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Edgar Allan Poe
The Fall of the House of Usher
Part One
It was a dark and soundless
day near the end of the year, and
clouds were hanging low in the
heavens. All day I had been riding on horseback through country with little life or beauty; and
in the early evening I came within
view of the House of Usher.
I do not know how it was
— but, with my first sight of the
building, a sense of heavy sadness
filled my spirit. I looked at the
scene before me — at the house
itself — at the ground around it
— at the cold stone walls of the
building — at its empty eye-like
windows — and at a few dead trees — I looked at this scene, I say,
with a complete sadness of soul which was no healthy, earthly feeling.
There was a coldness, a sickening of the heart, in which I could discover nothing to lighten the weight I felt. What was it, I asked myself,
what was it that was so fearful, so frightening in my view of the House
of Usher? This was a question to which I could find no answer.
I stopped my horse beside the building, on the edge of a dark and
quiet lake. There, I could see reflected in the water a clear picture
of the dead trees, and of the house and its empty eye-like windows. 
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Edgar Allan Poe: Storyteller
I was now going to spend several weeks in this house of sadness —
this house of gloom. Its owner was named Roderick Usher. We had
been friends when we were boys; but many years had passed since our
last meeting. A letter from him had reached me, a wild letter which
demanded that I reply by coming to see him. He wrote of an illness of
the body — of a sickness of the mind — and of a desire to see me —
his best and indeed his only friend. It was the manner in which all this
was said — it was the heart in it — which did not allow me to say no.
Although as boys we had been together, I really knew little about
my friend. I knew, however, that his family, a very old one, had long
been famous for its understanding of all the arts and for many quiet
acts of kindness to the poor. I had learned too that the family had
never been a large one, with many branches. The name had passed
always from father to son, and when people spoke of the “House of
Usher,” they included both the family and the family home.
I again looked up from the picture of the house reflected in the
lake to the house itself. A strange idea grew in my mind — an idea so
strange that I tell it only to show the force of the feelings which laid
their weight on me. I really believed that around the whole house,
and the ground around it, the air itself was different. It was not the air
of heaven. It rose from the dead, decaying trees, from the gray walls,
and the quiet lake. It was a sickly, unhealthy air that I could see,
slow-moving, heavy, and gray.
Shaking off from my spirit what must have been a dream, I looked
more carefully at the building itself. The most noticeable thing about
it seemed to be its great age. None of the walls had fallen, yet the
stones appeared to be in a condition of advanced decay. Perhaps the
careful eye would have discovered the beginning of a break in the
front of the building, a crack making its way from the top down the
wall until it became lost in the dark waters of the lake.
I rode over a short bridge to the house. A man who worked in the
house — a servant — took my horse, and I entered. Another servant,
of quiet step, led me without a word through many dark turnings to
the room of his master. Much that I met on the way added, I do not
know how, to the strangeness of which I have already spoken. While
the objects around me — the dark wall coverings, the blackness of
the floors, and the things brought home from long forgotten wars — 
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Edgar Allan Poe
while these things were like the things I had known since I was a baby
— while I admitted that all this was only what I had expected — I was
still surprised at the strange ideas which grew in my mind from these
simple things.
The room I came into was very large and high. The windows were
high, and pointed at the top, and so far above the black floor that they
were quite out of reach. Only a little light, red in color, made its way
through the glass, and served to lighten the nearer and larger objects.
My eyes, however, tried and failed to see into the far, high corners of
the room. Dark coverings hung upon the walls. The many chairs and
tables had been used for a long, long time. Books lay around the room,
but could give it no sense of life. I felt sadness hanging over everything. No escape from this deep cold gloom seemed possible.
As I entered the room, Usher stood up from where he had been
lying and met me with a warmth which at first I could not believe was
real. A look, however, at his face told me that every word he spoke
was true.
We sat down; and for some moments, while he said nothing, I
looked at him with a feeling of sad surprise. Surely, no man had ever
before changed as Roderick Usher had! Could this be the friend of my
early years? It is true that his face had always been unusual. He had
gray-white skin; eyes large and full of light; lips not bright in color,
but of a beautiful shape; a well-shaped nose; hair of great softness
— a face that was not easy to forget. And now the increase in this
strangeness of his face had caused so great a change that I almost did
not know him. The horrible white of his skin, and the strange light
in his eyes, surprised me and even made me afraid. His hair had been
allowed to grow, and in its softness it did not fall around his face but
seemed to lie upon the air. I could not, even with an effort, see in my
friend the appearance of a simple human being.
