The Fall (23 page)
Authors: Bethany Griffin
I stare out the window, hoping Dr. Winston will go, either to consult with the other doctors, or to do whatever it is he does in the few moments of the day when he isn't by my side. When he leaves, I will empty the contents of this mug into a vase or urn. But he sits and smiles, too patient. Far too patient.
D
espite some successes at fighting off fits, I fell into a catatonic trance in the hall of portraits today. The portraits themselves, the formal paintings of unsmiling Ushers, don't interest me much anymore, as they always stay the same, except when the servants move them. I'm more intrigued by the dark oil paintings, which sometimes show the future.
My feet scraped across the floor as I walked to the miniature of the house. I had avoided it since I saw Cassandra in it . . . but today I found the nerve to look.
In the forefront of the painting, there was a perfect red rose, untouched by rot or taint.
And in the back, as always, was the House of Usher. But this time the crack, the one that I had seen through the mist with Cassandra, was like a shadow snaking its way up the side of the house and marring the odd symmetry of the many different parts.
There is something here of importance, I told myself. And then I fell.
T
onight is moonless, and it is late. My dressing table is covered with candles of all sizes. I have collected them from throughout the house. Now I have light; my room is ablaze with it.
I take off my dress slowly. Being naked, for me, has always been for the doctorsâpart of their curiosity, and their cruelty. It has always meant chilly discomfort.
But my room is warm. And I am alone.
It has been months since Roderick left. Weeks in which my only human touch was to have my pulse taken, my temperature gauged, or my blood stolen away. Or Dr. Winston's grasping hands.
I run my hand over my skin. It is amazingly soft, despite the scars. Scars from injuries I don't recall.
Shadows move in the hallway. Someone is standing outside my locked door.
I button my dress quickly. Forgotten scars don't matter as much as avoiding future ones. I turn back to my grandmother's books. Wind pummels the house, howling in through the cracks and crevices. Cracks and crevices. The house is not invulnerable.
I
am cursed. I've always known this, but never been quite so aware.
Dr. Winston insists that I lie in bed. I must speak to no one, not even the servants. I must not read. He tells the maids to remove any books they find in my room. For my own good. He forces me to drink the contents of the cups that he brings night after night, and sometimes in the middle of the day.
He claims I am too feeble to get out of bed, advises me to stare at the wall, to think of nothing. I think of ways to kill him.
When I destroy the house, he will be inside and he will die.
When I destroy the house.
This is a new and frightening thought.
Yes, the house is malignant . . . but destroying it?
Lisbeth never made plans on this scale, or if she did, did not record it in her journal. My mother did not think of it, though she at least loved one of her children enough to defy the house and send him away.
I know now that getting away is useless. My life has been spent learning about the house. Father tried to take me away, and I tried to walk away on my own. But now I realize I will never escape, as long as the house is standing. Fleeing takes precious energy. I must find a better way to use the little power I have.
I will bring down the house.
The question is . . . how will I do it?
I've put together things that none of the rest of them did, collected tidbits from Lisbeth's journal, from the books in Grandmother's room. From the library. I've watched the stories play out, night after night, whether I wanted to see them or not.
I pace back and forth across my room. They've taken all the books, even the ones I might use to hold my door in place. Instead I fold the rug.
Long ago, Roderick and I found a book, the one that said the house used to sit beside the sea. The author believed that there was a chalice, and that object was connected to the consciousness of the house.
But they were all wrong. The house was distracting them. Why would it give anyone a key to its destruction?
There are no magical objects in the house. There is the house itself, conscious and evil, the ineffective ghosts, and me.
And my oldest ancestor, buried in the dungeon. The great foundation stone is his tombstone, moved here from wherever the house was before. The entire house crouches around it, protecting it, so it must be important. The root of everything that the House of Usher is.
The house has forged me. Dr. Winston sees me as his victim, but he is wrong. I do not fear pain. I live through pain every day.
There is nothing that truly frightens me. Not anymore.
If the original Usher's gravestone is destroyed, will the house be able to stand?
A great vicious crack is rending the House of Usher, slowly destroying it. It might take a hundred years. Perhaps fifty, with my tenacious vines speeding the destruction. Or I could bring the house down much, much faster.
If only I can find the proper tools.
T
he gardener's shed sits behind the house, hidden by trees.
I heave the rotted door open and look inside. The shed holds rusted shears, a few spades, a long-handled shovel, and other rusting tools. In the corner I find a great mallet, a sledgehammer, with a head of steel. The wood handle is slimy, but the steel is bright.
It is too heavy for me to carry more than a short distance, and I have to devise some way of getting it into the house without the house realizing what I am doing.
I need pocket watches. Every pocket watch I've ever acquired over the years . . . and even then, will they be enough to distract the house from my intentions?
C
arrying a brightly patterned picnic blanket, I walk outside. When did it become spring? I thought winter would go on forever, austere and unrelenting, but green shoots are bursting out of the earth. I wander into the dead forest. Five paces in, ten. At twenty paces, the air changes. The air here is lighter. Mushrooms peer out from between the exposed roots of the trees. Worms slither in and out of the dark earth.
A tombstone stands in what used to be a clearing; weeds and saplings have grown up over the years. I clear it with my hand.
LISBETH USHER, BELOVED SISTER OF ANNABEL
, it says. I feel myself swaying. She didn't get away. She didn't escape. It makes my own course of action clearer. The house won't release any of us. Not while it stands.
Lisbeth Usher. She looked in the wrong places. She put her hope in the library. The secret is not there; I've looked. She put her faith in Charles Usher. My father. But I will not put my faith in anyone.
