The Fall of the House of Usher

by Edgar Allan Poe

During the whole of a dull and soundless day in the autumn, when the clouds hung low in the sky. I had been riding alone, on horseback, through an especially dreary part of the country and eventually saw, as evening came closer, the gloomy House of Usher. I do not know how but, with my first look at the building, a sense of misery surrounded me. I looked at the scene in front of me – at the house and the simple landscape, at the bleak walls and at a few dead trees - with deep depression. There was an iciness in me, a sickening of the heart. What was it – I paused to think – what was it that made me so nervous when I looked at the House of Usher? It was a mystery, but I could not struggle with the shadows that crowded around me as I was thinking. I was forced to the unsatisfactory conclusion that while there are very simple natural objects which can affect us, still we do not know why. It was possible, I thought, that a different arrangement of the details of the scene would be enough to change my sad impression.

Nevertheless, in this house of gloom I now planned to stay some weeks. Its owner, Roderick Usher, had been one of my best friends in my boyhood but many years had passed since our last meeting. A letter, however, had recently reached me – a letter from him – which spoke of physical illness, of a mental disorder and of a real desire to see me. It said I was his best, his only, friend and he hoped the cheerfulness of my company would improve his health. It was the way in which all this, and much more, was said – the feeling that went with his request – which decided me. I began my journey immediately.

Although as boys we had been very close, I really knew little about my friend. He had always been extremely reserved. I was aware, however, that his ancient family had been famous for generations for its sensibility, shown in great works of art and repeated acts of kindness, as well as in a passion for music. I had learnt too the remarkable fact that the Usher family had never had more than one son. I considered this, while comparing the characters of the house and of the people, and wondering whether the one might have influenced the other. When I lifted my eyes again to the house, I believed there was an atmosphere about it that had risen from the dead trees, the black lake and the grey walls – a mysterious and diseased fog.

Shaking off what must have been a dream, I looked more closely at the real building. It seemed extremely old. The discolouration of the walls was great. No part of the stonework had fallen but the individual stones looked in poor condition.

Noticing these things, I rode on a short bridge over the motionless lake to the house. A servant took my horse and I entered the hall. Another man showed me, in silence, through many dark, never-ending passages to his master’s room. I saw much on the way that added to the impressions I have already mentioned. While the objects around me had been familiar to me since childhood, I still wondered that they should appear so strange here. The servant now opened a door and showed me into his master’s room.

The room where I found myself was very large and had high ceilings. The windows were long, narrow and pointed and so high that they could not be reached from inside the room. Only weak gleams of light made their way in so that I could see the larger objects around me. But I could not make out what was in the corners. There was a lot of furniture, comfortless, antique and broken down. Many books and musical instruments lay around the room, but failed to give any life to the scene. I felt that I breathed misery. An impression of deep gloom hung over everything.

When I entered, Usher got up from a sofa where he had been lying and greeted me with a warmth which I, at first, thought overdone. A glance, however, at his face convinced me that it was an honest feeling. We sat down and for some moments, while he was silent, I looked at him with a feeling half of pity, half of horror. Surely, no man had ever before changed so terribly in so brief a period as Roderick Usher! It was only with difficulty that I recognised the man before me as my boyhood friend. Yet, his face had always been remarkable. Skin like a corpse, large eyes, thin and very pale lips, hair as soft as a spider’s web; these made a face not easily forgotten. The now ghost-like colour of the skin shocked me. His hair, too, had grown wild.

I noticed great agitation in my friend’s behaviour. I had been prepared for this by his letter and my memories of him as a child. One minute he was lively, the next miserable. He spoke about the reason for my visit, of his real desire to see me and of the good that my company would do him. He talked, at some length, about his illness. It was, he said, a physical sickness common to all his family, and one that he thought would never be cured – only a nervous problem, he immediately added, which would soon pass. He suffered greatly from his sensibility; he could only stand the most tasteless food; the smell of any flower made him ill; his eyes were tortured even by a faint light; and there were few sounds, except for stringed instruments, which did not hurt his ears.

