Jason Weiser (0:02)

Hi. Real quick message before the episode. First, I want to say thank you so much for listening. This summer was a challenging one and I found myself with less time than I thought for work. I had to make choices regarding what to focus on and unfortunately, Fictional was one of those shows that I had to put on hold. It was one without firm obligations already in place. And when you have a team of people on other shows waiting for you to get stuff done, it gets difficult to justify projects that are simply for fun, like this one. But an obligation to you all and a need to stay true to my word means something as well. So I'm very sorry to take so long getting back to Fictional again. I really appreciate everyone who reached out with the curious support as to when the episodes were coming out over email, Twitter and various reviews. And I'm sorry to the people I disappointed who are waiting for the episodes and voice that displeasure. There is an upside though. Now that we have more time, there doesn't need to be a finale to this season of Fictional Yet. I love the show. I love writing it and I connect with the stories emotionally, sometimes even more than myths, myths and legends. So as long as I can help it, this show isn't going anywhere. Sometimes circumstances arise where we'll have to take a break, but I will be more communicative about that in the future and more realistic with my timelines. Thank you again so much for listening. It's a typical autumn day when the letter arrives, crisp and clean. The envelope beckons from a front table beside a vase. One step closer and you see the name on the front. It's yours. Dirt crusted fingers leave smudges, but you can't wait. Open rips the seal. It's from Roderick. Good old Roderick Usher, your childhood friend. How long has it been? Wow. Nearly two decades. Maybe longer. An ache flashes down the back of your neck, a reminder of your recent fall from the saddle. The new mare is a handful, but you're not one to shy away from a challenge. After all, horses are what brought you out here, away from your childhood home. You roll your shoulders, then return to the letter. Scrawled inside is a message that surpasses any expectation. There's the typical greeting, but then the chase. Roderick is not well. It's nothing outrightly physical, nor is it his sister, Madeline. A smile forms at the corners of your face. Right, the letter. It's Roderick's mental health. He's plagued by something dark and fantastical that he's attempted to summarize in a couple of sentences on the page, then the closing. My best and personal friend. You must come. You must. It sounds urgent. So atypical of the Roderick you once knew. It's so mysterious that you bite. Sure you'll go visit the old Usher place. At the very least, you want to know more. One hand massages your neck while the other tucks the letter into a front pocket. And with that, you're heading up the stairs to pack a few things. Then it's off to see your old friend and his house that's apparently eating him whole. From Jason and Carissa Weiser, creators of myths and legends, this is fictional Roderick Usher. Little Rod. Rowdy Roddy Usher. Ages ago, you two were thick as thieves, even though your families couldn't have been more different. Yours, lovers of travel, new experiences, big family reunions. The Ushers, stately and predictable, not ones to intermingle romantically with anyone outside the family, which, now that you're saying it out loud, not something you want to think about. All of them were happiest inside the house. Somewhere along the line, the concept of the Usher family as a whole became synonymous with the very structure in which they lived. The House of Usher. They were the house and the house was them. It became their point of pride. Now, riding along, the grand house comes once again into view. It's been decades since you visited, but as you round a row of hedges, there it is. The estate. Expansive gardens, countless bedrooms, too many bathrooms and high ceilings. It's all there, as is, according to Rodrick, a dungeon. One you were never allowed to see, no matter how much you begged. On cue, a stable hand appears to take the reins. As you slide from the saddle, something catches your eye. An imperfection in the masonry. From a distance, the House of Usher stands as impressive as ever. But up close, bricks here and there are crumbling. Vines weave in and out of the shrubs, their lighter green tips already choking out the mums that will never get to bloom. There's moss growing where it shouldn't. Structurally, the house appears sound, but cosmetically, it's in shambles. Your shoe knocks a square potted plant askew, but when you lean to make it right, a clay corner breaks off in your hand and a bead of sweat forms on your brow, breaking things. Already you can almost hear Mr. Usher's deep voice. Except that's not possible. The old man died many years ago. It's a funny thing, returning to a