Love Letters to Poe, Volume II: Houses of Usher: Love Letters to Poe, #2

By Sara Crocoll Smith

Thirty Usher-Inspired Stories and Poems

Whisper the words "The Fall of the House of Usher" and you conjure strange imagery… a brooding, black tarn… sullen siblings… the frenzy of undeath…

This famous story, published by Edgar Allan Poe in September 1839, continues to hold sway in our society over one hundred and eighty years later. This volume is composed of thirty stories and poems inspired by this great gothic work.

Explore the vaults of the House of Usher and this haunted palace will reveal to you its horrifying secrets. When, at last, you reach the end of this harrowing journey, you will be rewarded with a deepened appreciation for the original tale.

Curl up with Love Letters to Poe and enjoy these haunting tales!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sara Crocoll Smith
• Release date: Aug 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781956546088

Book preview

Love Letters to Poe

Love Letters to Poe

VOLUME 2: HOUSES OF USHER

JARED BAKER LAURA BARKER ENOCH BLACK RYAN C. BRADLEY CATHERINE BROGDON ELOU CARROLL PAUL D. COOMBS RENEE CRONLEY HALIMAH S. DILAZAK ANA DOMINI SHARMON GAZAWAY AMELIA GORMAN LORI GREEN JAMESON GREY XANDRA HARBET ELLEN HARRISON SABRINA HOWARD ALSHAAD KARA JOHN KISTE JACKSON KUHL JOE NAZARE ANTHONY PERCONTI MARISCA PICHETTE MARY RAJOTTE BELICIA RHEA EVA ROSLIN J. L. ROYCE A. A. RUBIN ELEANOR SCIOLISTEIN

EDITED BY

SARA CROCOLL SMITH

Fun, Fiction, Fandom

Love Letters to Poe

Volume 2: Houses of Usher

Copyright © 2022 by Fun, Fiction, Fandom

Book Cover Design by EbookLaunch.com & Janet Linton

Each contributor retains their copyright for their individual work featured in this anthology.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the contributors’ imaginations. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher and copyright owner, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISSN 2693-8804 (online); ISSN 2769-1578 (print)

ISBN 978-1-956546-08-8 (ebook)

ISBN 978-1-956546-09-5 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-956546-10-1 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-956546-11-8 (large print)

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Contents

FREE ARTWORK

The Masque of the Red Death Artwork

Houses of Usher

Sara Crocoll Smith

The Curse on the House of Usher

Sabrina Howard

In Ghastly Splendor

Mary Rajotte

Coraline’s Choice

Jared Baker

When the House of Usher Falls

A.A. Rubin

Play Dead for Me

Ana Domini

Riflesso Scuro

Anthony Perconti

Nil Nisi Bonum

J.L. Royce

Soul of Usher

Alshaad Kara

The Fall of the Hearse of Asher

John Kiste

Dearest Roderick

J.L. Royce

The Last Stand of Sassacus House

Jackson Kuhl

Find Me

Sharmon Gazaway

Ratty, Tatty, Morbid, Mute

Catherine Brogdon

The Fall of a House in Maine

Ryan C. Bradley

Last Exit for the Lost

Paul D. Coombs

Mother Mansion

Amelia Gorman

Childish Things

Renee Cronley

The Kiss of the House of Usher

Jameson Grey

An Inheritance of Ashes

Lori Green

The Mad Trist

Enoch Black

The Bell

Laura Barker

Guardians of Fallows and Fortune

Halimah S. Dilazak

smile no more

Marisca Pichette

Le Palais Hanté

Xandra Harbet

Beneath the House of Gray

Eleanor Sciolistein

Through the Pale Door

Ellen Harrison

House Calls

Joe Nazare

The Blood Speaks Louder

Eva Roslin

Phantasmagoric

Belicia Rhea

Good and Kind and Gone, All Gone

Elou Carroll

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Houses of Usher

FOREWORD BY

SARA CROCOLL SMITH

Whisper the words The Fall of the House of Usher and you conjure strange imagery… a brooding, black tarn… sullen siblings… the frenzy of undeath…

This famous story, published by Edgar Allan Poe in September 1839, continues to hold sway in our society over one hundred and eighty years later. You hold within your hands a volume composed of thirty stories and poems inspired by this great gothic work.

