{"id":14980,"date":"2024-07-15T20:02:09","date_gmt":"2024-07-16T00:02:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/?p=14980"},"modified":"2025-02-16T11:10:45","modified_gmt":"2025-02-16T15:10:45","slug":"ray-bradbury-april-2005-usher-ii","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/short-stories\/ray-bradbury-april-2005-usher-ii\/14980\/","title":{"rendered":"Ray Bradbury: April 2005: Usher II"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Synopsis<\/strong>: In Ray Bradbury\u2019s \u201cUsher II<\/strong>,\u201d Mr. William Stendahl has built an exact replica of Edgar Allan Poe\u2019s The House of Usher on Mars as a protest against the censorship that has destroyed fantasy literature on Earth. In a society where all things imaginative are forbidden, Stendahl invites members of the Society for the Prevention of Fantasy to a macabre event at his newly built house, where they will experience a shocking experience.<\/p>\n\n\n

\n
\n
\"Ray<\/figure>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n\n\n

April 2005: Usher II<\/h2>\n\n\n\n

By Ray Bradbury
(Full story)<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018DURING 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 evening drew on, within view of the melancholy House of Usher. . . .\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. William Stendahl paused in his quotation. There, upon a low black hill, stood the House, its cornerstone bearing the inscription 2005 A.D.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Bigelow, the architect, said, \u201cIt\u2019s completed. Here\u2019s the key, Mr. Stendahl.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The two men stood together silently in the quiet autumn afternoon. Blueprints rustled on the raven grass at their feet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe House of Usher,\u201d said Mr. Stendahl with pleasure. \u201cPlanned, built, bought, paid for. Wouldn\u2019t Mr. Poe be delighted<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Bigelow squinted. \u201cIs it everything you wanted, sir?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs the color right? Is it desolate and terrible<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cVery desolate, very terrible!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe walls are\u2014bleak<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAmazingly so!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe tarn, is it \u2018black and lurid\u2019 enough?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMost incredibly black and lurid.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnd the sedge\u2014we\u2019ve dyed it, you know\u2014is it the proper gray and ebon?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHideous!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Bigelow consulted his architectural plans. From these he quoted in part: \u201cDoes the whole structure cause an \u2018iciness, a sickening of the heart, a dreariness of thought\u2019? The House, the lake, the land, Mr. Stendahl?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMr. Bigelow, it\u2019s worth every penny! My God, it\u2019s beautiful!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThank you. I had to work in total ignorance. Thank the Lord you had your own private rockets or we\u2019d never have been allowed to bring most of the equipment through. You notice, it\u2019s always twilight here, this land, always October, barren, sterile, dead. It took a bit of doing. We killed everything. Ten thousand tons of DDT. Not a snake, frog, or Martian fly left! Twilight always, Mr. Stendahl; I\u2019m proud of that. There are machines, hidden, which blot out the sun. It\u2019s always properly \u2018dreary.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stendahl drank it in, the dreariness, the oppression, the fetid vapors, the whole \u201catmosphere,\u201d so delicately contrived and fitted. And that House! That crumbling horror, that evil lake, the fungi, the extensive decay! Plastic or otherwise, who could guess?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He looked at the autumn sky. Somewhere above, beyond, far off, was the sun. Somewhere it was the month of April on the planet Mars, a yellow month with a blue sky. Somewhere above, the rockets burned down to civilize a beautifully dead planet. The sound of their screaming passage was muffled by this dim, soundproofed world, this ancient autumn world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNow that my job\u2019s done,\u201d said Mr. Bigelow uneasily, \u201cI feel free to ask what you\u2019re going to do with all this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWith Usher? Haven\u2019t you guessed?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDoes the name Usher mean nothing to you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNothing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, what about this<\/em> name: Edgar Allan Poe?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Bigelow shook his head.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course.\u201d Stendahl snorted delicately, a combination of dismay and contempt. \u201cHow could I expect you to know blessed Mr. Poe? He died a long while ago, before Lincoln. All of his books were burned in the Great Fire. That\u2019s thirty years ago\u20141975.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAh,\u201d said Mr. Bigelow wisely. \u201cOne of those!