Amaryllis & the Pixie, Chapter 12

Now for a spooky short story.

Madeline Usher’s Last Breaths

I awake gasping for breath and overwhelmed by the putrid stench of mold and mildew and earth. Utter darkness engulfs me. Continuing to gasp, I reach out… and touch a wooden surface inches above my face. I reach out to my sides and touch the same cold, dry wood. My heart flutters in panic. I attempt to shriek, but my throat’s dryness allows no more than a hoarse croak.

Where might I be? What has happened to me? I lift my hands again and use my palms to slap the wooden surface. Surely this is no more than a nightmare. Yet it feels too corporeal to be a mere dream. The wood feels solid against my back, and the cold seeping into my skin feels too acute.

Alas, I am trapped! But how am I here? Who would have placed me in a crate? I imagine a ruffian loading me onto a ship while I slept.

The fog of my confusion upon first waking drifts away enough to reveal my truly harrowing situation. I must be trapped inside a coffin! Gasping in horror, I begin clawing at the wooden coffin lid to no avail. My heart shuddering, I form each hand into a fist and pound on the wooden slab. I must escape this ghastly tomb!

While I pound, I feel the faintest movement of the box incasing me. It seems to be… sliding to the right. My heart thuds in panic.

The family traditionally takes the dead to an underground chamber before entombment in the family plot. This coffin, in short, must reside on a stone shelf in an alcove against a stone wall. The walls feature three horizontal rows of alcoves, perhaps for an era when many family members died around the same time, perhaps of plague.

Pounding, I recall that in this chamber below the house, the rotting macabre corpses of both my parents waited out a winter. As a child, I lay awake trembling in trepidation, until I fell into an unrestful sleep full of nightmares wherein my parents awoke from the dead and rose from their tombs to lead me to my demise.

I hammer repeatedly against the wooden plank inches from my face. Debilitated and weakened by my efforts, I lay my arms back down at my sides and drift into a fever-dream sleep.

Horrifying images fill my restless slumber. Ghosts and ghouls of disapproving and arrogant ancestors fly at me and howl in my face, outraged that I do not worship them and their corrupt ways. I gasp and groan, slowly moving my head from side to side, unable to back away from these specters.

I wake up with a start. I open my eyes and again am sheathed in darkness. I take small comfort in my belief that those apparitions were mere shadowy fancies, nightmares, not reality. I resume pounding on the coffin lid—causing the box to shift slightly more to the right—until I must rest my arms again. I take deep breaths, struggling to breathe this stale air.

I shudder from more than cold. Assuming I deduced my location accurately, I may have a chance of extricating myself if the coffin falls from the alcove. I stop to take deep breaths and rest my weary being for several minutes. Anon, I proceed to push the right side of the wooden box. It indeed slides forward. My heart flutters, for I dread falling.

The coffin tips, and I gasp. My heart seems to rise to my throat. Trembling, I hold my breath and brace my teeth while falling. I am unanchored, apparently descending from one of the higher alcoves.

Forthwith, one side of my flimsy wooden coffin bangs against the floor. The coffin bursts open with a mighty crash. Gasping, I lie in darkness amid the coffin’s remains.

A storm rattles against casements and shakes the ancient mansion.

Exhausted by my illness and exertion, I feel my arms weakening and lower them to my sides. I lie on the floor panting and wishing I were far stronger.

A curse on this hereditary ailment that weakens me! A curse on this family that passed its sickness from generation to generation! No, I feel no guilt or apprehension at such thoughts, that no doubt my ancestors would find appalling and insolent.

The darkness here is all-encompassing. On shaky limbs, I clamber up from the wooden planks that are all that remains of my coffin. I straighten up to my full height. On trembling limbs, I step off that wood and onto dirt floor—shockingly cold on my bare feet. I stretch my arms and reach in hopes of touching walls with my hands before I stumble.

Reaching out cautiously, my fingers touch a cold stone wall. Exploring with my hands confirms it is a wall containing alcoves for coffins. I step closer to the wall and pause to rest against its chilling stone. My head spins, and I gasp for breaths. I inhale the earthy, decaying stench of the cellar.

It does not entirely surprise me that my brother Roderick buried me alive. I know my affliction can create the appearance of death, but I cannot but suspect Roderick wished me dead and thus nailed me in a coffin prematurely… deliberately. I clench my jaw and tighten my hands into fists. Perhaps his regular use of opium assisted him in doing so with a clear conscience.

