Excerpts from the Journal of Roderick J. Usher
August 14th
I know not why I have decided to take up quill again. It has been an age since I last dabbled in keeping a private journal - but the doctor claims self-reflection is good for the soul. Were that I need only put my thoughts to page and heal my broken body. The scratch of the nib drawn across parchment alone is a shock to my ears. I pray that my notes are legible - I must appear to be like one practicing calligraphy of the Orient, for my pen strokes are so delicate. That is in itself the reason I have decided to disclose my inner self to this journal - my unfortunate malady. I have tried to keep the appearance of one resilient to ailments, but in truth, my extended existence proves more torturous each day. I cannot bear to lie to Madeline anymore. She is fading fast, though she refuses to be confined to her bed, a pale reflection of her headstrong attitude. I have tried to appear well when I visit with her, for she so loves it when I smile, but my senses have driven me to the edge, and the guilt - oh! the guilt, for I so love Madeline, my Gemini as it were, but I cannot bear to see her in such a state. Neither could I bear to see innocents so affected as she.
Oh Madeline, you are generous to a fault!
August 15th
Melancholy has taken me again today. I had hoped it would not be so noticeable, but the good doctor peered through my shallow veil of contentment. He mentioned today that I would do well to go on holiday for a brief time. I laughed when he murmured thus - a rude reaction - but I could not help but to express my bitterness verbally. I cannot trust myself beyond the boundaries of our estate, our unhallowed ground. While I dare not leave, the doctor's words jarred my memories. A childhood friend of mine I have not seen in years… While I cannot bear to travel far from our domain, perhaps my friend could spare the time to visit his wretched colleague from so long ago…
August 17th
I know I need not explain myself to a personal journal, but I have not written of late due to the aggravation of my...symptoms. I have decided to continue with my writing, for I feel that sharing this oppressive darkness that pervades this house with the pages here is beneficial. From here on my entries shall be more succinct, however, as not to further my discomfort.
Following my last entry, I sent out a missive to my childhood friend. I pray that he remembers me, and if so, can take pity on me. I know it is dangerous, but I am willing to accept my selfishness if only to ease the loneliness I feel. It is new to me, this feeling of solitude. Before, I had Madeline, and her company was more than enough. Perhaps it is strange; our closeness, and lack of any contact beyond the manor. I'd like to believe it comes from our particular relationship - that of twins. The popular belief is that twins are connected in some way. That their feelings have been intertwined since birth. I cannot speak for others, but in my dear sister and I's case, I feel it is true.
Perhaps it is why we are both dying.
August 20th
I couldn't fight it again. My weakness has endangered her another time. She will not last - I will not last - if my own condition does not improve.
But how am I to fight it? When I inherited this disease this curse, (I need not lie to myself, or to these pages for the eyes of no one) I thought I could continue like this. I thought we could continue like this. The Ushers. Our family. Our blood. Father had always recounted the importance of continuing the line. He would be ashamed if he knew how much I desired its end. Perhaps I am weak, but I cannot hunt like those before me. I cannot pretend like my forefathers did, obscuring their monstrous acts with charity and musical endeavors. If not for Madeline, I would have ended my residence here permanently. When I divulged to her the secret of that which now afflicted me I had been preparing to do so. Then she offered me a solution. A sick, twisted solution.
She offered herself.
Madeline, gentle Madeline, sees only her brother when she looks upon my ashen face.
The face of the family.
The face of a devil.
August 23rd
Three days and I am already clawing at my divan in agony.
I should not be tempted so quickly. I'm afraid it's a result of our connection. As Madeline languishes from exsanguination, I wane as well. The drained feeling causes my body to rebel against me, craving more life. It heightens my senses to tell me so, to tempt me thus. If I cannot fight this, I fear we shall be held in misery, akin to the ouroboros.
I pray my friend arrives soon, if only to distract me from my grotesque desires.
August 24th
My friend has at last arrived! It has been a long time since we were young boys, but it seems that he's still the cohort I held in such light. Although, quite taller than I remember!
He can tell that there's something wrong. He knows I am of ill health, which is enough to concern a friend, but the strange look of distress that sometimes enters his eyes is the cause of something more. Then again, he always was observant.
August 24th - cont
Reminiscing with my friend has done well to relieve me of this black mood my taunted senses leave me in. He has expressed interest in my condition, going so far as to ask what my own opinions were on the cause of it. I gave him what theories I could, wish to spare him the dreadful details of my 'illness.' They were not altogether lies - I do sometimes feel as though our home itself, the hauntingly beautiful manor I've spent my entire life in, has some hold on me. It has witnessed too much to not be affected. My friend did not dismiss my superstitions, thank God. I am blessed to be acquainted with someone so understanding and kind. I'm trying to remain coherent for his sake.
We spoke of my melancholia for some time. I expressed to him that my decaying sister was ultimately the cause. I could not keep the bitterness in my voice. As if she heard me calling, she passed by the sitting room as I spoke. My friend's eyes followed her in wonder until she was gone from view. Seeing my friend look upon her, my sister, my victim, brought all my sins to the forefront of my mind.
His hands braced my shoulders in comfort as the tears leaked through my fingers, now covering the face of a sinner.
I visited Madeline later that evening. Although I have not stolen from her in many days, her health is declining. It is possible that her body has simply refused to make anew what was lost. Or maybe my disastrous mood has affected her. I know not the cause, but as of tonight she is bedridden.