<\/em>\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, one of those, Bigelow. He and Lovecraft and Hawthorne and Ambrose Bierce and all the tales of terror and fantasy and horror and, for that matter, tales of the future were burned. Heartlessly. They passed a law. Oh, it started very small. In 1950 and \u201960 it was a grain of sand. They began by controlling books of cartoons and then detective books and, of course, films, one way or another, one group or another, political bias, religious prejudice, union pressures; there was always a minority afraid of something, and a great majority afraid of the dark, afraid of the future, afraid of the past, afraid of the present, afraid of themselves and shadows of themselves.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI see.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAfraid of the word \u2018politics\u2019 (which eventually became a synonym for Communism among the more reactionary elements, so I hear, and it was worth your life to use the word!), and with a screw tightened here, a bolt fastened there, a push, a pull, a yank, art and literature were soon like a great twine of taffy strung about, being twisted in braids and tied in knots and thrown in all directions, until there was no more resiliency and no more savor to it. Then the film cameras chopped short and the theaters turned dark, and the print presses trickled down from a great Niagara of reading matter to a mere innocuous dripping of \u2018pure\u2019 material. Oh, the word \u2018escape\u2019 was radical, too, I tell you!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWas it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt was! Every man, they said, must face reality. Must face the Here and Now! Everything that was not so<\/em> must go. All the beautiful literary lies and flights of fancy must be shot in mid-air! So they lined them up against a library wall one Sunday morning thirty years ago, in 1975; they lined them up, St. Nicholas and the Headless Horseman and Snow White and Rumpelstiltskin and Mother Goose\u2014oh, what a wailing!\u2014and shot them down, and burned the paper castles and the fairy frogs and old kings and the people who lived happily ever after (for of course it was a fact that nobody<\/em> lived happily ever after!), and Once Upon A Time became No More! And they spread the ashes of the Phantom Rickshaw with the rubble of the Land of Oz; they filleted the bones of Glinda the Good and Ozma and shattered Polychrome in a spectroscope and served Jack Pumpkinhead with meringue at the Biologists\u2019 Ball! The Beanstalk died in a bramble of red tape! Sleeping Beauty awoke at the kiss of a scientist and expired at the fatal puncture of his syringe. And they made Alice drink something from a bottle which reduced her to a size where she could no longer cry \u2018Curiouser and curiouser,\u2019 and they gave the Looking Glass one hammer blow to smash it and every Red King and Oyster away!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He clenched his fists. Lord, how immediate it was! His face was red and he was gasping for breath.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

As for Mr. Bigelow, he was astounded at this long explosion. He blinked and at last said, \u201cSorry. Don\u2019t know what you\u2019re talking about. Just names to me. From what I hear, the Burning was a good thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGet out!\u201d screamed Stendahl. \u201cYou\u2019ve done your job, now let me alone, you idiot!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Bigelow summoned his carpenters and went away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Stendahl stood alone before his House.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cListen here,\u201d he said to the unseen rockets. \u201cI came to Mars to get away from you Clean-Minded people, but you\u2019re flocking in thicker every day, like flies to offal. So I\u2019m going to show you. I\u2019m going to teach you a fine lesson for what you did to Mr. Poe on Earth. As of this day, beware. The House of Usher is open for business!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He pushed a fist at the sky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


The rocket landed. A man stepped out jauntily. He glanced at the House, and his gray eyes were displeased and vexed. He strode across the moat to confront the small man there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYour name Stendahl?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m Garrett, Investigator of Moral Climates.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo you finally got to Mars, you Moral Climate people? I wondered when you\u2019d appear.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe arrived last week. We\u2019ll soon have things as neat and tidy as Earth.\u201d The man waved an identification card irritably toward the House. \u201cSuppose you tell me about that place, Stendahl?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a haunted castle, if you like.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t like, Stendahl, I don\u2019t like. The sound of that word \u2018haunted.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSimple enough. In this year of our Lord 2005 I have built a mechanical sanctuary. In it copper bats fly on electronic beams, brass rats scuttle in plastic cellars, robot skeletons dance; robot vampires, harlequins, wolves, and white phantoms, compounded of chemical and ingenuity, live here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s what I was afraid of,\u201d said Garrett, smiling quietly. \u201cI\u2019m afraid we\u2019re going to have to tear your place down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI knew you\u2019d come out as soon as you discovered what went on.