Tynan Portillo presents…featuring the best horror stories of the 19th century…welcome to The Poe Show podcast. Narrated by Tynan Portillo.

Today’s episode, The Fall of the House of Usher by Edgar Allan Poe.

Part One

It was a dark and soundless day near the end of the year, and clouds were hanging low in the heavens. All day I had been riding on horseback through country with little life or beauty; and in the early evening I came within view of the House of Usher.

I do not know how it was — but, with my first sight of the building, a sense of heavy sadness filled my spirit. I looked at the scene before me — at the house itself — at the ground around it — at the cold stone walls of the building — at its empty eye-like windows — and at a few dead trees — I looked at this scene, I say, with a complete sadness of soul which was no healthy, earthly feeling. There was a coldness, a sickening of the heart, in which I could discover nothing to lighten the weight I felt. What was it, I asked myself, what was it that was so fearful, so frightening in my view of the House of Usher? This was a question to which I could find no answer.

I stopped my horse beside the building, on the edge of a dark and quiet lake. There, I could see reflected in the water a clear picture of the dead trees, and of the house and its empty eye-like windows. 23 Edgar Allan Poe: Storyteller I was now going to spend several weeks in this house of sadness — this house of gloom. Its owner was named Roderick Usher. We had been friends when we were boys; but many years had passed since our last meeting. A letter from him had reached me, a wild letter which demanded that I reply by coming to see him. He wrote of an illness of the body — of a sickness of the mind — and of a desire to see me — his best and indeed his only friend. It was the manner in which all this was said — it was the heart in it — which did not allow me to say no.

Although as boys we had been together, I really knew little about my friend. I knew, however, that his family, a very old one, had long been famous for its understanding of all the arts and for many quiet acts of kindness to the poor. I had learned too that the family had never been a large one, with many branches. The name had passed always from father to son, and when people spoke of the “House of Usher,” they included both the family and the family home.

I again looked up from the picture of the house reflected in the lake to the house itself. A strange idea grew in my mind — an idea so strange that I tell it only to show the force of the feelings which laid their weight on me. I really believed that around the whole house, and the ground around it, the air itself was different. It was not the air of heaven. It rose from the dead, decaying trees, from the gray walls, and the quiet lake. It was a sickly, unhealthy air that I could see, slow-moving, heavy, and gray.

Shaking off from my spirit what must have been a dream, I looked more carefully at the building itself. The most noticeable thing about it seemed to be its great age. None of the walls had fallen, yet the stones appeared to be in a condition of advanced decay. Perhaps the careful eye would have discovered the beginning of a break in the front of the building, a crack making its way from the top down the wall until it became lost in the dark waters of the lake.

I rode over a short bridge to the house. A man who worked in the house — a servant — took my horse, and I entered. Another servant, of quiet step, led me without a word through many dark turnings to the room of his master. Much that I met on the way added, I do not know how, to the strangeness of which I have already spoken. While the objects around me — the dark wall coverings, the blackness of the floors, and the things brought home from long forgotten wars — 24 Edgar Allan Poe while these things were like the things I had known since I was a baby — while I admitted that all this was only what I had expected — I was still surprised at the strange ideas which grew in my mind from these simple things.

The room I came into was very large and high. The windows were high, and pointed at the top, and so far above the black floor that they were quite out of reach. Only a little light, red in color, made its way through the glass, and served to lighten the nearer and larger objects. My eyes, however, tried and failed to see into the far, high corners of the room. Dark coverings hung upon the walls. The many chairs and tables had been used for a long, long time. Books lay around the room, but could give it no sense of life. I felt sadness hanging over everything. No escape from this deep cold gloom seemed possible.

As I entered the room, Usher stood up from where he had been lying and met me with a warmth which at first I could not believe was real. A look, however, at his face told me that every word he spoke was true.

We sat down; and for some moments, while he said nothing, I looked at him with a feeling of sad surprise. Surely, no man had ever before changed as Roderick Usher had! Could this be the friend of my early years? It is true that his face had always been unusual. He had gray-white skin; eyes large and full of light; lips not bright in color, but of a beautiful shape; a well-shaped nose; hair of great softness — a face that was not easy to forget. And now the increase in this strangeness of his face had caused so great a change that I almost did not know him. The horrible white of his skin, and the strange light in his eyes, surprised me and even made me afraid. His hair had been allowed to grow, and in its softness it did not fall around his face but seemed to lie upon the air. I could not, even with an effort, see in my friend the appearance of a simple human being.

