Authors: Bethany Griffin
Who chose this dress?
Who put my hair up?
Was it done lovingly?
I throw back my head and scream. Somewhere in the house above, there is one who hears me. The one who buried me alive.
W
ind and rain, lightning and thunder, a storm throws itself against the House of Usher, rattling every window, including mine. Thunder pounds the earth and the house groans.
Carefully, I carry out my bedtime rituals. Without them, I would never sleep.
I pad across my room to the heavy wooden door. Through the floor I can feel the house breathing. I position a thick book to keep the door from swinging more than half open.
My candle flickers. I must have the door positioned correctly before it goes out.
Taking two steps back, I survey the room. The half-open door still feels . . . wrong. I adjust it, nudging the book with my foot. It creaks, louder than a door should when moved so slightly. I rest my hand against the woodâtoo long, because feelings seep into me that are not my own.
The house wants me to open the door. To put the book back on the bureau, to straighten the rug. The house hates closed doors.
But completely open doors are as terrifying as being closed in with . . . whatever might find its way into my room. There are things, living and dead, creeping through these halls, and I'd rather they ignore me while I sleep, as they do during the day. The house will protect me, but I feel safer with the book holding the door in place.
Lightning flashes as I turn, illuminating the empty corridor, and my path back to my four-poster bed. Outside, the trees are lashed by wind and rain. I blow out the candle and pull the quilt to my chin.
And now, I listen. The clock in the hallway ticks away the minutes. It will chime, either at midnight, or upon the hour of its choosing. A sound patters in the hallway.
Pat pat pitter pat,
coming closer, ever closer, stopping before my doorway, and then
pat pat pat
over the threshold and into my room.
I don't dare breathe. I lie as still as possible, straining my eyes against the darkness. A slight shape approaches, slinking through the gloom. A flash of lightning reveals the solemn face of my brother. His silver-white hair gleams as the unnatural green-white light fades. Thunder crashes, and we both jump.
Roderick crawls up into my bed; he is shaking.
“The storm?” I whisper.
“Yes,” he whispers back.
Roderick is afraid of nearly everything.
I put my arms around him, trying to stop his trembling, but instead it infects me, and we sit there propped up among the pillows, shuddering together.
“Roderick, it's only a storm,” I whisper.
His eyes accuse me of lying. Nothing here is just anything. This is not just a house. We have never been simply children. We are Ushers.
The storm makes my hair crackle. Lightning flashes again, tingeing the entire world green. The house is so huge around us, and we are so small. But we're together.
“The house is unsettled,” I tell him.
He doesn't want to hear about the house. It frightens him more than anything else, and he likes to pretend he's brave. He can't tell, the way I can, that the house is protecting us, from the storm, from the ghosts. From everything.
“Tell me a story,” Roderick begs, snuggling down into my blankets.
I close my eyes. The stories are part of this place; they flutter around me like moths, dark and bloated, the size of my father's hand. Some are like visions, the events unfolding as they might in a dream. Some are tales that I have heard and remember, the ones that Father tells sometimes. Which will the house give me tonight?
“Once on a windy night.” I try the words out, testing them to see if they feel right. A gust of wind makes my windowpane shake. Roderick edges even closer. His thin, birdlike bones jut into my side. He nestles into my pillow, nudging me over, even though he knows I like to be in the exact center of the bed.
“There was a beautiful maiden with golden hair who was lovely as the sunrise.” He reaches out and touches my hair, which is not golden; it's silver-gilt, like his. “But the maiden walked outside in the dead of winter and caught cold and died. In the nearby forest lived a hermit, who was old and ugly and gnarled as the root of a tree. He wanted to capture the maiden's ghost, which was said to linger, pining for her lost love, the brave knight Ethelred, who slept every night by her tomb.
“While brave Ethelred was sleeping, the hermit crept up and cut off a lock of the knight's hair to use as bait and placed it in an urn made of clay mixed with blood, and set the urn out on the cold sand where the sea pounded the shore.”