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019d have come sooner, but we at Moral Climates wanted to be sure of your intentions before we moved in. We can have the Dismantlers and Burning Crew here by supper. By midnight your place will be razed to the cellar. Mr. Stendahl, I consider you somewhat of a fool, sir. Spending hard-earned money on a folly. Why, it must have cost you three million dollars\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFour million! But, Mr. Garrett, I inherited twenty-five million when very young. I can afford to throw it about. Seems a dreadful shame, though, to have the House finished only an hour and have you race out with your Dismantlers. Couldn\u2019t you possibly let me play with my Toy for just, well, twenty-four hours?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou know the law. Strict to the letter. No books, no houses, nothing to be produced which in any way suggests ghosts, vampires, fairies, or any creature of the imagination.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll be burning Babbitts next!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve caused us a lot of trouble, Mr. Stendahl. It\u2019s in the record. Twenty years ago. On Earth. You and your library.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, me and my library. And a few others like me. Oh, Poe\u2019s been forgotten for many years now, and Oz and the other creatures. But I had my little cache. We had our libraries, a few private citizens, until you sent your men around with torches and incinerators and tore my fifty thousand books up and burned them. Just as you put a stake through the heart of Halloween and told your film producers that if they made anything at all they would have to make and remake Ernest Hemingway. My God, how many times have I seen For Whom the Bell Tolls<\/em> done! Thirty different versions. All realistic. Oh, realism! Oh, here, oh, now, oh hell!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt doesn\u2019t pay to be bitter!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMr. Garrett, you must turn in a full report, mustn\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThen, for curiosity\u2019s sake, you\u2019d better come in and look around. It\u2019ll take only a minute.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAll right. Lead the way. And no tricks. I\u2019ve a gun with me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The door to the House of Usher creaked wide. A moist wind issued forth. There was an immense sighing and moaning, like a subterranean bellows breathing in the lost catacombs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A rat pranced across the floor stones. Garrett, crying out, gave it a kick. It fell over, the rat did, and from its nylon fur streamed an incredible horde of metal fleas.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAmazing!\u201d Garrett bent to see.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

An old witch sat in a niche, quivering her wax hands over some orange-and-blue tarot cards. She jerked her head and hissed through her toothless mouth at Garrett, tapping her greasy cards.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDeath!\u201d she cried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNow that\u2019s the sort of thing I mean,\u201d said Garrett. \u201cDeplorable!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ll let you burn her personally.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWill you, really?\u201d Garrett was pleased. Then he frowned. \u201cI must say you\u2019re taking this all so well.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt was enough just to be able to create this place. To be able to say I did it. To say I nurtured a medieval atmosphere in a modern, incredulous world.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019ve a somewhat reluctant admiration for your genius myself, sir.\u201d Garrett watched a mist drift by, whispering and whispering, shaped like a beautiful and nebulous woman. Down a moist corridor a machine whirled. Like the stuff from a cotton-candy centrifuge, mists sprang up and floated, murmuring, in the silent halls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

An ape appeared out of nowhere.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHold on!\u201d cried Garrett.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be afraid.\u201d Stendahl tapped the animal\u2019s black chest. \u201cA robot. Copper skeleton and all, like the witch. See?\u201d He stroked the fur, and under it metal tubing came to light.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes.\u201d Garrett put out a timid hand to pet the thing. \u201cBut why, Mr. Stendahl, why all this? What obsessed you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBureaucracy, Mr. Garrett. But I haven\u2019t time to explain. The government will discover soon enough.\u201d He nodded to the ape. \u201cAll right. Now.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The ape killed Mr. Garrett.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