In his manner, I saw at once, changes came and went; and I
soon found that this resulted from his attempt to quiet a very great
nervousness. I had indeed been prepared for something like this,
partly by his letter and partly by remembering him as a boy. His actions
were first too quick and then too quiet. Sometimes his voice, slow
and trembling with fear, quickly changed to a strong, heavy, carefully
spaced, too perfectly controlled manner. It was in this manner that he 
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Edgar Allan Poe: Storyteller
spoke of the purpose of my visit, of his desire to see me, and of the
deep delight and strength he expected me to give him. He told me
what he believed to be the nature of his illness. It was, he said, a family
sickness, and one from which he could not hope to grow better — but
it was, he added at once, only a nervous illness which would without
doubt soon pass away. It showed itself in a number of strange feelings.
Some of these, as he told me of them, interested me but were beyond
my understanding; perhaps the way in which he told me of them
added to their strangeness. He suffered much from a sickly increase in
the feeling of all the senses; he could eat only the most tasteless food;
all flowers smelled too strongly for his nose; his eyes were hurt by even
a little light; and there were few sounds which did not fill him with
horror. A certain kind of sick fear was completely his master.
“I shall die,” he said. “I shall die! I must die of this fool’s sickness.
In this way, this way and no other way, I shall be lost. I fear what will
happen in the future, not for what happens, but for the result of what
happens. I have, indeed, no fear of pain, but only fear of its result —
of terror! I feel that the time will soon arrive when I must lose my
life, and my mind, and my soul, together, in some last battle with that
horrible enemy: fear!”
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Edgar Allan Poe
The Fall of the House of Usher
Part Two
Roderick Usher, whom I had
known as a boy, was now ill
and had asked me to come to
help him. When I arrived I felt
something strange and fearful
about the great old stone house,
about the lake in front of it, and
about Usher himself. He appeared
not like a human being, but like
a spirit that had come back from
beyond the grave. It was an
illness, he said, from which he
would surely die. He called his
sickness fear. “I have,” he said,
“no fear of pain, but only the fear
of its result — of terror. I feel
that the time will soon arrive when I must lose my life, and my mind,
and my soul, together, in some last battle with that horrible enemy:
fear!”
I learned also, but slowly, and through broken words with doubtful meaning, another strange fact about the condition of Usher’s mind.
He had certain sick fears about the house in which he lived, and he
had not stepped out of it for many years. He felt that the house, with
its gray walls and the quiet lake around it, had somehow through the
long years gotten a strong hold on his spirit.
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Edgar Allan Poe: Storyteller
He said, however, that much of the gloom which lay so heavily on
him was probably caused by something more plainly to be seen — by
the long-continued illness — indeed, the coming death — of a dearly
loved sister — his only company for many years. Except for himself,
she was the last member of his family on earth. “When she dies,” he
said, with a sadness which I can never forget, “when she dies, I will be
the last of the old, old family — the House of Usher.”
While he spoke, the lady Madeline (for so she was called) passed
slowly through a distant part of the room, and without seeing that I
was there, went on. I looked at her with a complete and wondering
surprise and with some fear — and yet I found I could not explain to
myself such feelings. My eyes followed her. When she came to a door
and it closed behind her, my eyes turned to the face of her brother
— but he had put his face in his hands, and I could see only that the
thin fingers through which his tears were flowing were whiter than
ever before.
The illness of the lady Madeline had long been beyond the help
of her doctors. She seemed to care about nothing. Slowly her body had
grown thin and weak, and often for a short period she would fall into
a sleep like the sleep of the dead. So far she had not been forced to
stay in bed; but by the evening of the day I arrived at the house, the
power of her destroyer (as her brother told me that night) was too
strong for her. I learned that my one sight of her would probably be
the last I would have — that the lady, at least while living, would be
seen by me no more.
For several days following, her name was not spoken by either
Usher or myself; and during this period I was busy with efforts to lift
my friend out of his sadness and gloom. We painted and read together;
or listened, as if in a dream, to the wild music he played. And so, as a
warmer and more loving friendship grew between us, I saw more clearly the uselessness of all attempts to bring happiness to a mind from
which only darkness came, spreading upon all objects in the world its
never-ending gloom.
I shall always remember the hours I spent with the master of the
House of Usher. Yet I would fail in any attempt to give an idea of the
true character of the things we did together. There was a strange light
over everything. The paintings which he made made me tremble, 
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Edgar Allan Poe
though I know not why. To tell of them is beyond the power of written
words. If ever a man painted an idea, that man was Roderick Usher.
For me at least there came out of his pictures a sense of fear and
wonder.
One of these pictures may be told, although weakly, in words.