In his manner, I saw at once, changes came and went; and I soon found that this resulted from his attempt to quiet a very great nervousness. I had indeed been prepared for something like this, partly by his letter and partly by remembering him as a boy. His actions were first too quick and then too quiet. Sometimes his voice, slow and trembling with fear, quickly changed to a strong, heavy, carefully spaced, too perfectly controlled manner. It was in this manner that he 25 Edgar Allan Poe: Storyteller spoke of the purpose of my visit, of his desire to see me, and of the deep delight and strength he expected me to give him. He told me what he believed to be the nature of his illness. It was, he said, a family sickness, and one from which he could not hope to grow better — but it was, he added at once, only a nervous illness which would without doubt soon pass away. It showed itself in a number of strange feelings. Some of these, as he told me of them, interested me but were beyond my understanding; perhaps the way in which he told me of them added to their strangeness. He suffered much from a sickly increase in the feeling of all the senses; he could eat only the most tasteless food; all flowers smelled too strongly for his nose; his eyes were hurt by even a little light; and there were few sounds which did not fill him with horror. A certain kind of sick fear was completely his master.

“I shall die,” he said. “I shall die! I must die of this fool’s sickness. In this way, this way and no other way, I shall be lost. I fear what will happen in the future, not for what happens, but for the result of what happens. I have, indeed, no fear of pain, but only fear of its result — of terror! I feel that the time will soon arrive when I must lose my life, and my mind, and my soul, together, in some last battle with that horrible enemy: FEAR!”

Part Two

Roderick Usher, whom I had known as a boy, was now ill and had asked me to come to help him. When I arrived I felt something strange and fearful about the great old stone house, about the lake in front of it, and about Usher himself. He appeared not like a human being, but like a spirit that had come back from beyond the grave. It was an illness, he said, from which he would surely die. He called his sickness fear. “I have,” he said, “no fear of pain, but only the fear of its result — of terror. I feel that the time will soon arrive when I must lose my life, and my mind, and my soul, together, in some last battle with that horrible enemy: fear!”

I learned also, but slowly, and through broken words with doubtful meaning, another strange fact about the condition of Usher’s mind. He had certain sick fears about the house in which he lived, and he had not stepped out of it for many years. He felt that the house, with its gray walls and the quiet lake around it, had somehow through the long years gotten a strong hold on his spirit.

He said, however, that much of the gloom which lay so heavily on him was probably caused by something more plainly to be seen — by the long-continued illness — indeed, the coming death — of a dearly loved sister — his only company for many years. Except for himself, she was the last member of his family on earth. “When she dies,” he said, with a sadness which I can never forget, “when she dies, I will be the last of the old, old family — the House of Usher.”

While he spoke, the lady Madeline (for so she was called) passed slowly through a distant part of the room, and without seeing that I was there, went on. I looked at her with a complete and wondering surprise and with some fear — and yet I found I could not explain to myself such feelings. My eyes followed her. When she came to a door and it closed behind her, my eyes turned to the face of her brother — but he had put his face in his hands, and I could see only that the thin fingers through which his tears were flowing were whiter than ever before.

The illness of the lady Madeline had long been beyond the help of her doctors. She seemed to care about nothing. Slowly her body had grown thin and weak, and often for a short period she would fall into a sleep like the sleep of the dead. So far she had not been forced to stay in bed; but by the evening of the day I arrived at the house, the power of her destroyer (as her brother told me that night) was too strong for her. I learned that my one sight of her would probably be the last I would have — that the lady, at least while living, would be seen by me no more.

For several days following, her name was not spoken by either Usher or myself; and during this period I was busy with efforts to lift my friend out of his sadness and gloom. We painted and read together; or listened, as if in a dream, to the wild music he played. And so, as a warmer and more loving friendship grew between us, I saw more clearly the uselessness of all attempts to bring happiness to a mind from which only darkness came, spreading upon all objects in the world its never-ending gloom.

