A/N: I originally posted this a while back, and I've been meaning to edit it forever. The grammar is (hopefully) better now, and the formatting should be clearer. The original note:

This is a parody. Meaning that I own absolutely nothing at all. The bits in italics are excerpts from the actual story The Fall of the House of Usher.

Much thanks to Emily (HereWeGoOnceMore) for being kind enough to beta this both the first and second time around.

On with the crack!

CAST:

Malik: Narrator in the original short story

Bakura: "Usher"

Phill: The physician

Madeline: Usher's sister

Marik: The valet

Usher: …?

During the whole of a dull, dark and soundless day in the autumn of the year, when the clouds hung oppressively low in the heavens, I had been passing alone, on horseback, through a singularly dreary tract of country, and at length found myself, as the shades of the evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher.

For starters, it was dark.

And wet.

And cold.

And miserable.

Malik Ishtar, your average, everyday, mostly normal guy, stopped his horse, stared up at the big, creepy house in front of him, and read aloud the large sign posted on the door.

'"Welcome to the House of Usher. All who enter without permission will have their spleens ripped out, deep-fried, and fed to them on a silver plate. Enjoy your stay!"'

Malik shrugged. "Looks harmless enough." He climbed off of the horse and entered the house.

On one of the staircases, I met the family physician.

"Why am I here again?" Malik asked himself for the umpteenth time. "I can't remember; do I know this Usher guy? I'm thinking of someone, tall, dark, and bald. Or maybe that's someone else. Damn, I know too many people. I can't even keep them all straight."

While trying to recall Usher's attributes, Malik noticed a conveniently-placed staircase in a darkened corner. Sitting on the staircase was an even-more-conveniently placed man. For some strange reason, Malik felt compelled to talk to him.

He couldn't help it: his parents had never taught him the Stranger Danger lesson.

Malik had been a bit deprived as a child.

"Um, hello?"

When he heard Malik's voice, the man looked up and grinned in delight. "Greetings, fellow human being!" he said, reaching out to shake hands. "I am the Physician,".

"Well, hi there, Mr. Physician," Malik said, taking the man's hand.

"Please, call me Phill."

Malik shrugged. "Sure, whatever. Anyway, I'm looking for Usher. Do you know where he is?"

The physician—Phill—looked confused. "Usher? Who's Usher?"

Malik frowned. "You know, the guy who... owns this house?"

Phill shook his head. "I don't know anyone by the name of Usher. Are you sure you have the correct address?"

Malik slowly nodded his head, thinking of the sign on the front door. "Yes, I'm pretty sure this is it. Thanks for your time, though."

Phill smiled and bowed, then went on his way.

That was weird, Malik thought, and continued walking, humming a tune under his breath.

Soon, however, he began to feel that a pair of eyes were watching him.

"Um, hello?" Malik called. "Is anyone there? I'm trying to find— AHHH!"

Malik leaped back in alarm as a hand snaked out to cover his mouth and a chill voice whispered in his ear.

"You must not yell in the house. The master doesn't like it."

Thankfully, the hand removed itself from Malik's face and gave him a clear view of its owner before he could hyperventilate.

The guy was tall, skinny, and tanned, with a ragged cape that matched his ragged grin and hair that almost touched the ceiling.

I'm absolutely crazy, his eyes said.

Danger, danger! Malik's brain said back.

Malik stared warily at the stranger, practically feeling the little red warning flags smack him in the face. "Hello," he said. No sudden movements. It might attack. "Um, if you don't mind me asking… who are you?"

The man grinned, and Malik felt chills rise up his spine. "I knowthis guy. At least, I think I do. Where have I seen him…?"

"I am Marik. The valet."

Malik raised an eyebrow. He didn't take kindly to people jumping out at him from behind staircases. "Well, Marik," he said, "could you tell me where I am? I think I might be lost."

Marik smiled again. It was quite creepy. "You're in the House of Usher, of course!"

Malik rolled his eyes. "I know that. I just need a few more details."

Marik's eyes lit up. "Details? Well, let's see. First of all, you're in a story, as am I. Somewhere, there is a person neither of us has ever met scribbling out our exact conversation on a piece of paper. In fact," he said thoughtfully, "I can't even say this sentence without her writing it." He winked. "Which means," he said, "that you don't exist. And neither do I. And neither does Usher."

Malik blinked. This guy, this "Marik," was definitely a class-one lunatic.

"Look," he said, trying to be reasonable, "that's impossible. It's improbable. It makes about as much sense as a man-eating bunny. Now can you please show me where the owner of this house is?"

