The Fall of the House of Usher

The CampfireThe openingFree

I rode alone, all one dull, dark, silent autumn day, through a gloomy stretch of country. And at last, as the shadows of evening came, I saw the House of Usher.

I don't know why. But the moment I saw it, a feeling of hopeless gloom came over me.

It was an enormous old mansion of gray stone. The windows looked like empty eyes. Dead trees stood around it. And in front of it lay a small lake, black and still. When I looked into the water, I saw the reflection of the house, upside down, and it looked even worse.

And as I looked at it, I noticed something. A crack. A thin, jagged crack, running from the roof of the house, zigzagging down the front wall, all the way to the black water.

I had been friends with Roderick Usher when we were boys. I hadn't seen him in years. Then a letter came. A wild, desperate letter. He was sick in body and mind, he wrote. He begged me to come. I was his only friend.

When I saw him, I barely knew him. He was pale as a corpse. His eyes were huge and shining. His hair was long and wild. His hands shook.

He told me his illness. Every one of his senses was painfully sharp. He could only eat the blandest food. He could only wear certain clothes. Flowers smelled unbearable. Light hurt his eyes. Almost every sound filled him with terror.

"I shall die," he said, "of this deplorable folly. I don't fear danger itself. I fear what fear will do to me."