I shall always remember the hours I spent with the master of the House of Usher. Yet I would fail in any attempt to give an idea of the true character of the things we did together. There was a strange light over everything. The paintings which he made made me tremble, 28 Edgar Allan Poe though I know not why. To tell of them is beyond the power of written words. If ever a man painted an idea, that man was Roderick Usher. For me at least there came out of his pictures a sense of fear and wonder.

One of these pictures may be told, although weakly, in words. It showed the inside of a room where the dead might be placed, with low walls, white and plain. It seemed to be very deep under the earth. There was no door, no window; and no light or fire burned; yet a river of light flowed through it, filling it with a horrible, ghastly brightness.

I have spoken of that sickly condition of the senses, which made most music painful for Usher to hear. The notes he could listen to with pleasure were very few. It was this fact, perhaps, that made the music he played so different from most music. But the wild beauty of his playing could not be explained.

The words of one of his songs, called “The Haunted Palace,” I have easily remembered. In it I thought I saw, and for the first time, that Usher knew very well that his mind was weakening. This song told of a great house where a king lived — a palace — in a green valley, where all was light and color and beauty, and the air was sweet. In the palace were two bright windows through which people in that happy valley could hear music and could see smiling ghosts — spirits — moving around the king. The palace door was of the richest materials, in red and white; through it came other spirits whose only duty was to sing in their beautiful voices about how wise their king was.

But a dark change came, the song continued, and now those who enter the valley see through the windows, in a red light, shapes that move to broken music; while through the door, now colorless, a ghastly river of ghosts, laughing but no longer smiling, rushes out forever.

Our talk of this song led to another strange idea in Usher’s mind. He believed that plants could feel and think, and not only plants, but rocks and water as well. He believed that the gray stones of his house, and the small plants growing on the stones, and the decaying trees, had a power over him that made him what he was.

Our books — the books which, for years, had fed the sick man’s mind — were, as might be supposed, of this same wild character. Some of these books Usher sat and studied for hours. His chief delight was found in reading one very old book, written for some forgotten church, telling of the Watch over the Dead.

At last, one evening he told me that the lady Madeline was alive no more. He said he was going to keep her body for a time in one of the many vaults inside the walls of the building. The worldly reason he gave for this was one with which I felt I had to agree. He had decided to do this because of the nature of her illness, because of the strange interest and questions of her doctors, and because of the great distance to the graveyard where members of his family were placed in the earth.

We two carried her body to its resting place. The vault in which we placed it was small and dark, and in ages past it must have seen strange and bloody scenes. It lay deep below that part of the building where I myself slept. The thick door was of iron, and because of its great weight made a loud, hard sound when it was opened and closed.

As we placed the lady Madeline in this room of horror I saw for the first time the great likeness between brother and sister, and Usher told me then that they were twins — they had been born on the same day. For that reason the understanding between them had always been great, and the tie that held them together very strong.

We looked down at the dead face one last time, and I was filled with wonder. As she lay there, the lady Madeline looked not dead but asleep — still soft and warm — though to the touch cold as the stones around us.

Part Three

I was visiting an old friend of mine, Roderick Usher, in his old stone house, his palace, where a feeling of death hung on the air. I saw how fear was pressing on his heart and mind. Now his only sister, the lady Madeline, had died and we had put her body in its resting place, in a room inside the cold walls of the palace, a damp, dark vault, a fearful place. As we looked down upon her face, I saw that there was a strong likeness between the two. “Indeed,” said Usher, “we were born on the same day, and the tie between us has always been strong.”

We did not long look down at her, for fear and wonder filled our hearts. There was still a little color in her face and there seemed to be a smile on her lips. We closed the heavy iron door and returned to the rooms above, which were hardly less gloomy than the vault.

And now a change came in the sickness of my friend’s mind. He went from room to room with a hurried step. His face was, if possible, whiter and more ghastly than before, and the light in his eyes had 31 Edgar Allan Poe: Storyteller gone. The trembling in his voice seemed to show the greatest fear. At times he sat looking at nothing for hours, as if listening to some sound I could not hear. I felt his condition, slowly but certainly, gaining power over me; I felt that his wild ideas were becoming fixed in my own mind.