For months, Roderick futilely pressured me to perpetuate our corrupt family’s inbred tradition. “We are the last remaining Ushers,” he kept reminding me. I repeatedly refused; therefore, he resorted to his old manipulative and bullying tactics, ridiculing me because he knows my preference for women. His threats were empty, of course, when he boasted that if only our parents were alive, he would have informed them of my “depraved tastes.” What a hypocrite, with his accusation of depraved tastes! Indeed, it is perhaps fortunate our parents—who were also siblings—died of the same ailment as that from which I now suffer.

Shuddering in terror, I wrap my arms around myself and press my back harder against the wall for support. This family is evil and deserves to die out. My ghastly brother Roderick is obvious proof of this. The mere thought of him encompasses me in a peculiar melancholy. Fatigued, I slip down against the wall and sit upon the floor, wrapping my arms around my shrouded limbs.

If I had not been so enfeebled by this illness, I might have escaped this dreadful house before my untimely imprisonment in this tomb. The physician and servants conspired with my brother to prevent me from escaping. No doubt as soon as I drifted into unconsciousness and seeming death, my brother—probably with help from the physician—took the liberty of burying me in the bowels of Usher House.

Roderick and the physician both knew full well the illness incapacitating me may cause the appearance of death. Clearly that knowledge failed to deter their machinations against me. Apparently my brother decided that if he couldn’t bed me, he could put me permanently to bed.

The storm rages louder and louder—thunder and startling flashes of lightning. The house trembles. I hear thunder roar but am struck by what sounds strangely like water pattering inside the chamber.

I consider Roderick’s companion, Vincent. I wonder if he might hear my cries and come to my aid. But I cannot trust this stranger, especially not one with such a poor choice of bosom friend.

I take as deep a breath as I can. This horrid existence engulfed in darkness feels beyond endurance, and I must escape. I close my eyes. In this utter darkness, I have no use of eyesight. But I feel too weak to walk again and remain resting with my back against the chill stone wall.

I sigh and calm my weary nerves, able to breathe more freely without the coffin confining me. I can better focus on touch, scent, and hearing with my eyes closed. I continue to take deep, ragged breaths. Hearing scurrying in the walls—no doubt rats—I shudder. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself, acknowledging the cold of this room. I hear dripping… and the echo of that steady drip, an eerie sound while the storm rages around the ancient walls.

On shaky limbs, I haltingly wander in the gloomy cellar, reaching out cautiously and touching cold, rough stone walls as I inch in the general direction of the chamber’s door. At last, my bloodied hands settle upon the rough surface of the heavy iron door.

My sensitive hearing registers not only the steady downpour of rain and the occasional rumble of thunder, but also what sounds like a water fountain. This chamber contains no water fountain.

I turn in the direction of the pattering water, and the next strike of lightning reveals a crack in the house’s stone foundation nearly a foot wide. A stream of water is entering the room and wetting the dirt floor directly in front of the fissure.

Until now I had failed to notice the house’s unstable condition. My heart flutters as it occurs to me the very house I occupy is falling apart. In a fit of nervous agitation because of my exertions, I sink to the dirt floor and fall into a swoon.

When I stir, groaning, I grope about in the chilling air and struggle to rise from the dirt floor. My hands wander upon the cold, hard surface of the door. At last, I grasp the door handle. I pause, noticing faint moonlight entering the split corner. I ponder the condition of this cursed house’s foundation. My brother’s attempt on my life discourages me from confiding in him about our need for a mason.

Weak and emaciated from my illness, I nonetheless manage to turn the door handle and slowly drag the heavy door open..

The rusty, shrieking hinges make a beastly noise, yet still no one deigns to come to my aid. How can Roderick, his friend Vincent, and the servants not hear my anguished escape from a premature burial? A rumble of thunder shakes the house, and I attempt to convince myself the storm is the sole reason nobody hears me. I stumble and lean against the doorframe while I gasp for breath, enervated by my efforts.

I achieve the vision of light from candlelit sconces beyond the heavy door. I drag the door open wide enough to slip through it. I at last stagger out of the dungeon and onto a narrow, winding staircase lit by one lone sconce. I hope the door at the top of the stairs is unbolted.

I step carefully, too aware of my debilitated state and the terrifying possibility of my again declining into a catatonic state. I do not wish my treacherous brother to find my inert form lying on these steps, assuming he would deign to visit the cellar again. I scowl, burning with resentment. He must be satisfied I am nevermore… except I have not expired my last breath!

By age seventeen, I was enamored with my governess, who apparently observed this, for I was that same age when she announced my studies were complete, and she must depart for the city and her next charge. I pined after her. If I thought she reciprocated my feelings, I might have packed a portmanteau and slipped in the dark of night to the city, to chase after her! Instead, I hid my passion under a veil of melancholy Roderick observed with a satisfied, cruel grin.