It showed the inside of a room where the dead might be placed, with
low walls, white and plain. It seemed to be very deep under the earth.
There was no door, no window; and no light or fire burned; yet a river
of light flowed through it, filling it with a horrible, ghastly brightness.
I have spoken of that sickly condition of the senses, which made
most music painful for Usher to hear. The notes he could listen to
with pleasure were very few. It was this fact, perhaps, that made the
music he played so different from most music. But the wild beauty of
his playing could not be explained.
The words of one of his songs, called “The Haunted Palace,” I
have easily remembered. In it I thought I saw, and for the first time,
that Usher knew very well that his mind was weakening. This song
told of a great house where a king lived — a palace — in a green
valley, where all was light and color and beauty, and the air was sweet.
In the palace were two bright windows through which people in that
happy valley could hear music and could see smiling ghosts — spirits
— moving around the king. The palace door was of the richest materials, in red and white; through it came other spirits whose only duty
was to sing in their beautiful voices about how wise their king was.
But a dark change came, the song continued, and now those who
enter the valley see through the windows, in a red light, shapes that
move to broken music; while through the door, now colorless, a ghastly river of ghosts, laughing but no longer smiling, rushes out forever.
Our talk of this song led to another strange idea in Usher’s mind.
He believed that plants could feel and think, and not only plants, but
rocks and water as well. He believed that the gray stones of his house,
and the small plants growing on the stones, and the decaying trees,
had a power over him that made him what he was.
Our books — the books which, for years, had fed the sick man’s
mind — were, as might be supposed, of this same wild character.
Some of these books Usher sat and studied for hours. His chief delight
was found in reading one very old book, written for some forgotten
church, telling of the Watch over the Dead.
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Edgar Allan Poe: Storyteller
At last, one evening he told me that the lady Madeline was alive
no more. He said he was going to keep her body for a time in one of
the many vaults inside the walls of the building. The worldly reason
he gave for this was one with which I felt I had to agree. He had
decided to do this because of the nature of her illness, because of the
strange interest and questions of her doctors, and because of the great
distance to the graveyard where members of his family were placed
in the earth.
We two carried her body to its resting place. The vault in which
we placed it was small and dark, and in ages past it must have seen
strange and bloody scenes. It lay deep below that part of the building
where I myself slept. The thick door was of iron, and because of its
great weight made a loud, hard sound when it was opened and closed.
As we placed the lady Madeline in this room of horror I saw for
the first time the great likeness between brother and sister, and Usher
told me then that they were twins — they had been born on the same
day. For that reason the understanding between them had always been
great, and the tie that held them together very strong.
We looked down at the dead face one last time, and I was filled
with wonder. As she lay there, the lady Madeline looked not dead but
asleep — still soft and warm — though to the touch cold as the stones
around us.
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Edgar Allan Poe
The Fall of the House of Usher
Part Three
I was visiting an old friend
of mine, Roderick Usher, in his
old stone house, his palace, where
a feeling of death hung on the air.
I saw how fear was pressing on his
heart and mind. Now his only sister, the lady Madeline, had died
and we had put her body in its
resting place, in a room inside the
cold walls of the palace, a damp,
dark vault, a fearful place. As we
looked down upon her face, I saw
that there was a strong likeness
between the two. “Indeed,” said
Usher, “we were born on the same
day, and the tie between us has
always been strong.”
We did not long look down at her, for fear and wonder filled our
hearts. There was still a little color in her face and there seemed to be
a smile on her lips. We closed the heavy iron door and returned to the
rooms above, which were hardly less gloomy than the vault.
And now a change came in the sickness of my friend’s mind. He
went from room to room with a hurried step. His face was, if possible,
whiter and more ghastly than before, and the light in his eyes had 
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Edgar Allan Poe: Storyteller
gone. The trembling in his voice seemed to show the greatest fear.
At times he sat looking at nothing for hours, as if listening to some
sound I could not hear. I felt his condition, slowly but certainly, gaining power over me; I felt that his wild ideas were becoming fixed in
my own mind.
As I was going to bed late in the night of the seventh or eighth
day after we placed the lady Madeline within the vault, I experienced
the full power of such feelings. Sleep did not come — while the hours
passed. My mind fought against the nervousness. I tried to believe
that much, if not all, of what I felt was due to the gloomy room, to the
dark wall coverings, which in a rising wind moved on the walls. But
my efforts were useless. A trembling I could not stop filled my body,
and fear without reason caught my heart. I sat up, looking into the
darkness of my room, listening — I do not know why — to certain low
sounds which came when the storm was quiet. A feeling of horror lay
upon me like a heavy weight. I put on my clothes and began walking
nervously around the room.