As I was going to bed late in the night of the seventh or eighth day after we placed the lady Madeline within the vault, I experienced the full power of such feelings. Sleep did not come — while the hours passed. My mind fought against the nervousness. I tried to believe that much, if not all, of what I felt was due to the gloomy room, to the dark wall coverings, which in a rising wind moved on the walls. But my efforts were useless. A trembling I could not stop filled my body, and fear without reason caught my heart. I sat up, looking into the darkness of my room, listening — I do not know why — to certain low sounds which came when the storm was quiet. A feeling of horror lay upon me like a heavy weight. I put on my clothes and began walking nervously around the room.

I had been walking for a very short time when I heard a light step coming toward my door. I knew it was Usher. In a moment I saw him at my door, as usual very white, but there was a wild laugh in his eyes. Even so, I was glad to have his company. “And have you not seen it?” he said. He hurried to one of the windows and opened it to the storm.

The force of the entering wind nearly lifted us from our feet. It was, indeed, a stormy but beautiful night, and wildly strange. The heavy, low-hanging clouds which seemed to press down upon the house, flew from all directions against each other, always returning and never passing away in the distance. With their great thickness they cut off all light from the moon and the stars. But we could see them because they were lighted from below by the air itself, which we could see, rising from the dark lake and from the stones of the house itself.

“You must not — you shall not look out at this!” I said to Usher, as I led him from the window to a seat. “This appearance which surprises you so has been seen in other places, too. Perhaps the lake is the cause. Let us close this window; the air is cold. Here is one of the stories you like best. I will read and you shall listen and thus we will live through this fearful night together.”

The old book which I had picked up was one written by a fool for fools to read, and it was not, in truth, one that Usher liked. It was, however, the only one within easy reach. He seemed to listen quietly. Then I came to a part of the story in which a man, a strong man full of wine, begins to break down a door, and the sound of the dry wood as it breaks can be heard through all the forest around him

Here I stopped, for it seemed to me that from some very distant part of the house sounds came to my ears like those of which I had been reading. It must have been this likeness that had made me notice them, for the sounds themselves, with the storm still increasing, were nothing to stop or interest me.

I continued the story, and read how the man, now entering through the broken door, discovers a strange and terrible animal of the kind so often found in these old stories. He strikes it and it falls, with such a cry that he has to close his ears with his hands. Here again I stopped.

There could be no doubt. This time I did hear a distant sound, very much like the cry of the animal in the story. I tried to control myself so that my friend would see nothing of what I felt. I was not certain that he had heard the sound, although he had clearly changed in some way. He had slowly moved his chair so that I could not see him well. I did see that his lips were moving as if he were speaking to himself. His head had dropped forward, but I knew he was not asleep, for his eyes were open and he was moving his body from side to side.

I began reading again, and quickly came to a part of the story where a heavy piece of iron falls on a stone floor with a ringing sound. These words had just passed my lips when I heard clearly, but from far away, a loud ringing sound — as if something of iron had indeed fallen heavily upon a stone floor, or as if an iron door had closed.

I lost control of myself completely, and jumped up from my chair. Usher still sat, moving a little from side to side. His eyes were turned to the floor. I rushed to his chair. As I placed my hand on his shoulder, I felt that his whole body was trembling; a sickly smile touched his lips; he spoke in a low, quick, and nervous voice as if he did not know I was there.

“Yes!” he said. “I heard it! Many minutes, many hours, many days have I heard it — but I did not dare to speak! We have put her living in the vault! Did I not say that my senses were too strong? I heard her first movements many days ago — yet I did not dare to speak! And now, that story — but the sounds were hers! Oh, where shall I run?! She is coming — coming to ask why I put her there too soon. I hear her footsteps on the stairs. I hear the heavy beating of her heart.” Here he jumped up and cried as if he were giving up his soul: “i tell you, she now stands at the door!!”

The great door to which he was pointing now slowly opened. It was the work of the rushing wind, perhaps — but no — outside that door a shape did stand, the tall figure, in its grave-clothes, of the lady Madeline of Usher. There was blood upon her white dress, and the signs of her terrible efforts to escape were upon every part of her thin form. For a moment she remained trembling at the door; then, with a low cry, she fell heavily in upon her brother; in her pain, as she died at last, she carried him down with her, down to the floor. He too was dead, killed by his own fear.