It is nigh ten years since my sweet governess forever departed from the House of Usher, and I yet think of her and yearn for her. At seventeen I was hale and hearty, not struggling with this debilitating illness, so it would have been simple enough for me to ride into the night. Even if I did not find my governess, I would be rid of this cursed house and my cruel brother.

As though the house hears my thoughts, it gives a tremendous shake. I stumble and find myself seated but three steps below the summit of the staircase. Heart pounding, I lean my back against the stone wall and clasp the next step as best I can. I feel the stone loosen in my grasp, as though the stairs were decaying. When the house has ceased shaking, I slowly rise from the steps, pressing my hands against a wall, and resume my slow progression.

At the top of the stairs, I twist the doorknob and, to my vast relief, push the door open, as it shrieks on its hinges. I cross the threshold and find the mere effort of climbing the stairs and opening the door has devitalized me yet again. In a narrow corridor faintly lit by sconces, I tread ponderously until I reach the nearest seat: an elaborately carved bench with threadbare cushions. I sink upon the bench, sit back, and close my eyes.

Though I refuse to open my eyes, my head spins. I rest it against the back of the bench and await the diminishing of my giddiness. The rain beats steadily against a tall, arched window at the far end of the hallway. Wind howls, and thunder rumbles. I imagine Roderick and Vincent hearing the coffin fall and Roderick insisting Vincent remain seated.

A deafening crack of lighting strikes near the house, and the walls tremble. An image comes to my mind of a gigantic, shadowy phantasmagoria creeping silently and steadily down the hallway toward me. Fearful this creature of my imagination might come true, I open my eyes and stare down the hallway. It appears I remain alone in the corridor.

I close my eyes and attempt to slow my rasping breaths. My death seems all too near. I imagine Roderick gloating while he yet again hammers my coffin shut. I shudder in disgust and do not wish to give him that satisfaction. I open my eyes… as a method for preventing this occurs to me.

If I must die of this incurable disease, I resolve that my dreadful brother will die with me. The cursed and diseased Usher family deserves to be no more, and this house can decay deserted. In past centuries this family contributed to society; the house was formerly grand, but it has been hundreds of years. Yes, Roderick must meet his demise. With this desire for justice, I rise from the bench and stalk the hallways past lit sconces seemingly leading my way.

I faintly hear the voices of two men. My heart palpitates. I stop in the hallway and listen cautiously. Sure enough, I hear Vincent reading aloud to Roderick, who is cackling like a madman.

Anon Vincent ceases reading aloud, and Roderick babbles madly. I recognize the sounds as coming from the direction of Roderick’s chambers. Therefore, I resume my slow but steady tread down the hallway. I feel lightheaded and febrile but must prevail. Fury emboldens me.

I cross the threshold into the chamber where Roderick and Vincent sit. Roderick he holds an ancient tome of forgotten lore open before him. Have they been entertaining themselves with fairy tales while I was entombed? I widen my eyes and clench my fists.

Roderick occupies a tattered, throne-like velvet armchair. His mouth splits in a maniacal grin. He appears as ghastly pale and cadaverous as he was before burying me alive. His eyes are brighter than customary, with the glow of madness.

When Roderick sees me upon the threshold, his eyes widen, and his mouth gapes open in terror. His friend Vincent sits up straighter and stares, aghast, at me.

I lurch across the room toward my brother. Vincent stares at me with his lips parted, but he remains grasping the arms of his chair and making no attempt to rise and aid either Roderick or me.

I focus my glaring orbs upon my loathsome brother and stretch my arms toward him. He shrieks and rises from his seat, pointing at me foolishly. I feel murder in my heart, never mind how weak I feel, as I struggle to breathe.

I realize I must appear ghoulish as I gasp out rasping breaths and stagger like the undead across the rug. With full intention of eradicating Roderick, I regard my brother and head straight for him. I clasp his throat with claw-like hands and squeeze.

THE END

Back to our regularly scheduled program, Amaryllis & the Pixie…

Chapter 1:

https://open.substack.com/pub/whimsicalwords/p/amaryllis-and-the-pixie-chapter-1?r=5m2is&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

Chapter 11:

https://open.substack.com/pub/whimsicalwords/p/amaryllis-and-the-pixie-chapter-11?r=5m2is&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true

Amaryllis & the Pixie, Chapter 12

Amaryllis’s heart pounds as the sorceress stands before her wearing a black maxi dress with a hood. It looks like something she might have purchased at a Pagan Pride event. Amaryllis wishes she’d done more research on this alleged evil sorceress.

