The Fall

by Bethany Griffin

  My eyes blur.

  “Perhaps they moved it,” Roderick insists. “Maybe that’s why it’s so creaky and all the angles seem wrong, as if it might be ready to collapse. But it isn’t haunted.”

  What will it take to make him believe?

  41

  MADELINE IS TWELVE

  As soon as the light and sound of the house grew bearable again, the doctors sent for me. It’s only been a few days since Mother died.

  “You’ve come to your heritage,” Dr. Peridue says. Paunchy and bald, he is the oldest of the doctors. In his voice I hear happiness; he is pleased to have a new specimen to study. Before I came into my “heritage,” he had little interest in me, but now that I’ve had my first fit, his eyes sparkle and he watches my every move, ready to capture me and add me to his horrible book.

  “What will happen to me?” My voice echoes, and I feel small. This room has vaulted ceilings and three dank fireplaces.

  “It won’t be so bad.”

  He is lying.

  Dr. Paul stares at me from across the room. His eyes are red from crying. He caresses a syringe.

  “Your brother will be staying home for the duration of the summer, won’t he? That will be nice for you,” Dr. Peridue says. “You’ve missed your brother.” Then, to Dr. Paul, as if I can’t hear him, “Remember how we thought she might come into the family illness when she was separated from her twin? Instead it was caused by her mother’s death.”

  “Odd,” Dr. Paul says. “I thought it would affect the male specimen first.”

  Dr. Peridue laughs. “It should have.” He stares into his book, blinking. “The pattern has been broken. I believe that the house has chosen the female twin as heir.”

  Dr. Paul gives him a look. Either he doesn’t believe what Dr. Peridue just said, or he doesn’t believe in the curse.

  “What is going to happen?” I repeat in a louder, stronger voice. “Will I go mad?”

  Dr. Peridue smiles. He is enjoying this. “Like your mother, you will suffer fits. During these spells, your senses will become morbidly acute. The most insipid food will be unendurable, your clothing will be painful to your skin, and the quietest of sounds will inspire you with terror. You will have headaches, and you will lose consciousness.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I say, trying to be like Roderick when he is pretending to be brave.

  But I do believe him. I believe every word.

  42

  MADELINE IS SIXTEEN

  Up in his room, finally recovered from his illness, Roderick is packing, preparing to catch the coach, which passes the property once a day. He will leave, once again, determined not to listen to my worries about the house and the curse.

  I sit in the chapel where Mother’s funeral was held. And perhaps Father’s. The light coming through the stained glass dances over the stonework. The windows are tall, peaked at the top, framed in old wood that has become silverish with age.

  Sitting here, I can feel the majesty of the house. It is so old. Looming over and around me. How can I stand up to it all alone? When I become too determined, I fall into longer trances, sometimes for days at a time. And I forget things. Or do I remember things I never knew? Like the stories of long-ago Ushers that play behind my eyes when I’m trying to sleep . . .

  Cassandra pads into the room. She eyes the window suspiciously, and then pounces on something. I can’t tell what until she pounces again. The weak sunlight is moving across the floor, sparkling through the window, and the silly dog is trying to catch it.

  This unexpected foolishness from a dog that usually looks so wise startles a laugh from me. And somehow the darkness in the house retreats.

  43

  MADELINE IS TWELVE

  “What happened to the chess set?” Roderick asks, home from school for the summer.

  He doesn’t really care about the chess set. I don’t tell him how it was buried by game pieces. How the servants left the pieces piled up in the parlor for weeks, and then one day it was just gone.

  He does want to know more about the stories I have always told him. Where do I find them? I didn’t know that everyone couldn’t see them. They are like the ghosts that float about the corners of the house, ephemeral unless you reach out to them. And even after I see a story, live it in my head, I still don’t know if it’s real or fiction.

  Are there other things that only I can do? I tested the servants, and it seemed that all of them could hear and speak. Even the gardeners, who were mostly silent, could speak when they had to. Can everyone hear whispers of thought? Can everyone feel the touch of something or someone lingering on their skin? Next I must learn if they see the ghosts.

  The stories are not unlike fireflies. In the summer evenings, fireflies swarm around the tarn, making something hateful almost beautiful.

  Father once said they were the memories of ghosts, lingering about. Maybe. But I’m not sure.

  Grasping them requires living them, even if the story is long, and terrible.

  So I mostly avoid them, unless Roderick asks for one. I want my own memories, my own stories.

  44

  MADELINE IS SIXTEEN

  Dressed in his traveling best, Roderick waits for me in the corridor. We stroll through the lower galleries, stopping to admire the Usher coat of arms. The walls are lined with ancient weapons. This room makes Roderick proud of the house, proud to be an Usher. But I can’t pretend I’m not distressed. The madman’s body was removed from the parlor, but I can’t stop thinking of Father.

  “It’s like the house swallowed him whole,” I whisper.

  But I have a sinking, unspeakable suspicion about what truly happened to him.

  My words provoke Roderick’s temper. “I’m going to prove to you that this house is not watching us,” he says. “Once and for all, and then I’ll never have to hear you talking about what the house likes, what the house wants, again.”