place of your youth. Each step beneath that Gothic archway steals a couple candles from your cake until you're standing there in the present. Yet Decades in the past, caught in a dream inside. Still the same dusty shades, the same decor, the same tapestries a mile long. The same rattling suits of armor, poised and ready with nothing to do. Still the same. Oh, my gosh, still the same valet, apparently. Always side saddling up unannounced. Right. All business, just like you remember. You follow, taking in all the familiar sights and smells until a third person comes flying down the stairs. It's a doctor, although you've never seen such a frazzled one before. Oh, and now they're gripping your shoulders. No personal space, then. Okay, that's cool. They're mumble, shouting something in your face, but you can't make out a word of it. Of course, before you can comment or ask anything at all, the doctor's gone and the valet's again on the move. A few moments pass before you stop and turn. It's a cluttered studio, a single but expansive room filled with an eclectic array of furniture and odds and ends. Should you go in, you look to the valet, but there's no one there anymore. It's only you. Alone. Then you see Rodrick, your old friend Rod. He's in the studio, camouflaged on one of the sofas. Once vibrant and healthy, admittedly a better runner than you ever hope to be, he's now gaunt, greasy in some places, crusty in others, with wisps of hair thinning and wild in all directions. It's not him. And yet when he speaks, it is, and he's glad you came. A morbid acuteness of the senses. That's what Roderick calls his ailment. He's hypersensitive, hyper aware these days, and it's a curse. A family curse. He says. Roderick can only stomach the blandest of bland foods, can't wear his favorite shirts anymore because the texture is too much. You ask about Rod's sister and learn that she's also sick, though in a different way. Catalepsy. One moment she's fine, but then her whole body goes rigid, like being in a trance or having a seizure. Roderick flips a switch. He becomes intense, staring you directly in the eyes. It's like she's dead. Only she's not. Although she will be. She's going to be soon. The doc said as much. He spits a little as he barks the final words. You find a chair and sink into the crimson velvet. It was not as comfortable as it looked. Worn at the edges, too, but it works. This is a lot to take in, even if it's why you're here. To listen, to support Roderick, your old friend. With a deep breath, you look again. Rodrick's now calm and shadowed, like he was when you first arrived. So you engage him again. Well, what about the sentient house? The letter sounded urgent, but surely you must have misunderstood that. Because the idea of the house, any house, being alive, it's. Look at me, look at me, Roderick says. Gone is his relaxed state. He's wild, as though replaced by someone else. His hands tremble, his eyes grow beady, his shoulders tense. He's afraid, you realize, Paranoid his claim. His very life essence is being drained by the family, evil by the house. You look all around the room. Yeah, it's dreary. Bubbled paper lines the walls, each one crowned with cobwebs along the molding. There's a blanket of dust everywhere, and it could use better lighting, particularly in the corners. So, okay, fine. You're starting to see it. You're starting to understand what Roderick must mean. The old house. It's taking a toll on his morale. The house is not alive, but it is doing something negative to Roderick's quality of life. That was it, right? Your old friend scowls and drops the issue. Clearly, you've missed the mark. The conversation drifts to other topics, but as the afternoon stretches on, it's funny. As time passes, Roderick's demeanor starts taking a toll on you. It's the unpredictable flip flop of his mood. You feel like you can't say anything right because you can't stay on the same page for more than a few minutes. One moment he's perky, like a watered houseplant, but then, with no warning, he's harsh and snappy or disinterested, or sometimes simply hunched beneath the weight of his own fear. Fear. Yes, you said it. You know then what I'm talking about, he says. A thickly nailed finger stabs at the air with every word. Mmm. Except you don't. Try as you might, this conversation is one that must be sifted. Reality versus whatever's going on inside Roderick's head. Whatever it is, it's not healthy and you're concerned. You turn the subject to something simpler, like all the furniture packed into the studio. Several pieces look familiar, but there's also instruments and piles of books everywhere. Perhaps Rod would like to share some of his hobbies. There's a pianoforte Roderick bats out of hand and insists that he's too gloomy for music or book club. Thanks, but no. Just then, a floorboard creaks and you twist in the red velvet chair for a Look. Oh, it's Rod's sister, Lady Madeline. You wave, but she's not