After the information the crystal ball revealed, Amaryllis searched the internet for information on Kerensa Makepeace and found mostly gossip involving her fraternizing with celebrities and attending galas. But the witch also read a lot about how Kerensa was the wife of a famous criminal lawyer who died last year… leaving her nothing in his will and leaving plenty to a mistress and the British Museum. That was somewhat gossipy, too, but Amaryllis found herself conjecturing about the sorceress’s state of mind. Apparently it was a huge scandal in the United Kingdom that never made its way across the Atlantic—not that Amaryllis paid enough attention to celebrity gossip that she would have known even if the United States did take notice. Or perhaps New Yorkers knew about it, but not people in the rather more laid-back state of Oregon.

For the first time, Amaryllis wonders if grief has driven the sorceress insane.

Amaryllis crosses her arms. “I flew here on my broom to save a pixie from you. It seems I didn’t give the pixie enough credit, because she’s saved herself.”

“Nonsense! You took the pixie! Show me what’s in your backpack!”

Amaryllis raises her eyebrows. Gadzooks, the sorceress must be insane, to not deny that she kidnapped a pixie. “So… are you admitting you’ve been torturing a pixie?”

Kerensa crossed her arms and glowered. “Torturing a pixie? What nonsense! I am merely…” Her eyes widened as she realized what she let slip. “Well. I am merely supplying customers with a youth tonic. Now show me what’s in your backpack!”

Amaryllis smiled. Virginia rustled the backpack, and Amaryllis felt her paws on her left shoulder. “Meh-EH!”

“This is Virginia. She’s darling, buts she’s no pixie. Aside from her, I have underwear, a change of hiking clothes, water bottles, a backpack, a tent, and snacks. You don’t need to look at my underwear.”

“Who do you think you are, trespassing on my property? Get out!” Kerensa steps back and holds the door wide open, pointed outward. “Unless you want me to call the police.”

Amaryllis would be happy to leave. She glances toward the door and imagines a pixie flying in an uneven pattern. Surely since she had that vision, the pixie must be traumatized and in need of assistance. “Will you cease torturing pixies… and, well, anyone else?”

Kerensa’s face turns red. “Do you know how insane you sound, talking about torturing pixies?”

Amaryllis grits her teeth and raises her eyebrows. “Do you think I’m stupid? You’ve already confessed. By accident, certainly.” Amaryllis slips one strap of her backpack off and acts as though she’s about to remove something from it. “Furthermore, I have proof that you’ve been torturing a pixie. There was a witness.”

The sorceress gasps and stares at Amaryllis. Her eyes are wide and panicky. She knows she’s guilty, and she thinks she’s been caught. The corner of Amaryllis’s lip twitches, but gloating would be petty. This is a slightly satisfying direction. I’m getting too old for drama like this. Maybe I should retire and let my niece take trips like this. But she’s in high school…

“You mentioned… a broom?”

Amaryllis blinks. She wasn’t expecting this change of topics. “And your point is…?”

Kerensa smiles gloatingly. She doesn’t care about the moral high ground. “I am a great and powerful sorceress. I can levitate without a broom. You are nothing compared to me, hedge witch.”

While Kerensa speaks, she seems to grow taller. Amaryllis looks down at her feet—and sees they’re floating above the cobblestones. She is levitating… and gloating like a narcissist while doing so. Infantile. Petty. “Snob, superpowers belong in the hands of the wise, not the empathy-challenged. In the hands of a bully like you, they are dangerous and evil.”

Kerensa’s eyes widen in fury, and her cheeks flush as she drops to the ground. “How dare you. Not only are you impudent, but you’ve trespassed on my land. You have no right to be here. I can incinerate you!”

Amaryllis scoffs. The sorceress doesn’t need to know she’s a bit ill at ease. Trespassing sucks, but… she only trespassed to save a pixie from certain death. It’s not her fault the pixie isn’t here anymore. Amaryllis stands up a bit straighter with that mental reminder.

Amaryllis opens her mouth, but Kerensa speaks first. She points at her, “And as I already observed, you have released the pixie who was staying on my property!”

“Balderdash! As I’ve already made quite clear, no pixie was here when we arrived! I happen to know there was a pixie here, because I had a vision of her in my crystal ball.”

“Oh, hedge witches have crystal balls now? You must be moving up. Or pretentious.”

Amaryllis raises one eyebrow. “Says an evil sorceress who lives in a castle. Also, as I said: snob.”

“Whatever you think of me, you trespassed on my property and have done something to my guest!”