Dr. Winston finds me. I try to look surprised and a little upset, as if I wasn't waiting for him.
I spread the picnic blanket quickly. His mad eyes pass over the bright, busy pattern and focus on my drab gray.
We are, both of us, trying to find something. He thinks we are searching for the same thing. For a moment, my surety wavers. The house wouldn't send him on a useless search . . . but then I remember Grandmother's books, filled with hints about ancient artifacts. She's the one who has sent him chasing through the rooms. The house doesn't care.
“Madeline.” He takes a seat beside me in the grass, as if we are great friends. “Do you remember when I came to the house, and you were in the garden?”
I fake a smile for him, waiting for the question.
“You had an urn, Madeline. I said that I thought it was some sort of burial urn, and it glittered oddly. I have been thinking about it, and I suspect some sort of metalâgold, perhapsâwas melted down and mixed with whatever pottery clay was used, before it was fired.”
He thinks the urn was recast from the lost Usher goblet. It's a good enough guess and will occupy at least a little of his time.
“I remember,” I say. “It was useful for carrying water from the well, as the water from the spring is black.”
“Yes,” he says. So very impatient, always moving, agitated, as if he no longer feels comfortable in his own skin. “Yes. Where is it? In the gardener's shed, perhaps?”
Fear washes over me. Not the gardener's shed, which is my destination. Why would he think it was there?
“The servants took it,” I say in a soft voice, as if this is a secret. He leans close, eager to hear. “They said it was a relic of the house. They polished it and put it in one of the front rooms. I saw it there just recently.” Just enough detail to make him believe.
He squeezes my hand. “Are you feeling well? I need to go inside for just a few moments, but only if you feel well enough for me to leave you.”
“I feel well,” I reassure him.
It will take him hours to search through the front rooms. Still, it will be best if I hurry, just in case he returns.
I rush to the gardener's shed. In my arms I carry the picnic blanket, brightly patterned and garish as ever. I have a pocket watch in each of my pockets. Wrapping the sledgehammer in fabric, I heave it into the house. Cook sees me and stops working to stare, so instead of taking it down the endless stairs to the vault, I stow it in an alcove. My arms tremble from the exertion. It is heavier than I expected. Heavy enough to smash stone, if I am strong enough to wield it.
Somehow I must get the servants out of the house and collect my strength.
A
magistrate has come to call. He is looking for Emily.
So, she is truly gone. I had hoped the doctor's confession was a lie, even if it meant she had abandoned me.
The servants shake their heads and keep working. After Dr. Peridue bragged to me about his Usher ancestry, I've taken to studying the servants' faces. I've come to suspect that most of them were drawn in by the house. They all have Usher blood. They are stoic with the magistrate. Silent.
Dr. Winston is also silent, but sweat glistens on his brow.
“What about you, Mr. Usher?” the magistrate asks.
It takes a moment for me to realize that the magistrate is talking to the doctor. Dr. Winston also seems perplexed.
“I'm not an Usher.” Dr. Winston chuckles to himself. “I'm a physician employed by the family to care for Miss Usher.”
“I beg your pardon, sir. You had a look about you. As if you had a bit of Usher blood.” The magistrate looks from Dr. Winston to me and back again. “We have a good bit of Usher blood in these parts. It always results in a bit of . . .” He shakes his head. “Strangeness.”
“I understand,” Dr. Winston says, as if this is a compliment.
The magistrate shuffles his feet, obviously uncomfortable. The floor in this room is wood, dark, and without depthâthere is no shine to it, or reflection. As if it absorbs the light of the candles.
“Have you seen anything unusual?” the magistrate asks, turning to me.
Words race through my mind. How much to tell him? What will he believe?
“Iâ” I begin, but Dr. Winston interrupts.
“I'm afraid that questions tax her too much. She shouldn't even be downstairs. She shouldn't have to hear about that poor unfortunate girl.”
“I knew her!” I blurt out, but instead of listening, the magistrate nods and then ignores my words. He thinks I'm unhinged.
Like me, Dr. Winston never leaves the property. If he killed Emily, her body must be near. If I can find it, maybe they'll arrest Dr. Winston for her murder. I walk to the door, hoping the magistrate will stop me, will try once more to ask a question. But again Dr. Winston distracts him.
“Would you like some refreshment?” Dr. Winston offers. A distraction, but also foolish. He should encourage the man to leave. Even if the magistrate isn't suspicious, there's always the chance that a battle-ax or a chandelier will fall on him, leaving us with one more extraneous body.
“Thank you,” he says.
I slip out of the room but watch them from the hall.
Dr. Winston sits and calmly sips his tea. He's guilty, and he's gloating, but only I can tell, because he keeps smiling at the magistrate and offering more tea.
He taps his fingers nervously, a staccato rhythm. To me, it sounds like a heartbeat.
Finally the magistrate stands and thanks Dr. Winston. He takes his leave, saying that perhaps he'll be back next week.
By then I must have something to show him.
M
y arm is speckled with purple bruises. My keeper has a penchant for pinching.
This morning, an odd little hairless squirrel dragged itself onto the ledge outside my window. I was startled for a moment, surprised by the intelligence in its beady eyes. It crept forward, and I saw how awkwardly it moved its body.
I took the bread from my tray and crumbled it in my fist. As I watched, the stunted creature scurried away, hiding in the greenery that grows now on this side of the house.
I scattered the crumbs on the ledge in case it returned and was hungry, before going upstairs for an examination. Dr. Winston passes me on the stairs. He'll wait for me in my room. He doesn't want them to see the way he looks at me.
They have me stand while they whisper together.