looking. Seconds later, Madeline's gone up the stairs. Well, hello to you, too, when you untwist. Rodrick has changed moods again, and he's now leaning forward, elbows on his knees, as though he wants to share a secret. His sister. She's dying, as you know, and when she does, the weight of the entire Usher family will fall upon Rod's shoulders. He's the last one, the end of the line. He cries. It seems family trees require new branches every once in a while, or else they perish. You nod, having decided it's best to just listen at this point. But what Roderick is saying, it's true. This time soon after, the room falls silent, and it stays that way for the better part of the following week. Not once do either of you see Madeline or even speak of her. It's a delicate topic, and you're not sure if it's more helpful to talk about or not talk about it. All you know is that every day the doctor arrives and disappears and just before leaving, always delivers bad news. Madeline is going downhill fast. She's circling the drain. On one hand, Rodrick seems to be handling his sister's decline in positive ways. There hasn't been talk of the house eating him for a couple of days, so that's good. And he's coping by distracting himself through art. In fact, for the last four hours, you've been watching him paint in the corner by a window, swiping, slap, being, smearing and dabbing a brush between palette and canvas, palette and canvas. At last, Rodrick sits, scraping a rag across a palm, and wow, you can't believe it. The piece is incredible, actually. Abstract, for sure, but as you venture into the paint zone, you see he's managed to capture the essence of an idea. It's what true artists are capable of doing. And honestly, you never expected something so disturbingly marvelous to come out of a single afternoon. It's a painting of a long and shadowed corridor, an angular tunnel with sterile walls layered with such a range of charcoals and infinite blues that it's like the bottom of the ocean or an underground compound. Ricocheting down the tunnel are interwoven beams of light of various states of intensity. The piece is both glorious and offensive at the same time. It's my hypersensory auditory nerve, Rodrick tells you. And there it is. So he is still plagued by his ailments, by his suffering morbid acuteness of the senses. He corrects atop Your mumbling. It explains why the instruments, cast aside throughout the room, lay collecting dust in silence. Why just a few notes on the trumpet and trombone two days prior led to the brass instruments colliding with a wall. The crash had only made the matters worse. The pianoforte, the viola, the cello, the horn, all the other instruments. A few notes on any of them are little more than auditory torture. Everything is piercing and painful. Well, all except the guitar. The guitar is the one instrument that doesn't bother your friend. And the few times he's allowed himself to be lost in the music, he's put on quite a show. Almost as skilled as his surprising painting today. Guitar sessions invariably end, however, with Roderick folded into a chair by the window, mouthing stanzas from some back corner of his mind. One recitation comes back to you at the sight of the painting by the window. It's called the Haunted Palace. Bits and pieces come trickling to the surface. Once a fair and stately palace, something about a monarch in state, his glory well befitting. Oh, the ruler of the realm was seen flowing, flowing, flowing and sparkling evermore. But evil things in robes of sorrow assailed the monarch's high estate and round about his home. The glory that blushed and bloomed is but a dim remembered story of the old time entombed. You can't help but see the similarity of the passage and your present reality. So much stock pumped into a building, as though that alone should guarantee a lasting legacy. The ballad ends in Rodrick's current state of affairs, lamenting where you are, dreading what's to come, stuck in a limbo of regret. I don't think the house is alive, Roderick blurts. And you stare, afraid to hope that this is a permanent improvement. I believe all vegetable things are sentient, he says. It's like this. The house is not sentient. The house covered in fungus and vines, though that is what grows a mind, what acts with purpose. And through that, his reality, which you accept only as a fantasy, comes to be. He speaks of a condensation, an atmosphere about the waters and walls. And to be quite honest, this is where Roderick loses you today. Every day you hope he will embrace reality, but every day you're forced to give up that hope. Sometime after lunch. Today is the best day he's had your whole visit. But even this one has ended in delusion. Your chair screeches on the floor as you stand. Air. You need some fresh air. Roderick's not interested. So you head to the neglected gardens alone. Brick paths stretch over the length of the lawn, but you're forced to wind your way left