He was also a slave to one particular fear: "I shall die," he said, "I must die in this hateful house. I dread the future. I am not frightened of danger, only of terror. In this horrible condition, I feel that the time will sooner or later arrive when I will lose my mind, my life, struggling with my fears."

I learnt another strange characteristic of his mental condition. He had certain superstitions about his own house, which he had not left in many years. His words were too shadowy for me to express his fears here, but he felt that the effect of the grey walls and of the black lake into which he looked down every day, had, over the years, weakened him.

He admitted, however, that much of the gloom he suffered from had a more natural origin – the severe and long-continued illness and, especially, the fast-approaching death of a much-loved sister. His only friend for many years, his last and only relative. "Her death," he said, with a bitterness which I can never forget, "would leave me the last of the Ushers." While he spoke, the lady Madeline (for that was her name) passed slowly through a remote part of the room and, without noticing me, disappeared. When she closed the door behind her, I looked at once at her brother’s face – but he had covered it with his hands, and I noticed his tears through his thin fingers.

Lady Madeline’s disease had long confused her doctors. Apathy, a gradual wasting away and frequent but passing fits of catalepsy, where she became so still that she seemed dead and could feel no pain. She could not move even an eyelid during those times. Till then, she had fought against her illness but finally went to bed to wait for her death on the evening of my arrival at the house. So, the glimpse I had got of her would probably be the last – as the lady, at least while living, would be seen no more.

For several days, neither Usher nor I mentioned her name and during this period I was busy trying to brighten my friend’s mood. We painted and read together or I listened to him playing his guitar. But, as a closer friendship developed between us and he shared more of his secrets with me, I noticed the pointlessness of trying to cheer him up. I’ll never forget the many hours I spent alone with the master of the House of Usher. His long, sad tunes on his guitar. The simplicity but dark intensity of his paintings.

I remember a conversation we had well, when Usher explained his strong belief that all vegetable life had feelings, even plans, of its own. The belief was connected with the grey stones of the home of his ancestors. He thought the decayed trees which stood around and the still waters of the lake had a silent yet terrible influence which, for centuries, had shaped the destiny of his family and which made him what he was. Such opinions need no comment and I will make none.

His books were just as gloomy. I could not help thinking of the probable influence on the hypochondriac, when, one evening, having suddenly told me that the lady Madeline was dead, he said he was going to keep her corpse in the house for two weeks before her burial. The reason, however, for this odd decision was her unusual illness and the distance to the burial-ground of the family.

I helped Usher with the arrangements for Lady Madeline’s temporary tomb. We carried her body in its coffin to a small, rather wet and completely dark place, lying deep beneath that part of the building where I slept. It had been used, apparently, in medieval times, as a prison. The iron door was so heavy that it caused an unusually loud noise, as it opened and closed.

After putting her body there, we partly opened the lid of the coffin and looked on Lady Madeline’s face. I noticed a great similarity between the brother and sister. Usher, perhaps understanding my thoughts, said that they had been twins and that great sympathy had always existed between them. The disease which had killed the lady so young had left, as is usual in all cataleptic illnesses, a faint pink colour on the face and that suspicious smile on her lips, which is so terrible in death. We replaced and locked the lid and, closing the iron door, made our way into the gloomy apartments of the upper part of the house.

And now, after some days of terrible grief, a noticeable change came over my friend. His ordinary manner had vanished. His usual habits were forgotten. He walked from room to room hurriedly but aimlessly. His face was even paler and the light in his eyes had gone out. There were times when I thought his mind was struggling against some dreadful secret, which he wanted to tell me but did not have the necessary courage to. At other times, however, I suspected madness because I saw him looking into space for long hours with the deepest attention, as if listening to some imaginary sound. It was no wonder that his condition terrified me. I felt the wild influence of his superstitions overtaking me slowly but surely.