Marik cocked an eyebrow. "I already told you; Usher doesn't exist." He sighed theatrically. "But if you insist.…"

With that, he threw open the door behind him, grinned evilly, and vanished.

The valet now threw open a door and ushered me into the presence of his master.

Upon my entrance, Usher arose from a sofa on which he had been lying at full length, and greeted me with vivacious warmth which had much in it, I at first thought, of an overdone cordiality.

Malik walked hesitantly into the room. "Hey, Usher? Are you here?" he called. "Hello? I— AHHH!"

Malik was cut off when, without warning, a tall figure in the form of a man popped out from behind a large leather couch.

"Hello," the man said. "You must be Malik." He looked down. "Um. Is there a reason why you're on the floor?"

Malik glared up from his new, oh-so-comfortable position on the rug, gasping for breath. (His leap from the ground into the air upon being terrified out of his wits had left him a bit winded.)

"Yes, I am," he growled, "and, sheesh, you shouldn't do that, it's— wait a minute. You, sir, are not Usher."

"And you, my dear, are no lady!"

"What?"

"Oh, sorry. Wrong story."

It seemed that Malik was at least right in his assumption, however, because Not-Usher grinned and said, "You are completely correct."

"Then who exactly are you?" Malik asked. He thought of Marik.

"…Which means you don't exist. And neither do I. And neither does—"

"Usher hasn't been around for ages. I live here now."

Malik snorted, because seriously. Another lunatic.

Would it never end?

"And you are...?"

"Bakura."

"That's a weird name."

Bakura rolled his eyes. "Oh, like 'Malik' is any better?" he asked.

Malik decided to ignore him. "Wait, if Usher's not here, then that means that you called

me—which I do not appreciate, by the way, since I don't even knowyou—and I'd like to know why."

Bakura grinned. "I was just coming to that."

It was thus that he spoke of the object of my visit, of his earnest desire to see me, and of the solace he expected me to afford him.

Bakura talked for a long time. A really long time. When he finished, however, Malik decided that there was only one thing that was perfectly clear.

Clear, but crazy. Absolutely, positively, insane.

This place wasn't an estate. It was a madhouse.

"So," Malik began, trying to stay calm, "you called me away from everything I was doing, everything that was important, everything that Iactually cared about... because you were bored?"

Bakura lazily examined a nail "Once again, you are correct."

Luckily for Bakura, Malik was stopped from leaping up and throttling him with his own intestines by the entrance of Marik, accompanied by a tray of cookies and a really large pot of tea. Malik watched him set everything down on the table and back away to blend into the wall.

"No offence or anything, but where on earth did you manage to pick him up?"

Bakura shrugged. "He was here before me. Told me he was Usher's butler. He does pretty much everything around here now. I don't even pay him!"

Marik grinned at this and gave the two of them a mocking bow.

Definitely a creeper.

"Now," Bakura said, "allow me to explain."

He suffered much from a morbid acuteness of the senses.

"Morbid acuteness of the senses?"

"Yes."

"What the hell does that even mean?"

"I honestly have no idea."

The most insipid food was alone endurable

"What, so no tacos?"

He could wear garments of only certain texture

"Like what, silk and velvet? If that's it, then we need to clear some stuff up right now, because I am not into that...

The odors of all flowers were oppressive

"Darn, no birthday roses for you."

His eyes were tortured by even a fain light

"So wear sunglasses! They make prescription lenses, you know."

And there were but peculiar sounds, and these from string instruments, which did not inspire him with horror.

"Okay, now I'm starting to think you're just plain picky."

"Oh, shut up, Malik. These were Usher's problems, not mine. Who the hell is narrating this, anyway?"

I learned, moreover, at intervals, and through broken and equivocal hints, another singular feature of his mental condition. He was enchained by certain superstitious impressions in regard to the dwelling which he tenanted, and whence, in many years, he had never ventured forth.

"So," Malik said, sipping his tea, "why do you live here, anyway?"

Bakura shrugged. "I came to apply for a job. There wasn't anyone here, though, so I decided to stay."

"Do you ever leave?"

Bakura scoffed. "Hell, no."

"Why?"

"Because… well… because…."

"Because what?"

"I don't know, okay! What is this, Twenty Questions?"

"Sheesh, relax. I was just asking."

He admitted, however, although with hesitation, that much of the peculiar gloom which thus afflicted him could be traced to a far more palpable origin—to the severe and long-continued illness—indeed to the evidently approaching dissolution—of a tenderly beloved sister, his sole companion for long years, his last and only relative on Earth.

"Are you absolutely sure there's no reason?"