and right, ducking beneath overgrown stems and over creeping ground cover. The wind swirls gently, swaying hydrangeas overtaken by vines. At that moment, your boot snags a root that came out of nowhere. And as you stumble for a brief moment you wonder, could Rodrick be right? Could the multiplying vines and greedy moss be more than what they seem? Seem. It's evening and you finally settle back in the studio with Roderick. He arrives minutes after you with news. Lady Madeline is gone. It was maybe an hour ago, while you were getting air. She'd had another event. A catalepsy. But this one was the last. She had gone weeks, rigid and cold. She'd abandoned him at the end of the line. There's hardly time to process the event before Rodrick hits you with another shocker. Roderick is not going to bury Madeline in the remote family burial grounds after all. Not within a fortnight anyway. Yes, the previous decision was to bury her there as soon as possible when death claimed her, but I can't risk people digging up Maddy just to dissect her condition. Doctors far and wide would pay good money to have a cadaver with catalepsy. Roderick looks resolute. And when you remember the crazed doctor you met on the stairs upon your arrival, you tend to agree with your old friend. So she'll be there for a fortnight there, entombed temporarily, for an extended period of time at the Usher House. Roderick nods, pleased that you understand. He stands and strides to the door. So are you coming or what? Never in your wildest dreams did you think that when you read the letter on your front table that fateful morning, that you'd be signing up for a tour of the Usher Dungeon? The fact that Rod was telling the truth all those years ago, that they actually had a dungeon? That's pretty cool. Beads of sweat trickling into your eyes like acid as you heft an iron casket into said dungeon. Yeah, not ever what you had in mind. Somehow you're halfway down the longest spiral staircase in the world with a coffin on your shoulder, heading to a dungeon once used to in the worst ways. It went from dungeon in a gunpowder storage room to, as of today, a tomb. Rodrick says he must not have heard you asking for a breather. And the best news? It's several floors below, but lines up perfectly with your bedroom. Okay, what exactly are you supposed to say to that? Apparently nothing, because Rodrick's moved on. Meaning that he stopped and now, lowering his half, let's Say, a generous one third of the iron casket. Perfect. You made it freed. You roll your shoulders and neck. Iron casket. Horse accident. Your body is taking quite a beating lately. To your surprise, Roderick has opened the casket to have one last look at Madeline. You take a few steps closer, pushing yourself to look as well. Wow. The similarity between Madeline and Roderick is unmistakable, even in death. It's because we're twins, roderick says without turning. Twins? Your mind races to think backwards. You never knew they were twins. Wait. How did you not know? Roderick murmurs something to his sister and releases a heavy sigh. And that's when you wonder, is she really dead? Her cheeks and her neck, they're rosy. Wait. Shouldn't the body be cold? Without thinking, you reach to feel her arm, but Rodrick slaps you away and shuts the lid with a clunk. It's catalepsy, he says. Leaves all those it claims with a rosy look. And that's it. Roderick turns to begin the upward climb, leaving death and your open mouth in his wake. Questions surge. The channel's jammed. It's not the right time, and you must force yourself to remember you are here for Roderick, not for you and your curiosity. For the next several days, your existence in the House of Usher remains roughly the same. There's a little less guitar playing, a little less painting on the part of Roderick, but other than that, not much has changed. Even though a lot has changed. Roderick's fear has inevitably come to pass. His sister died and left him beneath the weight of the Usher line that now officially will end with him. That's what will be said, even though he was part of the decline but not solely responsible for it. It's not all Madeline's fault either, you know, but you can see how the abandonment might sit badly with Rod. Ironically, Madeline's the one bearing the weight of the literal House of the Ushers, seeing as she's entombed beneath it instead of a graveyard. All this, you're thinking, even if you're keeping it to yourself. Rodrik belches from his thinking chair by the window, and it's then that you realize how wrong you are. No, something has changed. And something is changing. Roderick is changing. For one, he's more focused. There's a drive in his eye, and every once in a while he hunkers down and scowls from the window to his painted canvas, the painting of the hypersensitive auditory nerve, his auditory nerve captured in oil paint. There's also a new bewilderment in his eye, and after 20 minutes of observation, it registers