I rushed from the room; I rushed from the house. I ran. The storm was around me in all its strength as I crossed the bridge. Suddenly a wild light moved along the ground at my feet, and I turned to see where it could have come from, for only the great house and its darkness were behind me. The light was that of the full moon, of a bloodred moon, which was now shining through that break in the front wall, that crack which I thought I had seen when I first saw the palace. Then only a little crack, it now widened as I watched. A strong wind came rushing over me — the whole face of the moon appeared. I saw the great walls falling apart. There was a long and stormy shouting sound — and the deep black lake closed darkly over all that remained of the HOUSE OF USHER.

Hello from The Poe Show, I’m your host Tynan Portillo. If you enjoyed this story, give this podcast a good rating, subscribe and share it with others. If we hit 100 YouTube subscribers I’ll be doing video episodes!

Now, I thought it would be fun to do this story on the podcast, especially after watching the Mike Flanagan show on Netflix - my gosh, I am obsessed! The show is based on all of Edgar Allan Poe’s works and I was as giddy as a school kid watching it and getting all the references. It was beautiful.

This version that I did for the podcast happens to be the second, revised edition of the original. The first one was published in 1839, 10 years before Poe’s death, in Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine. And the second was published just a year later in Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque. And the difference between the two stories is not minor.

So you’ve heard the opening lines of this episode, of the revised edition. So now, listen to the opening of the original.

“During the whole of a dark, dull 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 the evening drew on, within the view of the melancholy House of USHER.”

Yeah, that’s all one sentence.

I mean, it’s beautiful! It’s Poe so it’s beautiful, but perhaps it’s a little superfluous. The original version is about 6 pages longer than the revised edition, and that’s what’s included in the “Complete Edgar Allan Poe Collection” that I got from Barnes and Noble years ago. But I decided on the shorter newer version for the sake of time that I had to work on this episode. I also feel like it Poe went back and revised it then there was a purpose for it. He also did that with Tamerlane, another episode on this podcast, that’s one of my favorite poems from Poe. There is a reason that he went back and made some edits. He also had parts in this, Part 1, 2, and 3. In the original version there’s not that, in fact in the original version there’s a whole, I think, poem or song that is involved in that. I didn’t get to read that one with enough time to work on this episode. But if you guys would like to hear that original version that is, you know, it’s got more detail and more fancy language, then again please email poeshowpod@gmail.com or leave a comment on YouTube and I will give you guys what you want!

Another reason I decided to do The Fall of the House of Usher is because when I was composing the music for this episode - because for any who don’t know, I do make the music for every episode on the podcast, I didn’t make the intro music, that was by Emmett’s Cooke on PremiumBeat - but I make all the music for the episodes. And I was originally making music for a completely different story. And I wasn’t really vibing with the sound I was trying to create for that story. It wasn’t doing what I wanted it to so I just started making other sounds that seemed to work together. And I also tried something I noticed in Danny Elfman’s film scores. Sometimes I find that he repeats a musical section but adds a swell of other instruments to create a different mood. So it’s like if he has strings on one melody he has the horns come in for a highlight. Anyway, that’s more music. I decided I wanted to try some of that with this. And at one point I ended up with what you heard in the episode. And I just thought to myself this sounds like The Fall of the House of Usher, it’s a little more dreary and epic than the first story I was trying to write for. So I just changed the story I was planning to do in order to match the music better.

And I tell ya, I love doing this podcast. It is just a lot of work. It’s satisfying work, it’s fun work, but I gotta read a ton of classical literature, I gotta decide on a story, record the story, edit the vocals, compose the music, mix everything together, research the story and write up points to talk about, record that, edit those vocals, listen to the episode a few time to make sure things are sounding okay (if I have the time that is), then the episode goes live. And I’ve had to learn how to do all of that on my own, I don’t really have a budget to hire an editor or any outside help.

But I gotta say though, I got most of my advice from two sources. Jesse DiGrappa from the J Loop podcast - I just gave their first episode a listen, it’s on Spotify, check it out - and podcast consultant and “best DJ in Utah” Richie T. Steadman. That’s literally the name of his DJ company, “Best DJ in Utah.” I don’t know if they’re listening but it was just Jesse and Richie that both gave me the foundation I needed in order to make this podcast. From equipment and software to the reasons why I keep up with the podcast. So a huge thanks to them and if they’re listening right now I hope they know how much I value their professional advice.

Now onto the story!