Explore the vaults of the House of Usher and this haunted palace will reveal to you its horrifying secrets. When, at last, you reach the end of this harrowing journey, you will be rewarded with a deepened appreciation for the original tale.

Thank you to all of the contributors to this anthology—you have amazed me with your breadth of new, exhilarating angles on well-trodden gothic ground. Thank you to my patrons, who support me on my quest to celebrate Poe and keep his spirit alive through Love Letters to Poe and so much more.

Now, I leave you to begin. May the stories and poems ahead bring you delightful dread as we make the Houses of Usher come alive!

Sincerely,

Sara Crocoll Smith

Publisher / Editor-in-Chief

Love Letters to Poe

The Curse on the House of Usher

SABRINA HOWARD

The lone prisoner among the damp stonework and iron bars, with aught to entertain or stimulate my thoughts, I had festered in the dungeons of the House of Usher for more than a week when the witch came. Alerted by the hideous screech of the massive dungeon door, I sprung off my bed of straw and pressed against the bars to see as far down the corridor as I could.

A guard marched into view, face impassive in the torchlight, and pushed a woman forward.

She melted into the firelight with features burning, dark eyes ablaze. Her dress, a faded rose and orange color, spoke of the sunset as it swirled around her. The coarse fabric and uncomplicated make of her dress, the simple arrangement of her dark brown hair, and the lack of any jeweled adornments proclaimed her a peasant. Yet she lifted her chin and straightened her back with impressive dignity.

Please, sir, she said to the guard. The charges against me are nothing but lies. Ulrich Usher himself can vouch for me, if you would only fetch him.

The guard gave no response other than to open the door of the cell across from mine. Its iron bars hissed against the uneven floor like swords sharpened over a whetstone. He shoved her in and closed the door without a word.

Ho, sirrah! I called as the guard jangled the keys in the lock. Why do you treat this lady so? Were these my dungeons, and you under my employ, I would have you show common decency.

Apologies, Lord Wexford. The guard turned away from the woman’s cell and approached mine. I am avoiding interaction with her for safety’s sake, and I suggest you do the same. She is a witch, sir.

I took a half-step back, unbidden. A witch, you say? I leaned around the guard’s stocky form to watch her. She paced the limited length of her cell, restless. Her skin was smudged with dirt, presumably from her journey to the manor, and where her sleeves ended, wine-red scrapes encircled her wrists—the lingering mark of tied rope. Her features were troubled, but there was a softness in them, and an air of innocence about her. In a way I cannot articulate, she gave an impression of summer, of warm, sunlit days that one wishes would stretch into eternity.

I do not think she is dangerous, I said. There was, however, a bewitching quality to her that did not seem altogether natural. Or rather, too natural. Her charm was not of the high fashion and coiffed hair of noble women, but of the quiet beauty of the full moon, the freshness of a spring brook. What will happen to her? I asked.

She’ll burn in the morning. The pyre is being assembled as we speak.

Pity swelled within me as the guard left the dungeon, accompanied by the witch’s cries. Please, wait! Ulrich Usher will clear my name! Sir!

The scream of rusted hinges drowned out her pleas, then the dungeon door was shut.

We were alone beneath the House of Usher.

The dim torchlight sparked in unshed tears in the woman’s eyes. She did not meet my gaze, but seated herself on her straw cot in silence.

Two desires warred within me. Safety dictated that I should not engage the witch, so as to avoid any possible enchantment. But my want of society was stronger, for I had spent many days without company in the oppressive darkness of the Usher vaults. Here, at last, was a reprieve.

I sat, too, and leaned forward with my elbows on my knees. Goodwife, what is your name?

She looked up, cautious. Annora, sir.

This Ulrich Usher who will speak in your favor, is he the Duke?

No, sir. Her reply was polite, her gaze fastened to the damp cobblestone that spanned the narrow distance between our prisons. Godwin Usher is the Duke. His son, Ulrich Usher, is Earl.

I see. And you are certain he would vouch for you if he knew of the accusations against you?

She met my gaze at last. Yes.