Bakura rubbed at his temples. "Lord, do you ever quit?" he growled. Then he sighed. "If I tell you, will you shut up?"

Malik smiled innocently. "Of course."

"Great. Well, there is one reason."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Apparently, there's some chick who lives here, and I can't leave 'cause Marik says I have to take care of her."

Malik frowned. "Marik said that? But—doesn't he work for you?"

"Well, technically, yes," Bakura answered. "But the one time I actually tried to leave, he held me to the door with a knife and threatened to slit me open." He shrugged. "He said it was important to 'the story.'"

"Story? What story?"

Bakura shook his head. "No idea. I don't think he's right in the head, though, if you take my meaning."

Malik nodded. "So anyway," he said, "you can't leave 'cause a loony says you have to take care of this girl?"

"Yup. I think she was Usher's sister."

"Whoa. That's a plot twist if I ever saw one."

"You're telling me."

While he spoke, the lady Madeline (for so she was called) passed through a remote portion of the apartment, and, without having noticed my presence, disappeared.

"Hey, Bakura?"

"Yes?"

"Is that her?"

Bakura turned around. "Oh. Yes. Hello, Madeline."

Standing in the door way was a beautiful young lady of about seventeen. She was pale, thin, and sickly, and basically looked like a living corpse, but definitely beautiful.

Definitely.

"Hi, Bakura," she said. "Who's this?"

"Malik," said Malik.

"Oh. 'Ello."

"Um, hi." Malik frowned.

Madeline just smiled.

Sheesh, Malik thought. I'm surrounded by nutcases. Will the horror never end?

The disease of the lady Madeline had long baffled the skill of her physicians. A settled apathy, a gradual wasting away of the person, and frequent although transient affections of a partially cataleptically character were the unusual diagnosis.

"So… you're sick?"

"No."

"No?"

Bakura chuckled at Malik's confusion. "She's on all kinds of dubious drugs, none of them medical."

Madeline smiled proudly. "Yep."

Malik stared at her. "Um, no offense, but you look ready to drop dead."

"Really?" Madeline jumped up and hurried to the nearest mirror. "Oh, God, I hope it's today! I can't wait to die. It looks like so much fun."

There was a very pregnant pause before Malik broke the silence.

"That's it, I'm out of here."

He rose to leave, but Bakura and Madeline shoved him back into his chair.

"Oh, no you don't," Bakura said. "You said you'd stay."

"…I did?"

"Yes.

"Bakura, you stole someone's house, your 'sister' is a lunatic, your valet is a homicidal maniac, and—"

"God, you're a whiny bitch."

Hitherto she had steadily born up against the pressure of her malady, and had not betaken herself finally to bed; but on the evening of my arrival at the house, she succumbed to the prostrating power of the destroyer; and I learned that the glimpse I had obtained of her person would thus probably be the last I should obtain—that the lady, at least while living, would be seen by me no more.

"Uh, Malik?"

"What?"

"I hate to interrupt your rant," Bakura said, indicating the floor, "but I think Madeline just dropped dead."

Malik blinked. "Oh. Uh, I'm sorry."

"Don't be. She had the most annoying voice…."

For several days ensuing, her name was unmentioned by either Usher or myself; and during this period I was busied in earnest endeavors to alleviate the melancholy of my friend.

Several days later...

"Score! What now, Malik? I so kick your ass in poker."

"So what?" Malik asked grumpily. He was short about twenty bucks, and he didn't take kindly to Bakura's gloating. "You suck at B.S."

"Yeah, well—"

"Hey, Bakura?"

"What?"

"What's that?"

Among other things, I hold painfully in mind a certain singular perversion and amplification of the wild air of the last waltz of Van Weber. From these paintings I would in vain endeavor to educe more than a small portion which should lie within the compass of merely written words.

Bakura looked up to where Malik was pointing. "Oh, that? Some kind of painting, I think."

"…You mean you don't actually know?"

"No. I don't like paintings."

"Why the heck not?"

"Because they suck."

"Um—"

"Don't judge me!"

Malik coughed. "Right. Uh, is there anything you dolike?"

"Hmm." Bakura thought for a minute. "Books, I guess."

"Really? You don't strike me as the bookish type."

"You shouldn't judge a book by its cover. Ha, ha, geddit?"

"Er, yeah. Anyway, we're gonna read a book."

Our books—the books which, for years, had formed no small portion of the mental existence of the invalid—were, as might be supposed, in strict keeping with this character of phantasm.

"So, Bakura, what kind of books have you got?'

"I don't know, check the bookshelf."

