Reimagined: The Fall of the House of Usher

I loved my brother, but as our life neared its end, I came to the sad realization that our House would die at his hand. I felt no malice toward Roderick, but nonetheless, I resolved to kill him. 

I went to the cellar. It took all my strength to descend the long flight of stairs that spiraled down into the vast and drafty bowels of the House. As I went I envisioned myself tripping, tumbling to the bottom of the stairs, and laying there crooked and limp until an unfortunate servant found me. That wasn’t an uncommon death among the Ushers, especially the older ones with compromised eyesight - Aunt Dorothea went that way, and before her, Great Grandfather Byron. They were treacherous stairs, small and slick and unpredictable in height. Nevertheless, I made it to the bottom. 

When I stepped into the dark, cavernous cellar, gooseflesh instantly spread across my frail limbs. I smelled mildew, and felt ghostly curtains of cobwebs brush over my skin and stick in my hair as I wandered through the silent, empty chambers. It was a peaceful place, with a sleepy, syrupy atomsphere. I was tempted to curl up on the cool stone floor and close my eyes - I suspected that I would sleep better than I had in years. But I was here on an important errand. I sought the House’s stock of poison - we kept it for rats, and the occasional suicide. 

The deadly collection was unremarkable - a small shelf crowded with dusty, labelless bottles. I examined my options, and eventually noticed a small purple bottle, halfway full. I uncorked it and took a tentative sniff. It had a musky sweet smell, one that wine would easily mask. I wondered if half the bottle would do the job, but Father always warned us that the poisons in the cellar were potent. I decided it would suffice, began the harrowing climb back into the light, returned to my chambers, and hid the poison deep in my bureau. 

After selecting my weapon, I encountered a strange and unforeseen reluctance. That night I lay in bed listening to Roderick’s frenzied sonatas with new fondness, and imagined what the night would sound like without them. Stricken with a plague of nostalgia, I recalled our childhood. Roderick was sensitive even then. He always struggled more than he needed to with the family traditions. And yes, perhaps Father was too cruel to him, but my poor brother really could be clueless. Maybe, I thought, my ruminations suddenly hardened by anger, Father should have been harder on him. Maybe he would have learned and things would be different.

It was just that Roderick could be so selfish. When he told the family he didn’t wish to have children - how backward! Children weren’t about want. They were about sustenance. Longevity. The fact that he couldn’t understand that spoke to his softness of skull. Of course we were all furious at his refusal, but we knew he’d change his mind. We assumed he would realize the severity of his choice - children weren’t optional. The line would continue. But for years, he didn’t budge. Then Mother died, and Father too, only a week later. On the day of their funeral, I went to Roderick and asked if his answer had changed. With dreadful finality, he said no, and for the first time, I believed him. To this day I haven’t forgiven him. Thanks to him, our worst nightmare is reality. We are sick and dying, and soon the House will be empty. 

But believe me, my plan is born of pity, not malice. The way benevolent souls drown sick kittens.

In the days I spent preparing his death, I rarely saw my brother. Partly because I couldn't bear looking at him, and partly due to his guest. Roderick had decided bringing his long lost friend into the House would bolster his health. If he remembered anything Father taught him, he’d know that outsiders aren’t good for the House, or for us. So I kept to my bedroom, and to the darker corridors, sometimes listening in on their inane conversations. Occasionally they spoke of me - poor brother, he feared for my health. 

Despite my intention to avoid him, I saw Roderick once before our final meeting. In the thralls of insomnia, as night bled into morning, we passed each other in the dim hall. At first I thought I looked upon my own reflection, thrown back at me off the shine of a suit of armor, but it was Roderick. He wore a long white nightgown identical to my own, and his unkempt hair half obscured his pallid face. We stood there for a moment, observing each other in the flickering candlelight. Neither of us could muster an introduction. Finally, the House broke our silence with a low, creaking moan. 

“The House,” I said sadly. “It’s dying.”. All at once, those four words hurled an accusation, cried for help, and begged forgiveness. 

“Yes.”

“Does that not bother you?”

“Sister… I’ve thought hard about this, and… There is a time for things to die.”

I gaped at him, and the House loosed a scream, an awful sound born of rusted pipes and rage. The noise made me tremble, but Roderick stared resolutely at me, his eyes hard with determination. 

“Goodnight, Brother,” I said, choking back tears as I fled into the shadows. Even as the darkness swallowed me, I felt the burn of his gaze at my back. 

That night I tossed and turned in bed as the House groaned and sighed. I wept for it, sharing its agony. As I dressed the next morning I was miserable. The House’s pain surged through my veins like electricity through a circuit. I choked down a cup of water from the pitcher my chambermaid brought, hoping to wet my cottony tongue, but it only turned my stomach.

Brother, you’re a fool, I thought to myself. But you’re right about one thing - there is a proper time for dying. Too long had we pathetically clung to life in this suffering House. And of course, it was Roderick who had caused the suffering… But of course, the thought of revenge didn’t cross my mind. Mercy - only mercy.

I reached into my bureau for the poison - And to my astonishment, found that it wasn’t there. I frowned, and pushed aside my garments in frustration. Still I couldn’t find it. Frantically I tore through the drawer, throwing its contents onto the carpet and bruising my hands against the splintered wood. 

Finally, my finger brushed against something cool and smooth. I lunged forward, and pulled out the purple bottle - empty. My relief shriveled. I hurled it to the floor, and it shattered, scattering violet shards of glass all over the carpet. I was beside myself. Had Roderick discovered my plan - Crept into my room in my absence and disposed of the poison?

Then I felt a horrible stabbing sensation in my abdomen. I fell to my knees, clutching my stomach, and cried out in despair. What was happening? Would I succumb to my illness now, before I could take care of my deviant brother and save the House from a painful and undignified demise?  

Then I saw the pitcher. I had left it on my bedside table, my empty glass beside it. Moaning in pain and anger, I crawled towards it, wincing as glass dug into my knees and palms. As I went, I stained the carpet red. Still, somehow I reached it, seized the glass, and held it to my nose - sweet. In my distress, the scent had escaped my attention.

My knees buckled, and I sprawled across the glass littered carpet. I felt strength leech from my body. As my vision blurred, I anticipated the end.

Instead I woke up somewhere new. Somewhere stale and suffocating. Blinking into the darkness, I saw I was laid out on a cold slab. My head throbbed, and I smelt the bitter, sickly perfume of funeral flowers. As my eyes grew accustomed to the dark, I made out a massive iron door staring at me apologetically. Shakily I rose, trembling with rage. No longer would I be affording Roderick my mercy.