This is based on Edgar Allan Poe's short story "The Fall of the House of Usher." I turned it into a long poem (slightely modernized and simplified) as an assignment.
Disclaimer: I do not own Poe or any of his brilliant works. I just really liked this small project and wanted to post it. I hope you enjoy.
That Night, That Place
"There was an iciness, a sinking, a sickening of the heart-" as I gazed upon that house.
Its gloomy aura was suffocating- Chilling to the bone!
So quiet was it, that no sounds of life were heard.
Not the song of a bird nor the scurry of a squirrel.
In my car I sat, watching, waiting, petrified where I was parked on the driveway, still as stone.
Yet I knew I had to enter soon;
I could not leave the House of Usher.
It was because of him.
Him who had, (In the middle of the night no less!)
sent a text message to my phone.
He –Roderick Usher– "...had been one of my boon companions in boyhood," and as of late, he was ill.
That message brought me here.
And how could I leave now?
Not when he spoke of "an earnest desire to see me, as his best, and indeed his only personal friend[.]"
It is with that thought in mind that I head toward the entrance.
The dreary entrance, of this oppressive mansion.
Once through the door a maid led me through the corridors, where her employer surely dwelled.
The interior, like the exterior, gave me a sense of foreboding.
Like I should leave before my own mind was overcome with fear.
And as we walked, we approached a door.
Through it we passed and she brought me to a large room.
This giant area of space was filled with fantastic objects.
From the furniture, (definitely modern seemingly without comfort)
to the books, and instruments that laid about.
And yet if I had to choose a word to describe this scene...
it would be sorrowful.
There was a man there,
"[and] it was with difficulty[,] that I could bring myself to admit the identity of the wan being before me[...]
with the companion of my early boyhood."
His appearance was striking, and somehow I could not recognize him.
It wasn't that he had aged (though indeed he had).
Instead it was his whole countenance,
and that remarkable complexion that seemed almost inhuman.
I was brought back to the sole purpose of my being here.
He expected me to bring him some comfort, some peace.
And as he said this he went off explaining the symptoms of his supposed illness.
The said nature of his malady appeared to infect the senses.
"Some of these, as he detailed them, interested and bewildered me[.]"
The peculiarity of this sickness was odd indeed and yet it clearly affected my dear friend.
Who cringed from the slightest light and gasped in pain from any strong sounds.
As I spent time with him I figured his illness derived from his peculiar mental state.
And with it came new ideas.
Roderick it seems, had (during his illness) taken an interest in things superstitious.
In some ways he theorized that the supernatural may have a hand at his sickness.
Though he also brought a more plausible reason,
by the name of Madeline.
The Lady Madeline.
This girl, young lady, or woman (so to speak) was my companion's sister,
and his last relative.
Her death would leave him the last of the Ushers.
As I was told this the Lady passed by, but as soon as she came she was gone.
Her disappearance left me with a sense of dread that filled my whole body.
When I turned to my friend I witnessed a depressiveness about him.
One which brought tears to his eyes.
The next day I would hear of her passing.
You see Lady Madeline was sick.
Her illness was baffling,
and no one could reason how her decease had come.
That glimpse I had seen of her, would be the last…
Or so I thought.
For the next few days she would be taboo, her name unmentionable.
During this time I would attempt to cheer my friend.
We read, we painted, as well as other activities.
Yet it brought no amount of happiness to Roderick.
Throughout my time spent in that house my friend changed.
Before he seemed inhuman, where madness dwelled in the recesses of his mind.
Now, he was madness itself.
His favorite pastime was most definitely reading.
Yet the material he read was full of mystic ideas and misconceptions.
His phantasmagoric thoughts came forth and my friend sank deeper in his own insanity.
It was one of these days,
We were reading.
And somehow we came across this poem…
The writing itself is not important, but what came of it is.
The poem led to more literature of its haunting kind, and in turn that led to Madeline.
It was Roderick's thought that we should arrange a burial site (temporarily at least) for his sister.
He wanted to safely preserve her body where no one would disturb her,
as doctors and the likes wished to study the astounding circumstances of her demise.
The only one he trusted to help, was myself.
And so I agreed,
if only to bring HIM peace of mind.
At night we carried her.
My friend had set up the basement in such a way as to carefully place her in it.
We carried the coffin (with her inside), down, down, down, to the basement.
Once there he opened it.
He wished to see her once more.
To my dismay she was smiling!
Smiling, with a blush on her face and a tranquility about her that in death was anything but natural.
With the closing of the lid she was gone.
Once the last nail was placed we left…
Never to see her smiling again.
It was a bit after that when my life truly changed.
My friend worsened to the point of paranoia.
His superstitious beliefs ruled his mind while he lived in complete insanity.
After one of those days (where we spent time in each other's company),
I had retired to bed feeling not quite like myself…
That night, in that place,
I could not sleep.
The night was wild with thunder and lightning.
The phones were dead, the signals cancelled, the lights flickered,
And for some inexplicable reason I was terrified.
Something was about to happen.
Deciding that without sleep I might as well take out a book I went toward my desk.
Right then I heard a knock.
It was Roderick.
If at all possible he was madder than usual, eyes wide in fearful anticipation.
He spoke rapidly, mumbling, and to calm him down I began to read.
While reading I heard noises.
Not just any noises!
These very sounds fit the story I was reading;
As if my voice brought upon an unplanned soundtrack of sorts…
I turned to my friend facing the doorway he was paralyzed, murmuring, shaking, trembling in fright.
All I could catch was that:
He had known,
He had heard,
And she was coming.
With a cry he exclaimed my fears.
"We have put her living in a tomb!"
The door opened.
There she stood, the Lady Madeline.
It was a gruesome sight indeed.
At her entrance I fled.
Tumbling in the darkness I was heading toward my car.
Once there I got in, and in a moment of weakness I looked back.
That setting, that picture…
It is still engraved in my mind.
With a lightning strike the House fell in flames, the devil at its door.
As it tumbled down in pieces I drove away.
That iciness, sinking, and sickening my heart had stayed, as I escaped that house.
Its aura had suffocated me, had chilled my bones.
So quiet it was, unnatural even, that it took no noise to wake the dead.
In my car I sat, driving, speeding, racing in the night… My blood frozen.
Yet I knew as I left that I could not forget.
My mind would forever stay, in the House of Usher.
The End.
[Review please!]