We pored together over such works as…

"Meet Dick and Jane."

"Curious George Uses the Potty."

"Run, Spot, Run."

"Cannibalism for the Squeamish."

His chief delight, however, was found in the perusal of an exceedingly rare and curious book in quarto Gothic—the manual of a forgotten church.

"The Lost Church of Our Dark Lord?"

"Yup." Bakura said. "It's quite fascinating, really. And it's given me some ideas….

I could not help thinking of the wild ritual of this work, and of its probable influence upon the hypochondriac, when, one evening, having informed me abruptly that the lady Madeline was no more, he stated his intention of preserving her corpse for a fortnight, in one of the numerous vaults within the walls of the building.

When Malik realized what Bakura was planning, he was, in order of occurrence, surprised, angry, and, of course, extremely interested.

"Let me get this straight: you want to take your dead 'sister,' drag her downstairs, and lock her in a vault?"

Bakura grinned. "Well, give the little man a big cigar. You're absolutely correct."

Malik shook his head. "Nuh-uh. No way. I absolutely refuse to take part in this. Count me out."

At the request of Usher I personally aided him in the arrangements for the temporary entombment.

"…Okay, that's just not fair."

"Sorry, Malik. It's in the script."

"Bastard."

"I can't believe I'm doing this," Malik mumbled, trying to balance his end of the coffin so he could open the door to the basement steps. "I just can't believe it."

Bakura rolled his eyes. "Oh, come on. It's not like we're doing anything wrong! Haven't you ever seen The Phantom of the Opera? There's an entire scene in which the heroine spends a total of fifteen minutes thinking she's talking to her dead father, who just happens to be buried in a fancy angel-shaped tomb! Of course, it's actually her stalker, who's just pretending to be her father so he can gain her trust and kidnap her, but my point still stands. There. Stop right here."

Having deposited our mournful burden upon trestles within this region of horror, we partially turned aside the yet unscrewed lid of the coffin, and looked upon the face of the tenant.

"Wow. She looks so… so…."

"Dead?"

Malik frowned. "I was going to say 'beautiful,' but I suppose 'dead' works just as well. Why does she look so funny?"

"Because she was a drug addict," Bakura said with a shrug. "She died shooting heroin. I never did find out who her dealer was…."

"Can we go upstairs now? It's freaking cold."

"Stop your bitching and buy yourself a coat."

Still arguing, the two of them headed up the stairs. Neither of them saw Marik slip quietly up to the coffin and slide a little plastic baggie of white powder into the dead girl's hand.

Bakura didn't pay him, and flowing purple capes didn't grow on trees.

And now, some days of bitter grief having elapsed, an observable change came over the features of the mental disorder of my friend.

"Malik?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm bored."

Malik sighed in exasperation. "You're supposedto be mourning the dear departed lady Madeline."

Bakura pouted. "But mourning is so boring," he whined. "Let's throw a party!"

"No, Bakura. No parties."

"Aw, you're no fun."

I felt creeping upon me, by slow yet certain degrees, the wild influences of his own fantastic yet impressive superstitions.

"Bakura?"

"What, Malik?"

"Did you mess with my makeup again?"

"No, Mommy."

"Bakura?"

"What now?"

"Where do you keep the knives?"

"In that drawer. Why?"

"Because I'm going to kill you."

It was, especially, upon retiring to bed late in the night of the seventh or eighth day after the placing of the lady Madeline within the dungeon, that I experienced the full power of such feelings.

Later that night, Malik jerked awake from a horrible nightmare in a cold sweat.

"Jeeze," he mumbled, "that was bad. Who knew marshmallows could be so creepy?"

Overpowered by an intense sentiment of horror, unaccountable yet unendurable, I threw on my cloths with haste (for I felt that I should sleep no more during the night,) and endeavored to arouse myself from the pitiable condition into which I had fallen, by pacing rapidly to and fro through the apartment.

Unable to return to sleep, Malik decided to get up, get dressed, and take a walk.

Then he remembered that Marik was usually awake at this time as well, and decided to stay in the bedroom.

I had taken but few turns in this manner, when a light step on an adjoining staircase arrested my attention. I presently recognized it as that of Usher.

Malik stopped suddenly in his pacing and listened. He was sure he could hear something outside the door….

"Bakura?" he called, "is that you?"

The door swung open and Malik yelped. Bakura grinned as he stepped into the room.

"Aw, did I scare you, Malik?"

Malik, breathing heavily, sullenly shook his head. "No. I just… don't like being snuck up on."

Bakura rolled his eyes. "Oh, please. I gave you plenty of warning."