It was after going to bed late at night on the seventh or eighth day after Lady Madeline was put in her coffin that I experienced the full power of these feelings. The hours came and went but I could not sleep. I struggled to reason away my nervousness. I tried to believe that much, if not all, I felt was due to the gloomy surroundings of my room. But I could not shake off my unhappiness. I sat up in bed and, looking into the darkness of the room, listened – I cannot say why, except that it seemed like an instinct – to certain low and indefinite sounds which came from... I did not know where. I felt that I would not sleep anymore that night and, feeling frightened, I quickly put on my clothes and walked rapidly around my room.

I had only just begun walking when a light step on the stairs caught my attention. I recognised Usher’s step. The next moment, he knocked softly at my door and entered, holding a lamp. His face was, as usual, pale but there was madness in his eyes. His appearance terrified me – but anything was better than being alone.

"Haven’t you seen it?" he asked, after staring around him for some moments in silence. "You haven’t seen it, then? But, wait! You will." He hurried to one of the windows and threw it open, despite the storm outside. It was a wild but terrifyingly beautiful night. There were frequent and violent changes in the direction of the wind and the clouds were so thick that we could not see the moon or stars. But the ground and the lake outside were gleaming in the unnatural light that surrounded the house.

"You must not, you will not, look at this storm!" I said, as I pulled Usher from the window to a seat. "It’s just a storm. The light in the garden must be natural too, although we cannot understand it. Let’s close the window. The air is cold and dangerous. Let’s spend the night talking."

At the end of this sentence I paused. Although I immediately decided that my excited imagination had deceived me, it seemed that a strange noise came from some very remote part of the house. It was, without doubt, all part of that wild night because, with the noise of the storm, no sound could have disturbed me. But it came again. Again I paused, now with a feeling of amazement – for there could be no doubt whatever, this time, that I did actually hear a low and distant, but long and most unusual screaming sound, although I found it impossible to say where it came from. I was very concerned but I still had sufficient presence of mind to avoid exciting my friend. I was not certain that he had noticed the sounds, although, certainly, a strange change had taken place in his face during the last few minutes. He had gradually moved his chair to sit with his face to the door and I could only partly see him, although I saw his lips trembled as if he were murmuring something. His head had dropped on his chest, but I knew he was not asleep as his eyes were wide open.

Suddenly, I became aware of a metallic noise. I jumped to my feet but Usher was undisturbed. I rushed to the chair where he sat. His eyes were fixed before him, and there was a stony look on his face. But, as I put my hand on his shoulder, a sickly smile moved about his lips and he spoke in a low, hurried murmur, as if unconscious I was there. I slowly understood the terrible meaning of his words.

"Not hear it? Yes, I hear it and have heard it. Long, long, long, many minutes, many hours, many days, I’ve heard it but I didn’t dare to speak! We have put her in the tomb while she’s still alive! I tell you now that I heard her first weak movements in the coffin. I heard them many, many days ago! And now, tonight, the breaking of her coffin and the opening of her prison! Oh, where can I run to? Won’t she be here very soon? Can’t I hear her footsteps on the stairs?" Here he jumped furiously to his feet and screamed out, "I tell you she’s standing outside the door now!"

The storm blew the door open and there stood Lady Madeline of Usher. There was blood on every part of her emaciated body after her struggle. For a moment she remained trembling at the door, then, with a low cry, fell heavily on her brother. In her violent and now final death-agonies, she pushed him to the floor. But he was a corpse too, a victim of the terrors he had expected.

I ran from that room and that house. Suddenly along the path a wild light lit my surroundings and I turned to see where such an unusual gleam could have come from because only the vast house and its shadows were behind me. The light came from the full, blood-red moon which now shone. While I looked, a crack in the wall of the house appeared and rapidly widened. A fierce wind blew as I watched the walls falling. There was a long noise like the voice of a thousand waters and the deep, dark lake below the bridge I was standing on closed silently over the stones of the "House of Usher".