I stop to take a breath, and to listen. The wind is hitting the house in a rhythmic manner, much like the sea in the story. Somehow the story, though dreamlike, insubstantial, is more real than this cold, dark bedroom.
“For nearly a year the hermit sat, night after night, on the beach, in the cold, waiting. Finally, he saw the ghostly form of the maiden. When she came near the urn, there was a flash of light.” Outside lightning strikes, illuminating my brother's narrow, huge-eyed face. His frail body no longer trembles, and his fascination warms me. We are both immersed in this story, at one with the house.
“The ghostly maiden curled up like a wisp of smoke around the lock of hair. The hermit slammed the lid on the urn and took her to his hovel.
“Brave Ethelred came to the hermit's home and beat upon the door.”
We hear a rapping sound, and Roderick shoots up in bed. His eyes are wild.
“The wind must have blown a shutter loose, and it is hitting the side of the house.” I take his hand. He sinks slowly back down beside me.
“What happened next, Madeline?” he asks.
“The hermit would not let Ethelred in, so he lifted his mace and hit the door, and then stuck his gauntleted hand in through the hole and began to rip and tear all asunder, so that the noise echoed through the forest.”
I pause, listening for the ripping of wood. Instead Roderick throws back his head, and he screams until I fear his throat will be torn apart.
I wrap my arms around him.
“Be still, Roderick, be still,” I beg, but he keeps screaming. Desperate to calm him, I press the blankets up against his face to try to stifle his voice.
Our mother glides into the room. Her hair is long, pure white against her nightdress. She shines in the lightning as Roderick did, and is more graceful than even a ghost. I can't take my eyes from her.
When she reaches my bed, she slaps me hard enough that my head hits the headboard.
My eyes burn, but I don't say anything as she scoops my brother into her arms and carries him away. The house whispers to me, louder in my ears than the storm outside.
I lie in the center of my bed, listening to the crash of thunder, and to the splintering of wood, which comforts me. The house is caught up in the story too.
O
n the lower level of the great Usher library, which spans three glorious tiers of disintegrating books, is a glass case holding a butterfly collection compiled years ago by my mother and her sisters. I often find myself here, drawn by the library but bewildered by my inability to unlock the knowledge in the books.
The butterflies are distorted by the rounded glass. I stand before the case, my fingers dislodging years' worth of dust, just looking, wondering. I was like these specimens, trapped by my mother's cruelty. Is there a pin through my middle? What words would be on the parchment identifying me?
A pocket watch rests heavy in my hand, hidden in the pocket of my dress. I toy with it, even as I stand transfixed by the brittle dead insects.
The words on the identifying parchment slips are in Latin. Could I learn to read them? Everything I try to read slithers about on the page, and I cannot make even the simplest words stay in place. A dead language may be easier for me to decipher.
But even staring too long at the labels makes me dizzy.
I steady myself on a table, knocking a sheaf of blank paper to the floor. Left behind, as though waiting for me, is a page filled with cramped handwriting and blurred ink, followed by other pages. A journal.
Like so many books in this house, the bindings have nearly crumbled away.
A crash from inside the butterfly case makes me jump . . . and then another crash. The velvet-covered boards that hold the preserved insects are collapsing inwards. Gossamer wings disintegrate before my eyes, and the library blurs around me for a moment.
I should go to my bedroom. In case of a fit, I'd rather not fall and hit my head on one of these tables.
The thought is not fully my own. So . . . the house wants me back in my room. As a child, I would have thought it was protecting me. I collapse into a leather armchair and lift the journal gingerly.
I do not want to die, but I must be very clever in order to survive. The answers are in the library. My guardian and I are sure of it.
I start as the watch in my pocket begins to tick. Sometimes I twist the pin round and round while I'm thinking. A nervous habit. For a moment, everything seems clearer. I look back to the page.
The answers are in the library
.