The story of The Fall of the House of Usher follows an unnamed narrator, which Poe apparently use a lot in his work. Maybe it was a way to make the reader better see themselves in the eyes of the character. But this character has been requested to arrive at an old friend’s house, Roderick Usher. Roderick and his sister, who are the last of the Usher line, have fallen ill and remain in their dark, foreboding home. In fact, Roderick Usher has this fear of leaving his home entirely. It’s an old home which has a crack splitting the house in two, windows that look like eyes, and an aura that seems to have been soaked in sadness and fear. And through the story we see that the narrator is trying to help the Ushers in their last days because they don’t have other connections or other family or friends.

And one day Madeline Usher, Roderick’s sister, is supposedly dead. Supposedly just falls dead. So these two other characters, our narrator and Roderick, keep Madeline’s body in a vault underneath the home. But not without the narrator voicing his discomfort in saying she still looks alive. Now it’s not stated what kind of research the characters went into in making sure that she’s dead. I mean, I would assume that Roderick went to check on his sister, shook her a bit, tried to wake her up and couldn’t. But did they check for a pulse? Did they try tickling her? I don’t know. Did they get some bath salts and put that under her nose or something like that? I that’s supposed to wake someone up, I don’t know. I would assume that they didn’t check well enough rather than assume that she rose from the dead.

Anyway, on a very dark and stormy night Roderick seems to have realized that his sister was alive and instead of going to help her has chosen to hide. And his sister arrives at our character’s door. She throws herself onto her brother and out of fear he dies and she also dies lastly.

The image of her at that door is so grotesque. She’s not just covered in blood because she’s a scary being or a ghost, she has literally been crawling and scratching and biting her way out of this prison, of this vault. And that image of the blood on her white dress, therefore also, I think, symbolizing the death of innocence, with the white getting red on it especially for someone like Roderick - because he did actually assume that she was dead but then after realizing she was alive he didn’t do anything. He heard those bodies but then didn’t do anything, and it’s most likely because he thought they were his senses getting super sensitive and overwhelming.

And then finally our narrator runs out of the house and watches it crumble into the lake. I really, really love how this story builds and builds and builds to that climax. It’s so satisfying and great to read as a story because you just get this sense of forward motion.

So it’s plain for me to see that this story symbolizes mental illness. How mental illness can cut us off from those we love, how it tortures us, how it can force us into early graves and how unwilling people can be to face it. I mean, you have the statements from Roderick that basically say that he knows he is sick, but he also thinks, “Well it’s probably something else in the house, but also it’s probably just my sense.” But then he also says, “It’s fear. It’s fear that’s going to kill me.” So he seems very chaotic in his mindset. He wants to blame one thing for his problems and be done with it, but he knows that’s not true. And how do you fight a mental illness? Such as, in my eyes it would be extreme paranoia and anxiety.

And I don’t want to give, like, a diagnosis on the characters or anything. I’m not a doctor or a med student. But I have worked as a paraprofessional with students in high school who have learning disabilities, mental disabilities, emotional problems. And honestly, reading through this, it kind of made me think that Roderick could be on the autism or ADHD spectrum. His senses get overloaded, well that’s overstimulation. And overstimulation for someone on the autism or ADHD spectrum can lead to a feeeling of anxiety, paranoia and some emotional outbursts.

So I’m not saying that that’s what he has, but I’m saying the symptoms seem to be there. I think Poe might be just trying to say that he’s going mad. That’s a basic theme through a lot of Poe’s work, he’s just going mad. Characters going mad, losing their mind. So I doubt that he was trying to portray someone on the autism spectrum but it could be likely I guess? I don’t know, that’s just up to you, the listeners and the readers.

But then Madelin also seems to, in my eyes, have severe depression. She doesn’t seem to get overstimulated like her brother, she doesn’t seem to even want to interact with anybody. She just - you know, the one time the character sees her, she’s walking to her room and that’s it. And she just stays in the houses stays in her room, stays quiet. To me, that would be severe depression. Someone who is struggling with the desire to get up out of bed in the morning and do something, or to do anything. To get up, take a shower, brush their teeth, have breakfast if anything. But they can’t because it is a serious mental disorder.

Especially because the Ushers have no other family. We have that story of the haunted palace that the character begins to - that Roderick begins singing a song about - and it seems to be referencing the Usher family themselves, saying that there was a very good king, a very good kingdom, very happy ghosts, very happy generations of going through. But then as time went on perhaps faking that happiness or perhaps not looking at that mental illness lead to the downfall of the House of Usher. So just like the haunted palace where everyone was just fine and they’re all happy and everything, it says, this si really good, “The ghosts were still laughing but not smiling.”