I had been walking for a very short time when I heard a light step
coming toward my door. I knew it was Usher. In a moment I saw him
at my door, as usual very white, but there was a wild laugh in his eyes.
Even so, I was glad to have his company. “And have you not seen it?”
he said. He hurried to one of the windows and opened it to the storm.
The force of the entering wind nearly lifted us from our feet. It
was, indeed, a stormy but beautiful night, and wildly strange. The
heavy, low-hanging clouds which seemed to press down upon the
house, flew from all directions against each other, always returning
and never passing away in the distance. With their great thickness
they cut off all light from the moon and the stars. But we could see
them because they were lighted from below by the air itself, which we
could see, rising from the dark lake and from the stones of the house
itself.
“You must not — you shall not look out at this!” I said to Usher,
as I led him from the window to a seat. “This appearance which surprises you so has been seen in other places, too. Perhaps the lake is
the cause. Let us close this window; the air is cold. Here is one of the
stories you like best. I will read and you shall listen and thus we will
live through this fearful night together.”
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Edgar Allan Poe
The old book which I had picked up was one written by a fool
for fools to read, and it was not, in truth, one that Usher liked. It was,
however, the only one within easy reach. He seemed to listen quietly.
Then I came to a part of the story in which a man, a strong man full
of wine, begins to break down a door, and the sound of the dry wood
as it breaks can be heard through all the forest around him.
Here I stopped, for it seemed to me that from some very distant
part of the house sounds came to my ears like those of which I had
been reading. It must have been this likeness that had made me notice
them, for the sounds themselves, with the storm still increasing, were
nothing to stop or interest me.
I continued the story, and read how the man, now entering
through the broken door, discovers a strange and terrible animal of
the kind so often found in these old stories. He strikes it and it falls,
with such a cry that he has to close his ears with his hands. Here again
I stopped.
There could be no doubt. This time I did hear a distant sound,
very much like the cry of the animal in the story. I tried to control
myself so that my friend would see nothing of what I felt. I was not
certain that he had heard the sound, although he had clearly changed
in some way. He had slowly moved his chair so that I could not see
him well. I did see that his lips were moving as if he were speaking to
himself. His head had dropped forward, but I knew he was not asleep,
for his eyes were open and he was moving his body from side to side.
I began reading again, and quickly came to a part of the story
where a heavy piece of iron falls on a stone floor with a ringing sound.
These words had just passed my lips when I heard clearly, but from far
away, a loud ringing sound — as if something of iron had indeed fallen
heavily upon a stone floor, or as if an iron door had closed.
I lost control of myself completely, and jumped up from my chair.
Usher still sat, moving a little from side to side. His eyes were turned
to the floor. I rushed to his chair. As I placed my hand on his shoulder,
I felt that his whole body was trembling; a sickly smile touched his
lips; he spoke in a low, quick, and nervous voice as if he did not know
I was there.
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Edgar Allan Poe: Storyteller
“Yes!” he said. “I heard it! Many minutes, many hours, many days
have I heard it — but I did not dare to speak! We have put her living
in the vault! Did I not say that my senses were too strong? I heard her
first movements many days ago — yet I did not dare to speak! And
now, that story — but the sounds were hers! Oh, where shall I run?!
She is coming — coming to ask why I put her there too soon. I hear
her footsteps on the stairs. I hear the heavy beating of her heart.”
Here he jumped up and cried as if he were giving up his soul: “i tell
you, she now stands at the door!!”
The great door to which he was pointing now slowly opened. It
was the work of the rushing wind, perhaps — but no — outside that
door a shape did stand, the tall figure, in its grave-clothes, of the lady
Madeline of Usher. There was blood upon her white dress, and the
signs of her terrible efforts to escape were upon every part of her thin
form. For a moment she remained trembling at the door; then, with a
low cry, she fell heavily in upon her brother; in her pain, as she died
at last, she carried him down with her, down to the floor. He too was
dead, killed by his own fear.
I rushed from the room; I rushed from the house. I ran. The storm
was around me in all its strength as I crossed the bridge. Suddenly
a wild light moved along the ground at my feet, and I turned to see
where it could have come from, for only the great house and its darkness were behind me. The light was that of the full moon, of a bloodred moon, which was now shining through that break in the front
wall, that crack which I thought I had seen when I first saw the palace.
Then only a little crack, it now widened as I watched. A strong wind
came rushing over me — the whole face of the moon appeared. I saw
the great walls falling apart. There was a long and stormy shouting
sound — and the deep black lake closed darkly over all that remained
of the house of usher.