The certainty with which she spoke served only to increase my curiosity. The two of you must be well acquainted, then, I said, although I could not imagine how.

Her gaze fell away again. We were quite close, she said. Once.

Privately, I doubted whether he would remember her as well as she believed, let alone be prepared to speak in her defense. But I noted the inward curve of her shoulders, and her fingers which twisted around a clump of fabric on her dress, and said nothing.

Silence poured into the vault, obstructed here and there by the popping of the torch flames. With another presence in the room, it was not as suffocating as before. I fiddled idly with a buckle on my boot, and when I next glanced up, the witch looked away.

I straightened, amused. You are very much encouraged to make conversation. Indeed, I may begin to hold discussion with myself if you do not.

A phantasm of a smile haunted the corners of her lips and she lifted her head to survey me again. You are a nobleman of Wexford, sir?

Finnian Ó Cosraigh, Baron of Wexford. I nodded, and she bowed her head in turn.

If I may inquire, what circumstances led to your imprisonment, Lord Wexford?

Ill fortune and a personal vice, I said, rubbing the back of my neck. I must remember to keep myself nearer to home when I intend to be troublesome. Not two years past, I was held for ransom in Nottingham. I do appear to be making a tour of dungeons while keeping myself indebted to my older brother. I cleared my throat and smiled at the witch. Perhaps you could magic me more luck.

She blushed and glanced toward the dungeon door with wide eyes. I cannot, she said, in an overloud voice which echoed off the arched ceiling, for I am no witch.

I ducked my head. I apologize. My humor is often ill-timed.

No, she said, her voice softer. Her arms were wrapped around herself, but when she looked at me, her distress was diluted with wry amusement. I think prisoners must need humor more than most.

I nodded, relieved not to have offended my only source of companionship. Yet her reaction had inspired a new course of thought. Her quick denial, the paranoid glance at the door—it spoke more of guilt than innocence. If indeed you are not a witch, I asked, how came you to be accused of witchcraft?

A few village children accused me, and their families believed them. She shook her head, bitter. There was a firmness to the set of her chin, a hardness that solidified the curves of her face, the high arches of her cheekbones. I pray when those children are older, they will remember their deeds and tremble, and beg mercy from God.

I raised an eyebrow. You speak overmuch of God, for a witch.

I am no witch, she said again, and once more she could not bring her eyes to meet mine.

Our conversation lulled, and I passed the time in contemplation of Annora’s guilt. Witch or woman? Guilt or innocence? Perhaps, I thought, they were not the same question.

At last, the rusted dungeon door proclaimed the entrance of another guard. He approached with a tray bearing a bowl of broth, a plate topped with carrots and salted herring, and two mugs of ale. He set the plate and a mug inside my cell through a small gap in the bars at the bottom of the door.

I picked up the ale, an idea forming.

Guard, I said, just as he slid the bowl and mug into Annora’s cell and turned to leave. Is the Usher family feasting now as well?

Indeed, sir, he said. He looked at my food and back again. Is there a problem?

No, sirrah. In fact,—I glanced at Annora, who had stood and was watching with interest—there is great news. The witch would like to confess.

Annora opened her mouth to protest, but I discreetly waved her quiet. She held her silence and studied me with a paranoid, tentative trust.

But there is one condition, I said. She will only confess to a lord of the House of Usher. You must approach them at the end of the feast and say exactly this: ‘The lovely dark-haired Annora has agreed to confess regarding her witchcraft, for which she will be executed. She will only speak truthfully to a lord of the House of Usher. Which of you will go?’

The guard glanced between Annora and I. Suspicion creased the lines in his forehead.

I lowered my voice, tone urgent. You must do exactly as she wishes, or else she will not confess and you will incur her wrath. And she will know, by way of magic, if you deviate from her instructions.

Fear widened his eyes, and he looked at Annora. I will do it, he said. He hurried toward the entrance of the dungeon, but I called him back.

Wait, sirrah.

He returned, pale skin mottled with orange as the nearest torch flickered. Yes, Lord Wexford?

I downed my mug of ale and, with the toe of my boot, pushed my untouched plate back through the door. Give my supper to the witch.

He hesitated for only a moment, then took up the plate, slid it to Annora, and hastened away.