\u201cAre we almost ready, Pikes?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pikes looked up from the table. \u201cYes, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve done a splendid job.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWell, I\u2019m paid for it, Mr. Stendahl,\u201d said Pikes softly as he lifted the plastic eyelid of the robot and inserted the glass eyeball to fasten the rubberoid muscles neatly. \u201cThere.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe spitting image of Mr. Garrett.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do we do with him, sir?\u201d Pikes nodded at the slab where the real Mr. Garrett lay dead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBetter burn him, Pikes. We wouldn\u2019t want two Mr. Garretts, would we?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pikes wheeled Mr. Garrett to the brick incinerator. \u201cGood-bye.\u201d He pushed Mr. Garrett in and slammed the door.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stendahl confronted the robot Garrett. \u201cYou have your orders, Garrett?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, sir.\u201d The robot sat up. \u201cI\u2019m to return to Moral Climates. I\u2019ll file a complimentary report. Delay action for at least forty-eight hours. Say I\u2019m investigating more fully.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRight, Garrett. Good-bye.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The robot hurried out to Garrett\u2019s rocket, got in, and flew away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stendahl turned. \u201cNow, Pikes, we send the remainder of the invitations for tonight. I think we\u2019ll have a jolly time, don\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cConsidering we waited twenty years, quite jolly!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They winked at each other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Seven o\u2019clock. Stendahl studied his watch. Almost time. He twirled the sherry glass in his hand. He sat quietly. Above him, among the oaken beams, the bats, their delicate copper bodies hidden under rubber flesh, blinked at him and shrieked. He raised his glass to them. \u201cTo our success.\u201d Then he leaned back, closed his eyes, and considered the entire affair. How he would savor this in his old age. This paying back of the antiseptic government for its literary terrors and conflagrations. Oh, how the anger and hatred had grown in him through the years. Oh, how the plan had taken a slow shape in his numbed mind, until that day three years ago when he had met Pikes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ah yes, Pikes. Pikes with the bitterness in him as deep as a black, charred well of green acid. Who was Pikes? Only the greatest of them all! Pikes, the man of ten thousand faces, a fury, a smoke, a blue fog, a white rain, a bat, a gargoyle, a monster, that was Pikes! Better than Lon Chaney, the father? Stendahl ruminated. Night after night he had watched Chaney in the old, old films. Yes, better than Chaney. Better than that other ancient mummer? What was his name? Karloff? Far better! Lugosi? The comparison was odious! No, there was only one Pikes, and he was a man stripped of his fantasies now, no place on Earth to go, no one to show off to. Forbidden even to perform for himself before a mirror!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Poor impossible, defeated Pikes! How must it have felt, Pikes, the night they seized your films, like entrails yanked from the camera, out of your guts, clutching them in roils and wads to stuff them up a stove to burn away? Did it feel as bad as having some fifty thousand books annihilated with no recompense? Yes. Yes. Stendahl felt his hands grow cold with the senseless anger. So what more natural than they would one day talk over endless coffeepots into innumerable midnights, and out of all the talk and the bitter brewings would come\u2014the House of Usher.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A great church bell rang. The guests were arriving.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Smiling, he went to greet them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


Full grown without memory, the robots waited. In green silks the color of forest pools, in silks the color of frog and fern, they waited. In yellow hair the color of the sun and sand, the robots waited. Oiled, with tube bones cut from bronze and sunk in gelatin, the robots lay. In coffins for the not dead and not alive, in planked boxes, the metronomes waited to be set in motion. There was a smell of lubrication and lathed brass. There was a silence of the tomb yard. Sexed but sexless, the robots. Named but unnamed, and borrowing from humans everything but humanity, the robots stared at the nailed lids of their labeled F.O.B. boxes, in a death that was not even a death, for there had never been a life. And now there was a vast screaming of yanked nails. Now there was a lifting of lids. Now there were shadows on the boxes and the pressure of a hand squirting oil from a can. Now one clock was set in motion, a faint ticking. Now another and another, until this was an immense clock shop, purring. The marble eyes rolled wide their rubber lids. The nostrils winked. The robots, clothed in hair of ape and white of rabbit, arose: Tweedledum following Tweedledee, Mock-Turtle, Dormouse, drowned bodies from the sea compounded of salt and whiteweed, swaying; hanging blue-throated men with turned-up, clam-flesh eyes, and creatures of ice and burning tinsel, loam-dwarfs and pepper-elves, Tik-Tok, Ruggedo, St. Nicholas with a self-made snow flurry blowing on before him, Bluebeard with whiskers like acetylene flame, and sulfur clouds from which green fire snouts protruded, and, in scaly and gigantic serpentine, a dragon with a furnace in its belly reeled out the door with a scream, a tick, a bellow, a silence, a rush, a wind. Ten thousand lids fell back. The clock shop moved out into Usher. The night was enchanted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