What answers? What is the house hiding?
M
y name is Lisbeth Usher. I am cursed by beauty, the delicate beauty of a dewdrop, which lasts for but a few moments. Three days ago I could leave the house without fear. Three days ago, I had a future.
Then my sister, Honoria, put on her best dress, the one she was supposed to wear on her wedding day, and went up to the widow's walk. No one was with her when she jumped. But I suspect that she did it solemnly. Honoria did everything solemnly. She rarely smiled. Now that the curse has passed to me, I understand why.
I will not succumb. I will not. Unlike Honoria, who passed the curse to me, I will protect our youngest sister. I will not die. The house has claimed my mother and my sister. But I will prevail. In the end I will laugh at all of them, wringing their hands and wailing about being consumed by the House of Usher.
P
lacing one hand in front of the other, Roderick and I crawl forward through the accumulated dust of the library. Roderick points to a table, and I head toward it. In our carelessness, we overturn a stack of books. Roderick smears the dust on the leather cover and peers at the gold writing. I hold out my hands, and he gives it to me, but as I open it, the pages disintegrate and fall to the floor. I shrug; there are plenty of empty corners to investigate, and books that are in better condition than this one.
A chest sits halfway across the room, a thing of carved dark wood. I gesture toward it. Roderick grins.
The seeking game is our favorite game. We crouch under tables and lurk in dark corners, always together, always searching. We are intent on going through each room of the house, learning their shapes, textures, temperatures. Tasting the melancholia of each space.
They are very important to me, these little explorations. The house is so huge, and sometimes the rooms seem changed when we enter them. If we don't explore, we could someday wander into a corridor we've never seen before, and we might not find our way back out. I'm more worried for Roderick than for myself. He doesn't pay attention.
The floor creaks outside the door, and we scurry under a table. A pair of soft velveteen house shoes, the hem of a dressing gown sweep by. Father. I sit, unable to hold my crouching position, as he pulls the heavy draperies shut. That means Mother will be joining him. I tell myself not to be afraid, but it is Mother, so of course I am.
Father sits at the table, right above us. Roderick puts a hand over his mouth, stifling a laugh. But I frown at him. I don't want to make Father angry. A servant brings him tea.
So this dismal room is in use. So few of the rooms are. Most are haunted rather than lived in.
And then Mother comes and settles herself on the faded blue fainting couch. She covers her eyes with a dark velvet cloth. Roderick makes his frightened sound, and I reach for his hand. Even Roderick, her beloved, cowers in fear when our mother has one of her spells.
There is a curse upon our family. We are cursed. My parents are ill and often in pain.
“Perhaps we shouldn't separate them,” Father says. His tone tells me that he's resuming an ongoing conversation. “They are twins.”
Roderick scoots away from me, toward the door. He's ready to run. If we go now, we probably won't even get in trouble, but I have to hear. What is Father talking about?
“Nonsense,” Mother answers. “They have the rest of their lives to be together. Sending him away may delay the illness.”
“You truly believe this?”
“The doctors have assured me.”
Mother always believes the doctors. They live in our tower. Father says that they descended upon our family like white-coated vultures, hungry for bits and pieces of our ancient family. The local doctor won't visit the house; he says it is too far from the village and the main road. More likely he doesn't know what to do for us and is afraid of the house. Many of the locals are. With Mother so sick, we need a doctor here all the time, as much as we need a cook or a butler, or the flock of maids who dust the cabinetry. So we have Dr. Paul and Dr. Peridue.
“We have to give him the best possible chance of survival,” Mother says. “To do anything less would be murder.” Her voice rises, and Roderick pales.
Father's fingers tap against the table. It's a habit of his. He must be trying to write. The table above our heads wobbles. His hand is shaking, and that always agitates him. He throws down the quill, or perhaps knocks it off the table. It lands on the floor beside us. If he retrieves it, will he discover us? The feather is long and glossy and black. The ink soaks into the floor.