And again I wonder if that relates to something like “masking behavior” where people who are neurodivergent put on faces of what they believe is socially acceptable because that is what allows them to be socially interactive with other people. Keep in mind though, social interaction goes both ways.

There was a report that was published in 2017 that claims “neurotypical peers are less willing to interact with those with autism based on thin slice judgements.” I will put the link to this in the description for this episode. There was one experiment where neurotypical people were give the audio of neurodivergent people talking with others and they had no problem with it. But once the audio was combined with the visual - so they played a video of that person talking - the neurotypical people perceived neurodivergent people on a different level for some reason, and stated on a lower end of the scale that they would not want to interact with that person. So any kind of social isolation that comes from neurodivergent and neurotypical people interacting does have two sides of the equation. It’s not just hat neurodivergent people don’t know how to interact with neurotypical people, it’s that neurotypical people also usually don’t find themselves wanting to interact with neurodivergent people. And that’s just based on a subconscious level. 

Now the study doesn’t go really into that very deeply about why that is, but it can be assumed that neurotypical people have an evolutionary basis that is staked upon spotting a threat, versus neurodivergent people, based upon their neurodivergence, is built upon fitting in. And that difference in our mental chemistry can have a serious impact on how we interact with others. If you want to learn more about that study the link will be in the description of this video. I found it really really interesting.

Anyway, based on that I could say that the isolation of the Usher family was seriously justified in the story because you have the Ushers who are staying in their home, who are not leaving, they’re not interacting with other people, but also other people are not coming to see them. And Roderick does ask his good friend, whom he has not seen in forever - imagine how many people, especially in the House of Usher, this long line of family, this very well-to-to, very good in the arts, probably famous family - imagine them having no other connections that want to interact with them. And so Roderick has to beg this one old friend from so long ago to come and interact with him and just help him have a better time in his last moments. I mean, it’s really depressing I guess, but it speaks to me of the loneliness and isolation of the Usher family.

And the house itself too does seem to have a supernatural effect on people who are there. The narrator even says at one point he realized he was entertaining the same ideas as Roderick Usher. And I do think that the music started to play a part in that. Roderick would play because music speaks to our souls. It’s not just a sound, it is a feeling, it is a world in and of its own. So by the narrator saying that the music was so unlike anything he had heard before, it was so unlike most music, it shows that the entire vibe, the soul of the house, is off. And I think it’s really interesting that it is said multiple times in the story that the windows are eye-like, they look like they’re eyes. And it kind of gives me this vibe of Monster House, if you saw that old CG cartoon movie, I really liked it as a kid and there are some memes about it online. It seems like it’s painting this house as its own character, the house has its own will, the house is seeped in this dark dreariness.

Which begs the question: if the narrator had instead tried to force Madeline and Roderick out of the house, would their conditions have improved? I mean it’s a basic thing in psychology to show that the environment in which someone is placed can seriously impact their psychology. It’s shown that body language can seriously impact someone’s confidence level. If you do something like a Superman pose and you have your hands on your hips, or you do the winner’s pose and you have your arms up above your head versus doing more weak gestures like curling up into a ball or trying to make yourself smaller…the people who do the power poses usually take more risks gambling, they’re able to do things like skydiving much easier and quicker than other people who curl up and go into a ball or make themselves smaller.

And I guess it’s kind of pointless to talk about “Well, what if they did this?” Because you can do that with any story. “Well, what if Roderick just decided to have a swim in the lake? What would have happened then?” I don’t know, you know. So I guess it’s kind of pointless to conceptualize that but I think it is worth talking about because they are staying in this toxic environment.

And maybe that even speaks to relationships. You know, whatever you as the listener or reader can take away from this, these characters are staying in these bad places.

In the end, I think that The Fall of the House of Usher is a warning of sorts. Because the House of Usher falls, it falls and is swept into the lake. Which also, the lake I think represents the reflection of what it possibly once was, the idea that it is looking at itself and wondering what happened to it. So, in the end I think that The Fall of the House of Usher is a warning, but also a very entertaining, supernatural, classic, Poe story.

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