A warm breeze came over the land. The guest rockets, burning the sky and turning the weather from autumn to spring, arrived.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The men stepped out in evening clothes and the women stepped out after them, their hair coiffed up in elaborate detail.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo that\u2019s<\/em> Usher!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut where\u2019s the door?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At this moment Stendahl appeared. The women laughed and chattered. Mr. Stendahl raised a hand to quiet them. Turning, he looked up to a high castle window and called:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cRapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And from above, a beautiful maiden leaned out upon the night wind and let down her golden hair. And the hair twined and blew and became a ladder upon which the guests might ascend, laughing, into the House.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

What eminent sociologists! What clever psychologists! What tremendously important politicians, bacteriologists, and neurologists! There they stood, within the dank walls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWelcome, all of you!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Mr. Tryon, Mr. Owen, Mr. Dunne, Mr. Lang, Mr. Steffens, Mr. Fletcher, and a double-dozen more.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome in, come in!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Gibbs, Miss Pope, Miss Churchil, Miss Blunt, Miss Drummond, and a score of other women, glittering.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Eminent, eminent people, one and all, members of the Society for the Prevention of Fantasy, advocators of the banishment of Halloween and Guy Fawkes, killers of bats, burners of books, bearers of torches; good clean citizens, every one, who had waited until the rough men had come up and buried the Martians and cleansed the cities and built the towns and repaired the highways and made everything safe. And then, with everything well on its way to Safety, the Spoil-Funs, the people with mercurochrome for blood and iodine-colored eyes, came now to set up their Moral Climates and dole out goodness to everyone. And they were his friends! Yes, carefully, carefully, he had met and befriended each of them on Earth in the last year!<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWelcome to the vasty halls of Death!\u201d he cried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHello, Stendahl, what is<\/em> all this?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll see. Everyone off with their clothes. You\u2019ll find booths to one side there. Change into costumes you find there. Men on this side, women on that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The people stood uneasily about.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know if we should stay,\u201d said Miss Pope. \u201cI don\u2019t like the looks of this. It verges on\u2014blasphemy.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNonsense, a costume ball!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSeems quite illegal.\u201d Mr. Steffens sniffed about.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome off it.\u201d Stendahl laughed. \u201cEnjoy yourselves. Tomorrow it\u2019ll be a ruin. Get in the booths!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The House blazed with life and color; harlequins rang by with belled caps and white mice danced miniature quadrilles to the music of dwarfs who tickled tiny fiddles with tiny bows, and flags rippled from scorched beams while bats flew in clouds about gargoyle mouths which spouted down wine, cool, wild, and foaming. A creek wandered through the seven rooms of the masked ball. Guests sipped and found it to be sherry. Guests poured from the booths, transformed from one age into another, their faces covered with dominoes, the very act of putting on a mask revoking all their licenses to pick a quarrel with fantasy and horror. The women swept about in red gowns, laughing. The men danced them attendance. And on the walls were shadows with no people to throw them, and here or there were mirrors in which no image showed. \u201cAll of us vampires!\u201d laughed Mr. Fletcher. \u201cDead!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There were seven rooms, each a different color, one blue, one purple, one green, one orange, another white, the sixth violet, and the seventh shrouded in black velvet. And in the black room was an ebony clock which struck the hour loud. And through these rooms the guests ran, drunk at last, among the robot fantasies, amid the Dormice and Mad Hatters, the Trolls and Giants, the Black Cats and White Queens, and under their dancing feet the floor gave off the massive pumping beat of a hidden and tell-tale heart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMr. Stendahl!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A whisper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMr. Stendahl!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A monster with the face of Death stood at his elbow. It was Pikes. \u201cI must see you alone.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHere.\u201d Pikes held out a skeleton hand. In it were a few half-melted, charred wheels, nuts, cogs, bolts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stendahl looked at them for a long moment. Then he drew Pikes into a corridor. \u201cGarrett?\u201d he whispered.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Pikes nodded. \u201cHe sent a robot in his place. Cleaning out the incinerator a moment ago, I found these.