  “Do you hate to hear me speak so very much?” I retort, for what else do I have to talk to him about? I haven’t visited important cities or read thick books. I have the garden and the house. I would think, since he doesn’t believe it is haunted, that he would be proud to be the master of such an ancient and stately home.

  We reach the wall of mounted weapons, and in a movement so fast I cannot follow it, Roderick takes a knife from the wall and holds it to my throat. The blade is cold, and shaking because his hand is trembling.

  “What are you doing?” My voice is choked and slightly high-pitched. Roderick would never hurt me, but the knife is cold . . . colder than it should be. Poisoned?

  “I’m trying to show you. The house cannot protect you. The house doesn’t know you or care about you.”

  “It does, Roderick,” I say, because I believe it, and because I’m not going to let him think that I’m afraid.

  He presses the knife harder against my flesh. There’s a look in his eyes that reminds me of Father, when Father was mad.

  But he will not scare me into abandoning the truth.

  “Roderick . . .”

  “Houses cannot feel things. It is not a malignant beast; it’s an old house that needs repair.”

  “And if I don’t agree, will you kill me?”

  He drags me in front of him, keeping the knife pressed to my throat and the other arm around my waist. He’s over a head taller than me now. We are close together. I am acutely aware of the blood pumping through my veins, and aware that I am no longer afraid. We are two halves of a whole. He would never hurt me.

  In a blur, everything changes.

  The wood floor shifts under our feet and we fall, both of us. The knife clatters against the flagstones, and blood drips after it.

  “Madeline.” Roderick looks stricken as I put a hand to my neck. He pulls me onto his lap and examines the cut. “I’m sorry, so sorry, you know I would never hurt you. I tripped,” he whispers.

  I’m lying in Roderick’s arms. The knife is on the floor, and I see blood on his white shirt, but I feel
nothing. The house wanted this, but I don’t know why.

  “The house isn’t haunted,” he says. “But I am.”

  45

  MADELINE IS TWELVE

  Shadows swirl around me and Roderick, as if my room were full of candles, all of them casting light and shadow on the wall. But we have no candles. Roderick pulls my blankets to his chin.

  “Tell me a story,” he whispers.

  I reach out into the atmosphere and grab the first one that I can. It isn’t pretty.

  “Once there were three ancient families who lived on an inlet. All were noble families with castles, and they became rich by stopping ships and making them pay a toll. But eventually other shipping routes opened, and the families were forced to gain sustenance from the land.

  “The land was barren and rocky, and could not provide for three families.

  “So one lord of the straits, Archibald Usher, invited the others to a feast, and as they sat at his table, he slaughtered them, one by one. He gave them poison that immobilized them. Then he caught a drop of blood from each of them, in a great gold goblet, and drank it, like the lords did in those days, tying his health to the prosperity of the land.

  “But before he reached the last of his former friends, she used her final moments to curse him. She cursed him with a short tragic life, with a line that would never enjoy the spoils of his crimes, and with never being able to leave his castle for any extended time, so that he would never enjoy the homes of his slaughtered friends.

  “In the end, he drank her blood, as well as the blood of her children, and he sealed his fate.”

  Roderick and I consider each other from our opposite sides of the bed.

  “Was that true?” Roderick asks.

  “I don’t know.” This simple, small question, this suggestion that he might be willing to believe, is enough to make me happy. And the fearfulness of the tale lifts for a few minutes, until I fall asleep and dream of murdered children.

  46

  MADELINE IS SIXTEEN

  The knife was poisoned. Not by Roderick, but by some long-ago Usher, or the enemy of some long-ago Usher. Around me, the house tremors and convulses, shaking so violently that I’m afraid the ancient stones are going to crumble. As I lie in bed, the house overwhelms me, its emotions different than they have been since I was a child—bolstering, supportive. Despite the attacks and my growing fears, it doesn’t want to lose me. And I don’t want to die, so we are in agreement.

  Several of the maids give notice. Madmen in the attics followed by earthquakes are too much for the faint of heart. It was best for Roderick to go, both because of his fears and because the house is wroth with him. And perhaps because I’m too afraid to test our bond. What if I had asked him to stay, after he nearly killed me, and he still walked away?

  Dr. Winston sits beside my bed every day. He holds my hand while the doctors cleanse my blood by pumping out the old and purifying it and then putting it back into me. It goes in cold, making me shudder.

  “You can return to your garden soon,” Dr. Winston tells me. Spring is passing quickly. Cassandra thumps her tail on the floor, and I resolve to get out of bed soon. To be strong for her, and for myself.

  47

  FROM THE DIARY OF LISBETH USHER

  I knew this day would come. Mr. Usher has proposed marriage to me. He isn’t young, being several years older than Honoria was at her death, maybe twenty-five, but many girls marry men who are older.

  I’m afraid because if I marry him, I attach myself to this place and this curse forever. But we have agreed to help each other break the curse. We sit in the library, reading and reading. Accounts of the history of the family and the house. Snippets of information about horrible ancestors, murderers, plague, and of course, the curse. Most upsetting is the story of Archibald Usher, who built the house, and whose battle-ax hangs over the entranceway. According to the legend, he used a great gold goblet to catch the blood of his victims.