that it's contagious. Anxiety builds within your own chest, your nerves tensing on edge. His auditory nerve. It's bothering him. So what is it? Roderick hears. And why can't you hear it? One week and one day after the casket closed, in the dungeon, Madeline's body resting hundreds of feet beneath your bed, your anxiety peaks. Sleep evades you, though the hour's late. Outside, a storm rages. Tattered drapes hang in your room, yet all light beyond is swallowed by the swells. Another bolt of lightning and a vibrating clap upon its tail. You can't take it any longer, so it's out of bed and into clothes as you fight to start the day. The walls rumble with the next wave, and as your eyes adjust to the shadows, you catch a sound. A creaking floorboard. It's the loose one at the top of the stairs, you know, without seeing. But who is it? Oh, is it that ballet sneaking around again? No, it's Roderick. Three in the morning, and apparently he can't sleep either. Seconds later, your smile fades. Your old friend fills only half of his nightshirt. Has he wasted away that much more since your arrival? Roderick's eyes reveal a mad hunger. He's like one stranded in the desert far too long, who's just now come to a trough of water. He stumbles into your arms, spitting words with sour breath. A billow of hot air seeps into your mouth and nose, one baked over rotty molars and a tongue carpeted by thrush. But you can't jolt him away. Rod's grip is like a vise. You're awake, and yet you haven't seen it, have you? Oh, but you will. But you will. Look. He shouts and pushes you to the window. A shove and both panes fly open, torn from Rod's fingers by the wind. There's a break in the storm, and it's enough because you sense it, like currents of electricity dancing at both arms. Then you see it. A glow forms on the clouds, huge masses of. Of agitated vapor. Roderick yells. He's pressing your head over the ledge, as though you need any help, seeing what he's tried to tell you about this whole time. It's an unnatural light, an illuminated ball of gas encompassing the Usher mansion. And yes, it seems very much alive. It's overwhelming as fear grips the front of your head, spreads to the back of your neck, seeps into your lungs. You're out of breath and covered in a cold sweat. Do not look at it any longer, you urge your friend, tearing sideways from his Grip. Both pains slam and lock between your fists, blanketed soon after by the drapes. That is enough of this. You must let it go, you say, guiding Rod to a chair by the fireplace. There. Okay, maybe it's time for you to take a more active role in the situation. You know, help Ragh get over his fear once and for all. You fall into the matching chair on the other side of the fireplace and stare at Roderick, assessing your next move. Somehow he's even frailer now, as though he's wasted away even more in the last five minutes. Okay, what to do? What to do? On one hand, it is impossible not to think about the strange gaseous cloud raging outside, to not see its flustered appendages slamming against the bricks, attacking the house that honestly feels as though it's falling apart, already crumbling in on itself, eating him alive. That's what it's doing. It truly is. You finally understand, as fantastical and unbelievable as it sounds. But at the same time, you can't stop there. You can't embrace this wild idea without pushing back. You're too sensible to remain standing at the edge of reason. Therefore, the more reasonable explanation is simple. It seems as though it's eating him. But really the cloud is just a common electrical phenomenon when seen in the afterglow of lightning created by the rising steam from the Tarn in the middle of the storm. A perfect storm of causes. During a perfect storm outside, made worse by the emotional perfect storm of the last week, you realize Roderick is not even listening. Fine. You'll just have to try harder to comfort your friend. There's a book on a side table to your left. Excellent. It's one of his favorites. You lie, hoping that it's true. The Mad Tryst of Sir Lancelot Canning. Hmm, sounds. Yeah, really exciting. Okay, let's. Let's dig into this one, shall we? You'd hoped it was for the King by Carissa and Jason Weiser, but that one doesn't come out till 2024, so this'll do for now. Rodrick does not seem jazzed, but he's not complaining. And not fidgeting. You assume that means he's relaxing. After 10 minutes, you come to a part about a character named Aethelred. This made up books hero who seeks lodging at her hermit's home. Ethelred is not welcome, but will not take no for an answer. Oh, okay, this is starting to get interesting. With two hands clutching a mace, Aethelred splintered the front door in three swings, punched a gauntleted hand through the Hole and twisted the knob from inside. The door swung open and Ethelred stepped over the threshold. Threshold. He'd arrived. As you read, a noise. A dull one, but still echoes from deeper in the