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They both stared at the fateful cogs for a time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis means the police will be here any minute,\u201d said Pikes. \u201cOur plan will be ruined.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d Stendahl glanced in at the whirling yellow and blue and orange people. The music swept through the misting halls. \u201cI should have guessed Garrett wouldn\u2019t be fool enough to come in person. But wait!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNothing. There\u2019s nothing the matter. Garrett sent a robot to us. Well, we sent one back. Unless he checks closely, he won\u2019t notice the switch.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNext time he\u2019ll come himself<\/em>. Now that he thinks it\u2019s safe. Why, he might be at the door any minute, in person<\/em>! More wine, Pikes!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The great bell rang.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere he is now, I\u2019ll bet you. Go let Mr. Garrett in.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Rapunzel let down her golden hair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMr. Stendahl?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMr. Garrett. The real<\/em> Mr. Garrett?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe same.\u201d Garrett eyed the dank walls and the whirling people. \u201cI thought I\u2019d better come see for myself. You can\u2019t depend on robots. Other people\u2019s robots, especially. I also took the precaution of summoning the Dismantlers. They\u2019ll be here in one hour to knock the props out from under this horrible place.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stendahl bowed. \u201cThanks for telling me.\u201d He waved his hand. \u201cIn the meantime, you might as well enjoy this. A little wine?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo, thank you. What\u2019s going on? How low can a man sink?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSee for yourself, Mr. Garrett.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMurder,\u201d said Garrett.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMurder most foul,\u201d said Stendahl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A woman screamed. Miss Pope ran up, her face the color of a cheese. \u201cThe most horrid thing just happened! I saw Miss Blunt strangled by an ape and stuffed up a chimney!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They looked and saw the long yellow hair trailing down from the flue. Garrett cried out.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHorrid!\u201d sobbed Miss Pope, and then ceased crying. She blinked and turned. \u201cMiss Blunt!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes,\u201d said Miss Blunt, standing there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut I just saw you crammed up the flue!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d laughed Miss Blunt. \u201cA robot of myself. A clever facsimile!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut, but . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t cry, darling. I\u2019m quite all right. Let me look at myself. Well, so there I am!<\/em> Up the chimney. Like you said. Isn\u2019t that funny?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Miss Blunt walked away, laughing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHave a drink, Garrett?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI believe I will. That unnerved me. My God, what a place. This does deserve tearing down. For a moment there . . .\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Garrett drank.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Another scream. Mr. Steffens, borne upon the shoulders of four white rabbits, was carried down a flight of stairs which magically appeared in the floor. Into a pit went Mr. Steffens, where, bound and tied, he was left to face the advancing razor steel of a great pendulum which now whirled down, down, closer and closer to his outraged body.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs that me down there?\u201d said Mr. Steffens, appearing at Garrett\u2019s elbow. He bent over the pit. \u201cHow strange, how odd, to see yourself die.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The pendulum made a final stroke.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow realistic,\u201d said Mr. Steffens, turning away.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnother drink, Mr. Garrett?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes, please.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt won\u2019t be long. The Dismantlers will be here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThank God!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And for a third time, a scream.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat now?\u201d said Garrett apprehensively.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s my turn,\u201d said Miss Drummond. \u201cLook.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And a second Miss Drummond, shrieking, was nailed into a coffin and thrust into the raw earth under the floor.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhy, I remember that<\/em>,\u201d gasped the Investigator of Moral Climates. \u201cFrom the old forbidden books. The Premature Burial. And the others. The Pit, the Pendulum, and the ape, the chimney, the Murders in the Rue Morgue. In a book I burned, yes!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnother drink, Garrett. Here, hold your glass steady.