  We search the dusty shelves of the library. Together. He touches my shoulder sometimes, touches my hand as I turn the pages of the book. He is gentle and kind.

  If we were married, then perhaps I would not be so frightened at night, when the house seems more powerful and the curse wraps itself around me and caresses me before it strangles me.

  I distract myself with stories of the past. Sneaking down to the secret places below the house. Mr. Usher does not approve. He wants to avoid the darkest places, but I know we can’t ignore the crypt. The curse originated on those very foundation stones. Our ancestors walked here. When I go into the vault, all the history of the House of Usher presses down on me, filling me with power to face the future.

  48

  MADELINE IS SIXTEEN

  “Madeline,” Dr. Winston says, pressing a packet of crushed herbs into my hand. I’m supposed to empty the packet into my tea to help me sleep. “Meet me in the hall of portraits. In an hour. When I’m done mixing and measuring medicines for the other doctors.”

  His voice is much warmer than when he talks to the older doctors. With them he is cold and detached. With me, he is . . . attentive.

  I wait in the hallway, so I don’t lose track of time. Some hours, like the ones in the middle of the night, seem to last forever, while others flow so quickly there seems to be no interval between meals, no time between sunrise and sunset.

  How will the house react to meeting him here, away from the doctors’ tower and all of their clicking, clanking machinery? In my bedchamber, he won’t allow his eyes to linger on me like he did when he asked me to meet him.

  49

  MADELINE IS FOURTEEN

  “It’s daytime, isn’t it?” I ask the housekeeper, peering out the door into the semidarkness. Cassandra pulls me toward the door and whines.

  I know it is midmorning, but there is no evidence that the sun still exists, and the landscape is mottled with clumps of fog. I look to the housekeeper, seeking her advice. Should I let Cassandra go out into this midday twilight?

  “When the fog is this thick, you can get lost in it, and wander into another world,” she warns.

  Would another world be better or worse than this one?

  Then she is back to her duties, ignoring me. None of the servants wish to hear me speak, but the housekeeper is particularly superstitious. I’ve heard the whispers. She believes I am ill luck incarnate, which is why she won’t meet my eyes. The servants think the curse revolves around me, not the house. They fear my misfortune will somehow rub off on them, that my very presence in the same room could destroy whatever good fortune they’ve got left. And if they live here, they aren’t very fortunate.

  Gathering my nerve, I pull the door open, and Cassandra bounds outside. I named her after a doomed prophetess that Roderick told me about, an ignored twin, left behind, who could see the future.

  Cassandra’s been pent up inside for too long, and she leaps into a run, bypassing the garden. I take a few tentative steps away from the house. For a moment she’s ambling along, and then she’s gone, through a patch of mist . . . to nothing. I cry out and follow, but the cold hits me in the face. It’s cold even for February, and as I try to catch my breath, I catch sight of a shape in the mist. I step forward, straining my eyes, and then I see a creature, partially obscured by the fog. I can’t tell what it is; the mist is too thick.

  At a bark from behind me, I turn, relieved to see Cassandra bounding toward me.

  The housekeeper is standing in the doorway, holding a lantern up above her head. The lantern is losing its battle with this unnatural darkness, but it illuminates the harsh stone of the house above her, smooth except for one great fissure.

  A wide crack starts at the kitchen doorway and goes upward, but it’s impossible to guess how far in this gloom. A fit of trembling overtakes me. My breath comes short and pained, as if this damage to the house is my own injury.

  Cassandra whines, and I look at her. She ambles toward me, and something about her is different. Her eyes have changed. They are
no longer puppy eyes, but instead golden and wolflike.

  I step back. I don’t know how I know, but Cassandra is part of this place. Then she puts her nose into my hand and makes a snuffling sound. It’s something she has always done, and I kneel so that I can put my arms around her. Still, I don’t look directly into her eyes, because I’m afraid of what I might see.

  We walk into the kitchen. The housekeeper is back at work. The lantern, still lit, sits on the table.

  “Should’ve gotten yourself a cat,” she says. “Not an oversized devil dog.”

  50

  MADELINE IS SIXTEEN

  I pace the portrait hallway, tired of waiting for Dr. Winston to join me.

  “Madeline!” He bounds down the stairs. “I thought you could take me on a tour of the house.”

  I return his smile. The house is oddly silent, no creaking or groaning. I can’t tell what it thinks of this idea.

  “It’s all so fascinating isn’t it?” He gestures to the portraits lining the hall. “It must be amazing to be part of such an old family, so much history. . . .”

  Some silly part of me wishes that he would look at me with the same attention he is giving to these Ushers, long dead and gone.

  “I’ve heard the servants speak of the vault,” he says. “Do you think we could go there?”

  “I don’t have the keys,” I say, which is not a lie. The keys are in Roderick’s room. I’m not supposed to use them. And the vault is only for family. I still shudder remembering how Roderick closed himself into the coffin and Father had to let him out. I would prefer to take Dr. Winston to the library or one of the formal parlors.

  From off in my bedroom, Cassandra howls. She’s probably scratching at the door, frightening the servants.