house. Funny that you hear it over the raging storm. Even more that it comes right as Ethelred smashes the hermit's front door. The timing could not have been better. That's kinda cool. You look up and lock eyes with Rodrik. He's invested paying attention. Great. This reading a book thing is working. You continue. To Ethelred's surprise, there was no evidence of the hermit to be found. The guy had clearly invested in interior design and not outdoor landscaping. Because what Aethelred had assumed would be a total dump of a house turned out to be a palace of pure gold. It was everywhere except for the floor. That was silver, naturally. Gold and silver. But not a hermit in sight. Well, that was probably because of the dragon. You look up again. This book is getting pretty good. And Roderick is still with you. So yeah, read on. There in the main room, a scaly, fearsome and fire breathing dragon sat poised and ready to attack. On the wall hung a shiny shield of brass engraved with a message. Who entereth herein A conqueror hath been, who slayeth the dragon. The shield he shall win. That was all Aethelred needed to know. Free shield. Sign him up. Without a moment's notice or any warning at all, Aethelred swung his mace in a full roundhouse circle crusher landing the spiky ball square between the dragon's eyes. The stunned monster let out a shriek so loud that that even Aethelred had to cover his ears. It was as though you pause once more and cock your head. Yeah, you weren't hearing things because there it is again. Remarkably, it's a creak that sounds almost like screaming from somewhere inside the house. Or maybe a grating sound. How unbelievable is it that it should come just as the dragon in the book is giving an award winning death performance? The scraping sound is just wow. And then some part of you in the back of your mind suggests that, well, the house could be alive, you know. Nope, nope. Not gonna do that. Not gonna pull on that thread. You brush it away. It is a coincidence intensified by your delirious lack of sleep on account of the storm, that is. It just accept itself. But it is unsettling. That's the one point on which you and your restless mind can agree. Roderick doesn't seem agitated, which is a relief. He's staring off into the corner, his brow no longer furrowed. Maybe he hasn't heard the sounds. Oh, but doesn't he have a hypersensitive auditory nerve? If he can't hear the sound effects, does that mean it's all inside your head? Suddenly, Roderick stands and drags his chair beside yours. It lands close, chair arms touching each of you facing opposite directions. You ask if Roderick is okay, but there's no answer. Okay. His chin falls to rest on his chest. His eyes remain open, though, so you know he's not asleep. Should you continue reading, Rodrick starts mumbling something inaudible, his torso swaying side to side. You take that as a yes. And so the book returns to your lap and falls open to the ribboned page. The dragon's death broke the enchantment on the shield, and the brass piece fell from the wall even before Aethelred approached. It landed on the silver flooring with a clang ringing as it settled. You slammed the book close. Rodrick. Okay. Did you hear that? You finally say. A third time, a third sound at just the right moment in the story, this time a clatter like a ring or a hollow metal crash. It was loud enough that it can't be ignored. Roderick, listen. Seriously. Do you hear that sound? He looks up, but not at you. He's looking at the door with trembling shoulders. Yes. Yes, of course I hear it. And I've been hearing it. Minutes, hours, days. I've heard it, but I could not tell you. He's facing you now, eyes wide and intense. He's. He's buried her alive. Which you realize in horror means you have buried her alive, too. Your thoughts are everywhere. Madeline not dead. Yes, buried alive. How can that be? Who's to blame? Wasn't Roderick supposed to have all these heightened senses? How could he have misjudged the situation? You can't believe it. Her rosy cheeks as she lay in the casket come to mind. You should have done something more, been more persistent. You saw it. You did. You can't deny that. Rodrik speaks again. Ethelred breaking through the wooden door, the dragon's walls, the shield clanging to the floor. You think it all fantasy along with my fears, but I tell you it is real. The sounds you've heard are indeed the wrenching open of the casket, the grinding of iron as hinges break, Madeline's screaming from within her metal prison. A thumping noise quickens on the stairs outside the room, and the floorboard at the top groans. You realize that you're now cowering behind your chair, gripping wet hands on the back of it, hiding as Though it were a shield between you and Roderick, you and the door, you and what's to come. Footsteps, Rodrick wailing, yelling about Madeline's rightful wrath, all thanks to his haste. Can you not hear the beating of her heart? He shouts. She's