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy lord, you have<\/em> an imagination, haven\u2019t you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They stood and watched five others die, one in the mouth of a dragon, the others thrown off into the black tarn, sinking and vanishing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWould you like to see what we have planned for you?\u201d asked Stendahl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCertainly,\u201d said Garrett. \u201cWhat\u2019s the difference? We\u2019ll blow the whole damn thing up, anyway. You\u2019re nasty.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome along then. This way.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And he led Garrett down into the floor, through numerous passages and down again upon spiral stairs into the earth, into the catacombs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you want to show me down here?\u201d said Garrett.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYourself killed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA duplicate?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYes. And also something else.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe Amontillado,\u201d said Stendahl, going ahead with a blazing lantern which he held high. Skeletons froze half out of coffin lids. Garrett held his hand to his nose, his face disgusted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe what?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHaven\u2019t you ever heard of the Amontillado?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you recognize this?\u201d Stendahl pointed to a cell.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cShould I?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOr this?\u201d Stendahl produced a trowel from under his cape smiling.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that thing?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cCome,\u201d said Stendahl.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They stepped into the cell. In the dark, Stendahl affixed the chains to the half-drunken man.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFor God\u2019s sake, what are you doing?\u201d shouted Garrett, rattling about.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI\u2019m being ironic. Don\u2019t interrupt a man in the midst of being ironic, it\u2019s not polite. There!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve locked me in chains!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSo I have.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat are you going to do?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLeave you here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re joking.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA very good joke.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere\u2019s my duplicate? Don\u2019t we see him killed?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere is no duplicate.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut the others<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThe others are dead. The ones you saw killed were the real people. The duplicates, the robots, stood by and watched.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Garrett said nothing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNow you\u2019re supposed to say, \u2018For the love of God, Montresor!\u2019\u201d said Stendahl. \u201cAnd I will reply, \u2018Yes, for the love of God.\u2019 Won\u2019t you say it? Come on. Say it.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou fool.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMust I coax you? Say it. Say \u2018For the love of God, Montresor!\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI won\u2019t, you idiot. Get me out of here.\u201d He was sober now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHere. Put this on.\u201d Stendahl tossed in something that belled and rang.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA cap and bells. Put it on and I might let you out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cStendahl!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cPut it on, I said!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Garrett obeyed. The bells tinkled.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you have a feeling that this has all happened before?\u201d inquired Stendahl, setting to work with trowel and mortar and brick now.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019re you doing?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWalling you in. Here\u2019s one row. Here\u2019s another.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019re insane!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI won\u2019t argue that point.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou\u2019ll be prosecuted for this!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He tapped a brick and placed it on the wet mortar, humming.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Now there was a thrashing and pounding and a crying out from within the darkening place. The bricks rose higher. \u201cMore thrashing, please,\u201d said Stendahl. \u201cLet\u2019s make it a good show.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cLet me out, let me out!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There was one last brick to shove into place. The screaming was continuous.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGarrett?\u201d called Stendahl softly. Garrett silenced himself. \u201cGarrett,\u201d said Stendahl, \u201cdo you know why I\u2019ve done this to you? Because you burned Mr. Poe\u2019s books without really reading them. You took other people\u2019s advice that they needed burning. Otherwise you\u2019d have realized what I was going to do to you when we came down here a moment ago. Ignorance is fatal, Mr. Garrett.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Garrett was silent.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI want this to be perfect,\u201d said Stendahl, holding his lantern up so its light penetrated in upon the slumped figure. \u201cJingle your bells softly.\u201d The bells rustled. \u201cNow, if you\u2019ll please say, \u2018For the love of God, Montresor,\u2019 I might let you free.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The man\u2019s face came up in the light. There was a hesitation. Then grotesquely the man said, \u201cFor the love of God, Montresor.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAh,\u201d said Stendahl, eyes closed. He shoved the last brick into place and mortared it tight. \u201cRequiescat in pace,<\/em> dear friend.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

He hastened from the catacomb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n


In the seven rooms the sound of a midnight clock brought everything to a halt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The Red Death appeared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Stendahl turned for a moment at the door to watch. And then he ran out of the great House, across the moat, to where a helicopter waited.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cReady, Pikes?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cReady.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThere it goes!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They looked at the great House, smiling. It began to crack down the middle, as with an earthquake, and as Stendahl watched the magnificent sight he heard Pikes reciting behind him in a low, cadenced voice:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201c\u2018. . . my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder\u2014there was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters\u2014and the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the House of Usher.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The helicopter rose over the steaming lake and flew into the west.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

THE END<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In Ray Bradbury’s “Usher II,” Mr. William Stendahl has built an exact replica of Edgar Allan Poe’s The House of Usher on Mars as a protest against the censorship that has destroyed fantasy literature on Earth. In a society where all things imaginative are forbidden, Stendahl invites members of the Society for the Prevention of Fantasy to a macabre event at his newly built house, where they will experience a shocking experience.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":14826,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[559],"tags":[572,574,552,570],"class_list":["post-14980","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories","tag-horror-en","tag-ray-bradbury-en","tag-science-fiction","tag-united-states","generate-columns","tablet-grid-50","mobile-grid-100","grid-parent","grid-33"],"acf":[],"taxonomy_info":{"category":[{"value":559,"label":"Short stories"}],"post_tag":[{"value":572,"label":"Horror"},{"value":574,"label":"Ray Bradbury"},{"value":552,"label":"Science fiction"},{"value":570,"label":"United States"}]},"featured_image_src_large":["https:\/\/lecturia.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/07\/Ray-Bradbury-Usher-II.jpg",1024,1024,false],"author_info":{"display_name":"Juan Pablo Guevara","author_link":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/author\/spartakku\/"},"comment_info":"","category_info":[{"term_id":559,"name":"Short stories","slug":"short-stories","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":559,"taxonomy":"category","description":"","parent":0,"count":420,"filter":"raw","cat_ID":559,"category_count":420,"category_description":"","cat_name":"Short stories","category_nicename":"short-stories","category_parent":0}],"tag_info":[{"term_id":572,"name":"Horror","slug":"horror-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":572,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":128,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":574,"name":"Ray Bradbury","slug":"ray-bradbury-en","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":574,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":43,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":552,"name":"Science fiction","slug":"science-fiction","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":552,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":121,"filter":"raw"},{"term_id":570,"name":"United States","slug":"united-states","term_group":0,"term_taxonomy_id":570,"taxonomy":"post_tag","description":"","parent":0,"count":294,"filter":"raw"}],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14980","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=14980"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/14980\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/14826"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=14980"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=14980"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lecturia.org\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=14980"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}