“Utter nonsense! I never did anything to any guest at your castle. For that matter, I haven’t met the pixie who was not your guest but your prisoner. I already told you: she has escaped you! Now, admittedly, my familiar and I did come here to rescue her, but she rescued herself. Impressive pixie, I might add.”

“What are you babbling about?”

Amaryllis sighs. “I am peaceful in nature, but clearly we must needs have a magical fight. At the very least, you need to step out of my way and allow my familiar and I to depart from your property. Since you keep harping on my trespassing, one would think you’d be happy to allow us to leave.”

Kerensa throws back her head and laughs. “A magical fight? You need a broom to fly!” She still floats above the stone floor by several inches. “You’re nothing but a hedge witch! I am a sorceress!”

“Meh-EH!” A batshit crazy sorceress. Virginia is back inside the backpack—sensible kitty.

“I agree, Virginia. She is indeed batshit crazy. Not to mention repetitive and tedious.”

Kerensa growls. “How dare you, hedge witch!”

Amaryllis scoffs. “If you stuck to herbal medicine and talking to ghosts, you’d stay out of trouble!”

Unlike the sorceress, Amaryllis sticks to elemental magic, as is her custom. Hence the accusation of hedge witch, which didn’t mean the same thing to everyone. Amaryllis supposes to some “hedge witch” simply meant using Pagan nature-based magic, not power-tripping and demonic magic. Which brings up the issue: Does this sorceress conjure demons? If so, why don’t I see any? I’m surprised she doesn’t have demon thugs.

Amaryllis takes advantage of the close vicinity to water. She pictures the Atlantic Ocean just beyond the ramparts of this castle. She directs her hands in the general direction of the Atlantic and visualizes a line of water flowing over the wall and toward her.

A huge wave of ocean water bursts from both of Amaryllis’s palms with such full force that it pushes Kerensa backward, making her land on her feet and stagger. The sorceress’s eyes widen, and her mouth is wide open in shock. She’s no longer floating. Amaryllis can faintly hear the sorceress gasping and sputtering, but she doesn’t allow that to lure her into complacence.

This is a sorceress, after all, and she no doubt is powerful in her own way—one doesn’t get to call oneself a sorceress for being able to float rubber duckies in a bathtub.

The Atlantic Ocean is no bathtub. Another burst of ocean water from Amaryllis’s hands knocks Kerensa the sorceress down to the cobblestones on the other side of the shed’s threshold. The sorceress is drenched and lying in the doorway.

Amaryllis allows the water to pummel her a few more seconds, for good measure. She wouldn’t want the sorceress to leap up and overwhelm her with a kind of magic that isn’t elemental but something dark she’d expect from a self-described sorceress. Amaryllis has felt annoyed at Kerensa ever since she began her ridiculous taunts about Amaryllis being a “mere hedge witch.” While being a hedge witch is nothing to sniff at, the sorceress’s tone rankled Amaryllis.

Now that the sorceress is down—with her high-heels barely inside the shed and the rest of her lying on the courtyard’s cobblestones—Amaryllis charges forward. With Virginia riding in the backpack, the witch steps around Kerensa through the open doorway. It is awkward. Though Amaryllis is mindful not to step on her nemesis, she nonetheless manages to step on the sorceress’s black dress and rub her heel against her leg.

Amaryllis’s timing is flawless. Just as she’s safely stepped away from Kerensa and is in the courtyard, the sorceress rustles and grumbles and… rises from the pavement.

Amaryllis jogs toward her broom, which leans against the exterior castle wall. But she hears the sorceress’s noises and turns around to face her. She certainly wouldn’t want to be caught unawares, with her back to the enemy.

The bedraggled evil sorceress stands and glares at her unwelcome visitor. She crosses her arms. “I shall allow you to live.”

Amaryllis scoffs. What a pathetic attempt at trying to save face! “You’re not allowing me to live. I’m simply living.” And you failed to beat me despite all your bluster and bragging.

The evil sorceress starts to levitate again—but she’s too fatigued from their magical fight. “Insolent hedge witch!”

Despite her fatigue, Kerensa scoops Virginia up from the cobblestones. Amaryllis’s heart flutters in panic. How did Virginia get out of my backpack? Kerensa holds Virginia to her chest with one hand and points a dagger at Amaryllis with the other.

Virginia’s pupils are small. She’s staring at Amaryllis with those pale blue eyes. “Meh-EH!”

Amaryllis suspects the sorceress magicked Virginia out of the backpack.

Kerensa says, “You must bring me something I want very much. You must bring me a dragon’s egg.”