and my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor shall be lifted-nevermore
[This is the final post in the House of Roderick plot. Thanks for making it awesome, everyone! ♥]
Only fools could say they did not see this coming and truly mean it.
As the night's curtain descends on the world and the moon rises above Chicago's towering buildings, Roderick Usher scribbles one more message into the wall he's come to know as his. It's written in blood-but do the dead bleed?-three small words in total, their meaning as simple, sincere, and straightforward as they could possibly be.
I am sorry.
And he is.
Completely.
For everything, and for himself.
It's around three o'clock when the Kashtta begins to shake. It's imperceptible at first, perhaps the slight trembling of the Tower's air conditioning system kicking on. It won't wake anyone, surely, nor will it distract those already awake.
But then it grows in intensity, enough to rattle glasses.
And then it's shaking beds and furniture.
(All the while, Roderick watches the crack in the wall, unblinking.)
Then entire building seems to shudder, wood and metal moaning in the most unearthly ways. The chipped paint falls in cascades from the walls, revealing cracks and darkness underneath. Stairs collapse. Floors crack open and swallow residents whole.
(And the fissure grows, and grows-)
Sobs reverberate through the hallways. They may belong to Roderick, or to that man who lives down the hall, or to you.
Probably to you.
You are caught in a collapsing building, after all. And you can't get out. You're sure you should be able to-the door, after all, is only so far-but something is stopping you.
Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light, and I turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could have issued; for the vast house and its shadows were alone behind me. The radiance was that of the full, setting, and blood-red moon which now shone vividly through that once barely-discernible fissure of which I have before spoken as extending from the roof of the building, in a zigzag direction, to the base. While I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened-there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind-the entire orb of the satellite burst at once upon my sight-my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder-there was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters--and the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the "HOUSE OF USHER."
You think you're dead, so you open your eyes. To greet Heaven, maybe, or perhaps Hell, or your second (or third, or fourth) life-whatever you believe, it should be there, waiting to meet you.
But it's not.
What is waiting for you is the Kashtta's interior, as perfect as it was not too long ago. The walls and floors are intact, the carpets clean, the lights white, the air fresh.
All signs of Roderick are gone, and so is he.
Should you wander into Silent Hall for confirmation of this, you will find no remains of what used to be his home. The only evidence that any of this even happened are the three words on the wall, stained in dark red.
That was one hell of a bad dream, wasn't it?
Only fools could say they did not see this coming and truly mean it.
As the night's curtain descends on the world and the moon rises above Chicago's towering buildings, Roderick Usher scribbles one more message into the wall he's come to know as his. It's written in blood-but do the dead bleed?-three small words in total, their meaning as simple, sincere, and straightforward as they could possibly be.
I am sorry.
And he is.
Completely.
For everything, and for himself.
It's around three o'clock when the Kashtta begins to shake. It's imperceptible at first, perhaps the slight trembling of the Tower's air conditioning system kicking on. It won't wake anyone, surely, nor will it distract those already awake.
But then it grows in intensity, enough to rattle glasses.
And then it's shaking beds and furniture.
(All the while, Roderick watches the crack in the wall, unblinking.)
Then entire building seems to shudder, wood and metal moaning in the most unearthly ways. The chipped paint falls in cascades from the walls, revealing cracks and darkness underneath. Stairs collapse. Floors crack open and swallow residents whole.
(And the fissure grows, and grows-)
Sobs reverberate through the hallways. They may belong to Roderick, or to that man who lives down the hall, or to you.
Probably to you.
You are caught in a collapsing building, after all. And you can't get out. You're sure you should be able to-the door, after all, is only so far-but something is stopping you.
Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light, and I turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could have issued; for the vast house and its shadows were alone behind me. The radiance was that of the full, setting, and blood-red moon which now shone vividly through that once barely-discernible fissure of which I have before spoken as extending from the roof of the building, in a zigzag direction, to the base. While I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened-there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind-the entire orb of the satellite burst at once upon my sight-my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder-there was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters--and the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the "HOUSE OF USHER."
You think you're dead, so you open your eyes. To greet Heaven, maybe, or perhaps Hell, or your second (or third, or fourth) life-whatever you believe, it should be there, waiting to meet you.
But it's not.
What is waiting for you is the Kashtta's interior, as perfect as it was not too long ago. The walls and floors are intact, the carpets clean, the lights white, the air fresh.
All signs of Roderick are gone, and so is he.
Should you wander into Silent Hall for confirmation of this, you will find no remains of what used to be his home. The only evidence that any of this even happened are the three words on the wall, stained in dark red.
That was one hell of a bad dream, wasn't it?