here to make me pay. Lightning flashes in time, with a rumble, and at that moment, the door flies open. And there in the doorway stands Madeline, like a ghost, ghastly but in the flesh. Lady Madeline, twin sister to Rodrik, one of the only two remaining Ushers. Her arms are torn, streaked in crimson, bearing patches of black and blue. Her knuckles are battered, her white burial robe smeared and stained. It was a struggle to deliver the casket to the dungeon. It must have been even more so to escape it. And then you read her face. Rodrik has every reason to fear. She is speechless, even as her shoulders begin to shake in time with Rodrick's. They are twins, through and through, one full of fear, the other full of rage. The clock is wound so tight it begins to break. A lunge. It's her charging, falling, arms outstretched. Curled fingers reach and dig as everything on Roderick's face melts. Not with surprise, but anticipation. Not even a scream can escape. They topple her on top of him. The opposite of the past week. An end to the torture of the recent past. An end to the mistake he could have have sat right but did not. An end to waiting for despair. Because it is here, the time has come for the inevitable. The inevitable that they, the Ushers, guaranteed by their own ways. Madeline writhes for a moment, then falls still upon Roderick. They're both dead, him before even hitting the floor. It is too much. And you can't stay any longer. It's startling, like the moment the lamp goes out, leaving you mid motion, frozen in the dark. Dark like the top of the stairs with the creaky floorboard. Dark like the front hall, the Gothic archway and the brick path away from the house. You trip over that same potted plant outside as when you arrived, but this time you don't stop. You don't try to fix what you've discovered. You don't stop to collect your troublesome horse or any of your belongings. You leave with your life no longer sure where the blurred line between truth and fiction, reality and madness exists. Through the pelting rain and raging storm. You run all the way to the causeway. You sprint, turning only then to look back and at what you survived. The mansion. The great house of Usher. There's a crack of light splintering from the roof to the foundation. You rub your eyes and squint. And as you stare with mouth agape, water flowing under your tongue, the sour scent of ozone in your nostrils, you catch the moon peeking from behind the formidable house. It hangs low in the sky, giant and red. You take a few steps closer, hand shielding your eyes from the pouring rain, but then stop yourself short. No, you can't go back. You just left. You'll never forget the reason why. In that moment, the wind picks up and the fracture running through the house grows deeper. It widens the mansion. It's ripping apart. Zigzags of light appear as the new fissures spread, rays of moonlight spewing in all directions. On the wind are shouts like a thousand voices. One of them, you realize, is your own. All your senses are morbidly acute, overstimulated, flooding to the point of pain. So of course you scream. And with the resonance of the clang down falls the great house, crumbling to near dust. All at once. The mountain lake swells in and all remains of the house are swallowed whole. It's only you. You and the dying storm and the tarn swirling around your ankles. The House of Usher is no more, and the truth about the final weeks of Roderick and Madeline are now yours alone to bear. When you think about the idea of fear in literature, I mean, how can you not think of Edgar Allan Poe? The Cask of Amontillado, the Raven? His work encompasses short stories, poetry, novels, both finished and unfinished. There are even essays about his work. I will say I was never a big fan of his writing, but when I looked deeper into this short story, I found myself getting pulled into the experience. I was originally looking at the concrete ideas, but was the house itself really alive? How can a big house fall at just the right moment, or at all? Is the story so on the nose as to have the lineage of the Ushers and their abode collapsed together? When I let go of having to know the answers and just decided to let Poe's writing draw me in, that's when I started to feel the experience. And for me, that's when I saw something new. I also appreciate how Poe uses first person to instill fear in the reader. Now, since audio is generally a passive way to consume a story as opposed to actively reading one, we opted for the second person in our adaptation and so hopefully that helped draw you in as well. Anyway, that's it for this episode. We really hope you enjoyed it. Today's episode was based on the Fall of the House of Usher by Edgar Allan Poe. Our adaptation was written by Carissa Weiser. I'm Jason Weiser. Our theme song is by Breakmaster Cylinder. Thank you so much for listening, and we will see you in two weeks with a story about a sentient nose.