The hollow thud of the door echoed and died in the vaults as Annora considered the plate of food. Finally, she picked up a piece of herring with a soft, Gramercy, my Lord.

You’re welcome, I said, folding my arms with a grin, and I would hear your questions now.

I have no questions, only a declaration: I will not confess.

Of course not, I agreed. That was not my intention. I merely devised a way to get you your audience with the Earl.

She took a measured sip of ale, then smiled. Ulrich will be at the feast. When he hears my name and the urgency of my plight, he will be the one to volunteer to take my confession.

I nodded and lay back on the straw padding with a sigh. If he remembers you, I said, closing my eyes, he will come.

The shriek of the dungeon door pulled me back into consciousness. I kept still and listened to the approaching footsteps.

Annora gave a small gasp. Ulrich! The relief and gladness in her voice was piercing like the sun.

There was a prolonged pause, then a male voice said, Baron Wexford?

I did not respond except to smile at my good fortune to overhear such a curious reunion; from my position, my face was obscured.

He is asleep, Annora said. In the quiet, her soft voice skimmed the vaulted ceiling and carried to my cell with ease. I knew you would come, if I could only get word to you.

There was a shuffle of fabric against stone, and I imagined the two drawing closer.

When I heard your name, I could do nothing else. Usher’s tone was likewise gentle and low. A wistfulness thrummed in his voice, an undercurrent of desire that told me more than the words themselves. I can scarcely believe you are before my eyes again.

And you before mine.

Silence, then a hum of dissent from Annora.

You are married now, Ulrich. We both agreed she was more fitting for your station. Light footsteps scuffed the ground—Annora, backing away from the bars. I did not summon you to renew old feelings, only to save my life. I stand accused of witchcraft. They said— For the first time, her voice wavered. They are building a pyre.

I have seen it, Usher said.

Annora let out a shaky breath. Straw crackled, and I pictured her dropping back onto the makeshift bed. Please, Ulrich. All I ask is that you vouch for me. Tell your father and the others that you know me, that I’m not a witch, that I—that I should be released. And I will go, and God willing, we will not see each other again.

Calm yourself, Annora, he said. I will do whatever I must.

She sniffed and gave a last sigh, and quiet reclaimed the dungeon. A spark popped from one of the torches. A low rumble ran through the ground. Thunder from without the House of Usher? I took in a breath of damp straw, musty and rank, and longed for the smell of rain. Any day now, my brother’s emissaries would arrive with my ransom, and I would walk free. I hoped the same for Annora.

Do you remember the oak tree behind the chapel? Usher’s whisper reached the vaulted ceiling and fractured into shards of longing and regret.

Yes, she said.

I sometimes wonder at the man I would be if I had made a different decision there. Perhaps I would be a better man.

You are a better man, Annora said. You have a title, and wealth, and a woman who will give you a family. You will be a blessing to the Usher line.

He sighed, long and low. I am glad to have spoken with you one last time. Then his heavy footsteps rang through the vault and the dungeon door opened and shut with finality.

In the morning, there was news, and it was two-fold. First, emissaries from Wexford had arrived with payment. My heart leapt to be free of the House of Usher at last, and I watched the guard unlock my cell in high spirits.

And the other news? I asked, stepping out.

He turned to Annora. Your execution has been delayed, witch. It stormed all night and drenched the pyre.

Delayed? I asked, as Annora approached the bars with a frown. I thought she was to be released.

What of the Earl’s testimony? Annora demanded.

He relayed your confession of witchcraft.

What? Annora shook her head, her breaths coming faster. He said he would vouch for me. He said—

The realization roiled in the pit of my stomach. He said he would do what he must. He is acting in his own interests, avoiding scandal. I clenched my fists at my sides. Curse him.

Annora looked more lost than angry.

As I said, the guard continued, we can’t use the pyre, but the Duke won’t keep a witch in the House of Usher. He turned to Annora. Your execution will be delayed until the afternoon, and you will be drowned in the tarn instead.

Cold defeat seeped away the joy of my release. I swallowed and met Annora’s eyes. Their dark depths swam with conflict. I am truly sorry, Annora. I shall pray for your soul.

"There is still time for