but there was someone named Honoria who jumped from here. I try to think how I know this. Was it in one of Roderick's books? A story? Some family legend?
The curiosity presses at me, and I feel ashamed that I have been ruled by despondency. I've lost Cassandra, but I'm still here. I tap my foot against the slate tiles, listening to the wind blow through the dead leaves below. I can't count on Roderick or Dr. Winston. I must be brave and clever; otherwise, the house will never let me live. Not truly.
A
t last I am back to my garden. Though when I see the burrows Cassandra dug, or a dog-shaped indention in the leaves, tears well up in my eyes. Black roses have grown over everything, strangling the weaker flowersâeverything but the vines I planted at the base of the house. They need a framework, a trellis. I look up at the house. It's perfect.
Dr. Winston approaches, illuminated by a sudden burst of sunlight. He is carrying a hamper filled with small sandwiches and a bottle of wine. I am wearing one of my better dresses, and I put a ribbon in my hair this morning.