August 27th
While my friend has endeavored to lift my spirits by encouraging me with creative pursuits the past few days, I can feel sorrow tainting my every creation. While I can tell my friend is disturbed by the mood of my works, he is more notably enraptured by them. It is touching really; the attentiveness he displays. He went so far as to jot down the lyrics to a ballad I composed, titled The Haunted Palace. After my performance, I explained to him the relation of my written verse with my place of dwelling. How I believed it alive, and how it affected my family thus. My companion had no comments of substance on my theory, but instead directed our focus on the estate's collection of books. It is in this way, the intimate sharing of literature, that we end each night.
I have abstained from visiting Madeline since the time of my last entry, and will continue to do so until she is well again.
August 29th
My friend could tell I was particularly agitated today. I dare not tell him the truth - to view the repulsion in his eyes would break my soul…
He did not question me, even as he sensed my turmoil. He instead drew me into a lengthy discussion on the works of Niccolò Machiavelli. A welcome distraction indeed.
August 30th
I do not know how long I can keep up my appearance of relative calm to my guest. My 'condition' is worsening yet again. I've considered relaying the truth to my friend, in the hope that he will aid me, if only to spare my sister. I have no desire to tell him, however. I am not drawn to him like I am my relative. I think it may be the effect of our lineage once again, curse it all. Blood calls to blood, as they say.
August 31st
My resolve is disappearing as I recline here. I cannot allow myself to give in, but I can hear her. My beloved guest believes I am just lost to some distant world of my mind's creation, and continues to read aloud. I occasionally nod to let him know I am halfway listening.
I'm really listening to her heartbeat. And I do not know if it is comforting or torturous.
September 1st
It is louder yet again. I cannot bear it. I cannot bear anything. My friend has dimmed the lights, and speaks softly to me. He thinks he is cause of my unrest. Does he not hear? Does he not crave?
September 2nd
Th-thump th-thump th-thump th-thump th-thump th-thump th-thump th-thump
th-thump th-thump th-thump th-thump th-thump th-thump
th-thump th-thump th-thump th-thump
th-thump
September 3rd
I am not entirely sure what to write. Are there such words known to man that can express my thoughts?
The doctor claimed that writing was good for the soul. If I have some semblance of one remaining, I should like to wash it clean in these pages if nowhere else.
I can no longer feel our bond. In the process of taking, of taking everything offered, I have left myself more empty than I ever was prior.
Last night I murdered Madeline.
September 3rd - cont
I have decided that Madeline's body will remain in our ancestral home for a fortnight before burial. I stated this to my friend, citing the fear of scientific curiosity for not having her buried straightaway. He agreed, and personally assisted me in entombing her within the old armory below the manor. She is sealed there now. I pray she is at peace.
I am terrified that she is not.
September 5th
I do not know what I am waiting for. Perhaps a childish part of me is waiting for my sister to return. The adult in me knows that is not to happen. Am I grieving? Am I allowed? Her brother, her killer?
My friend has given me space. When I see him I find myself wishing to tell him everything, if only to have someone know beyond these pages. I find that I cannot confess to him. His rejection I cannot bear.
I miss her. I miss her so much. I can no longer hear her heartbeat, but I sometimes swear I can hear her moving about the donjon in distress.
I love you Madeline.
September 7th
There is a storm on the horizon. I can feel it, smell it. My senses have not dulled with my dear sister's passing. It is fitting, of my twin's personality. I could have compared her to a tempest in her days of good health.
If this fortnight of grieving passes, I shall have her buried. Until then I refuse to think about the future. I shudder when I consider my options. Joining my sister in death, or giving in to this 'condition' that so damns my being. I desire neither.
Some black part of my soul still desires her return, even in a state so damned as I am. I do not know if I desire it out of love, or gluttony.
I think…I think I can hear her.
Yet I cannot hear a heartbeat.
September 8th
The tempest, the storm, it is perfect! It is heralding her return! I am not mad!
I've damned her, oh God I have condemned my own kin, but she has not left me! Even if she comes to return the favor, I will rejoice. Some part of me hopes she does. I was too weak and fearful to end our accursed line, to do mankind a favor that should have occurred long ago. Take revenge if you must sister, but do not go where I cannot follow!
My guest! He must see the storm!
I can smell her from here.
It's sickening, it's sweet— and my friend, my dear dear brother in bond, he's oblivious! If anything I should be drawn to him, as he sits in my bedroom, but I merely grind my teeth and tremble in need as he reads on about the quest of Ethelred. I have sustained myself too long on my kindred, now kine, that the veins of my visitor do not affect me so. A clamor— it's her! My companion scans the room wildly. No my dear boy, it is no more the storm than the dragon! Ha! He keeps reading on as if unaffected. As if I was not before him, going mad from the smell of my sister's vitae! Vitae she should not have! Her venation drained, unless...
They say there are types of rodents that eat their young, that are drawn to their own flesh, and consume their given blood.
I find that I relate.
My friend chants the words of Sir Launcelot, appearing brave for my sake. He must think me mad, the way I am holding myself. I cannot help but curse this house under my breath, over and over again. I know I have sinned. I know I have done the unthinkable. I now only wish to put it out of mind, to accept my villainous fate. The house - these walls, they will not let me. They would go so far as to make false miracles to punish me. She's here. She's coming. I know she is. The joy of her return is hollow with the weight of my judgement. Damn this house!
The shield - the brass shield, brass doors, both are falling and my colleague is in denial!
He comes close, examining me. Do you think I made the noise? Ha!
Do you think me mad? Mad? Me? Ha ha!
Dead men tell no tales! Dead men cannot speak madness!
You have heard her! I know you have! You have heard her and she is coming and she will consume my being as I have hers…
She is on the stairs, the stairs man, she is on the landing and you think me mad!
Madman?
MADMAN!
I TELL YOU SHE NOW STANDS WITHOUT THE DOOR!
She is here and she is red with it.
She moves to embrace me.
Farewell my friend, may our blood be the last this house will spill.