"Liar."

"Sissy."

Malik growled. "I've got an idea: why don't you shut up and leave?"

Bakura made a face. "But I don't like being alone when it's storming."

"Oh, now who's the sissy?" Malik said. Bakura glared at him.

"Take a look outside," he said, throwing open the window.

The impetuous fury of the entering gust nearly lifted us from our feet. It was, indeed, a tempestuous yet sternly beautiful night, and one wildly singular in its terror and its beauty.

"Whoa," Malik breathed. "It's freaking hell outside. I guess that puts an end to Marik's garden party, huh Bakura? Bakura?"

Bakura shook his head. "I hate storms. I hate them, I hate them, I hate them."

"Bakura, it's wind and rain and electricity. It's not like it's your dead not-sister coming back to kill you or anything like that."

"Malik?"

"What?"

"Don't tempt fate."

I suddenly became aware of a distinct, hollow, metallic, and clangorous, yet apparently muffled, reverberation.

Malik paused in his attempts to strangle Bakura and listened. "Hey, did you hear that?"

Bakura didn't answer. He was too busy hiding under the bed and yelling at the door.

"YOU'LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE, MADELINE!" he screamed. "GO AWAY, YOU CREEPY ZOMBIE WENCH!"

Malik pulled him out from under the bed. "Say that again?"

Bending closely over him, I at length drank in the hideous import of his words. "Now hear it?—yes, I hear it, andhave heard it. Long—long—long—many minutes, many hours, many days have I heard it—yet I dared not—oh, pity me, miserable wretch that I am!—I dared not—I dared not speak! We have put her living in the tomb!

"Wait, wait, wait, hold on a sec." Malik said. "How would that work? It goes against every law of science ever written! How could Madeline possibly be 'back from the dead?'"

"How should I know?" Bakura asked. "I just know it's her."

"How?"

"Because…" Bakura gulped. "Because I owe her a shitload of money, and she's already made it perfectly clear to me that she won't let me go 'til I pay her back."

Malik groaned. "Great. Just freaking great. Now we have an angry zombie…ghost…dead person…after us, and I'm going to die without ever having the satisfaction of seeing someone repair Star Wars: Episode Two. We. Are. Doomed."

Suddenly, from the corner where he had previously been unseen, came Marik's voice.

"I think," he said quietly, "that you should see what she wants." Much to the dismay of Malik and Bakura, he threw open the door.

Standing in the hallway was Madeline Usher.

Bakura looked at Malik. "Pay up."

"Hey, guys!" Madeline said with a wave. "It got really cold down there in that tomb, so I got Phill the Physician to let me out."

Malik and Bakura looked over her shoulder at Phill, who waved.

Malik took a steadying breath. "So, you're nothere to avenge your murder by lockingusin a tomb for the rest of our lives with the help of your legions of zombie minions?"

Madeline frowned. "No. Why on earth would I want to do that?"

Malik glanced over at Bakura, who pointedly avoided his gaze. "Uh, no reason." Then he looked over at Phill, who was waving his hand back and forth excitedly. "Yes, Phill, what is it?"

Phill grinned. "Guess what? I was doing some research after our meeting in the hallway some time ago, about Mr. Usher. Apparently, he didlive here!"

Malik rolled his eyes. "Gee, how shocking."

"But that's not all," Phill continued. "Apparently, he's still here."

Malik gaped, Bakura fell to the floor, and Madeline examined an interesting piece of lint on her dress.

"According to this convenient yet obtuse diary in Usher's handwriting," Phill said, "Usher never left! He's been in this house all this time. Which means," he said dramatically, "That he's in this room with us!"

Silence. Everyone held his (or, in one case, her) breath, waiting for Usher to leap out and reveal his true identity.

Ha.

Only Usher himself knew who he really was, and he wasn't telling anyone. He just smiled his creepy smile, and ran a hand through his extremely pointy hair, and continued with his menial chore of keeping the House of Usher in perfect condition. He was happy being nobody, was glad to stay that way, and all were none the wiser. It was a perfect world.

As for Malik, Bakura, Madeline, and Phill, they decided they'd had a bit of enough of that stupid house and decided to leave for good. They rented a condo in the Philippines and had fun getting plastered every day of their lives. And no one ever mentioned Usher ever again.

Of course, that isn't to say they didn't think of him. Malik never could remember exactly what his old friend looked like, and Bakura occasionally woke up screaming about zombies, but other than that, their lives were normal.

Until they heard about their neighbor's problem with ravens.

But that's another story.

And the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of "The House of Usher."