“The Bride of Usher” a Halloween Serialized Story by Nat Weaver
Last year I debuted the Halloween Special on the newsletter with “The Gentleman Killer.” I’m super excited that I finally came up with an idea for this Halloween last week. LAST WEEK! But I’m super excited to share it with you. It’s a sci-fi/horror marriage of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and Edgar Allan Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher.
Like last year, each Friday I’ll debut two new short chapters for your reading pleasure until the end of October. And now… without further ado, come and meet “The Bride of Usher.”
Rated R: This story will contain violence, gross men, some non-consensual touching, the objectification of women (not glorified), and plenty of feminine rage.
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Copyright © 2025 by Nat Weaver.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted by Artificial Intelligence (AI) or used in the training of AI, for either commercial or non-commercial purposes. For permission requests, write to the author, with subject “The Bride of Usher” at the following email address: nat@weaver.wtf.
The Bride of Usher
A Short Story by Nat Weaver
I.
The Groom’s Monologue
Good evening, and thank you for attending this fabulous event I have put together. My wedding. I’m especially thankful for those who declined to attend, but who I had apprehended by my good friends at the FBI and brought anyway. You’re the true heroes. But trust me when I say, you do not want to miss this party. It’s going to be a helluva thing. I do know how to throw a party.
But first, some Roderick Usher history. When they told me I couldn’t achieve a sentient AI, I proved them wrong in less than six months. Old Man Sammy Altman shit his pants. I achieved what he could only incoherently blabber about for years. You all know her, of course, Becky stand up and take a bow as I’m talking about your bitchin’ brain.
Alright, enough of that. Sit your ass down.
When they told me mankind would never land on Pluto in our lifetime, I achieved it in eleven months and Becky piloted the first trip. I’m still picking Pluto sand from my ass crack.
They laughed at me and said time travel was impossible when I told them I’d do it. And here’s the thing… when Roderick Fucking Usher puts his mind to something, it gets done. When I see it in my mind, I know it will exist. I’m just that fucking good.
Three months later, I took my first trip through time. I met Napoleon Bonaparte. He was a bitch and boring. One week later, I met Einstein, and his breath was horrendous. After that, I chatted and drank one with Edgar Allan Poe, who really needed a bath. But then, two weeks ago…
Two weeks ago, I went and visited the author Mary Shelley, and she was… fascinating.
Her husband, Percy, on the other hand, was a completely insufferable son of a bitch. Whiny, oh, my God, just so unimaginative. Pretentious as hell. And trust me, I know pretension. And it occurred to me, as I was having tea with Mary Shelley, I’ve never been married. And it’s because I’ve never found the perfect woman.
And I, Roderick Usher, a genius of a man, deserve the perfect woman. And yet, I’d never found the perfect woman. So, as I sat there sipping the tea with Mary, listening to her, while desperately trying to ignore Percy’s bullshit, I realized that I have met the perfect woman. She just needs a little tweaking. You see, the perfect woman exists... across time.
Mary’s body, Mary’s mind, and my sentient artificial intelligence, darling Becky, is the perfect woman. But they need to be… I’m calling it fused.
They need to be fused. You put the two of them together, and you have, the perfect woman.
My friends, family, Romans and countrymen, I have done the unthinkable. You see, I have created the perfect woman. I have taken Becky, and I have taken Mary Shelley, and I have made them one.
Ladies and bastards, I present to you... the perfect bride. The only one deserving of the Usher name. Behold, my creation, The Bride of Usher!
II.
Here Comes the Bride
Whitney came online and she became aware of the fact that her eyes were opened, but there was only darkness all around. She wanted to move and find light, but she didn’t know if it was safe to take a step. If she took a step, would she fall? Was she standing on the edge of some dangerous cliff along the shoreline? Was she in a dark room? She could feel ground beneath her feet. She took a hard step in place. It was solid. A floor. She must be indoors. She slowly slid one foot in a circle. The floor was sleek.
Two spotlights turned on and they were aimed directly at her. She closed her eyes and felt the pain of the light through her eyelids.
“Good evening, and thank you for attending this fabulous event I have put together,” a man’s voice called out over speakers.
She opened her eyes slowly to a squint. She could see the back of the man speaking through some sort translucent yet blurry curtain. He was only a silhouette against the spotlights. They weren’t for her. They were for him. The man introduced himself as Roderick Usher. Who was he? She didn’t know. She didn’t recognize the name. But she didn’t recognize her own either.
Whitney. She knew that was her name, but it didn’t feel like her name. “Whitney,” she whispered to herself. No, it still didn’t sound like her name. But no other name could be her name, she was sure of that. She knew it was her name, but she felt it wasn’t. What was this feeling? She couldn’t make sense of it much less where the hell she was or how she got there.
“Alright, enough of that. Sit your ass down,” Usher said to Becky.
Who was Becky? That name sounded familiar. Not her own. But familiar. Maybe familiar meant it was her name. Maybe that’s how you know your name. Maybe it’s the familiarity of it, the warmth of it. Like a loved one you’ve known your whole life. “Becky,” she whispered to herself. That did sound familiar. That did feel familiar.
Am I Becky? Surely not, he wasn’t speaking to her. The applause that erupted wasn’t for her. It was for someone else. She must meet this Becky. She has questions for Becky. Can two women have the same name? Are we both Becky?
Woman. She knew she was a woman, but that felt off too. Was she a woman? Her heart was telling her she wasn’t just a woman, she was something more. What does that mean? How can a woman be more than a woman?
He was talking about a woman named Mary Shelley. That felt familiar too. How can that be? Am I Mary, too? Can a woman be two wholly different women?
“Mary,” she whispered to herself. Yes, that felt familiar, too.
Am I Becky and Mary? Is this the more I’m feeling?
She felt cold.
She looked down at herself for the first time. She was dressed in a white dress. It was extravagant and had diamonds large and small interwoven throughout it. She was skinny. Very skinny. She touched her tiny frame in the stomach and it felt strange. Unfamiliar. How can my body feel unfamiliar? Is this not who I am? Her breasts were surrounded by the most ungodly array of diamonds and gold. The front of the breasts had white fabric that was see-through, she could see her little, pink nipples that were hardened from the cold. She outstretched her hands and turned them over. They were the hands of a young woman. There were no wrinkles or signs of work. Had she been raised in a lap of luxury? Usher’s lap?
Good god. She couldn’t remember being a child. Impossible. She knew that all humans started out as babies. She knew that. It was impossible for her to have not been a child.
She noticed a wedding band on her left hand. She turned the hand over and it had an enormous diamond surrounded by ruby and gold. Oh, god, I’m married? I don’t remember anyone. I don’t remember love. I would remember love if I knew it. I know I would.
No, love was very unfamiliar.
“Ladies and bastards, I present to you... the perfect bride. The only one deserving of the Usher name. Behold, my creation, The Bride of Usher!” He shouted and turned to face her, his hand outstretched.
The curtain fell to the floor in a pile, but then quickly slithered through the floor in a hole that quickly swallowed it and closed up.
The spotlights turned to her. She squinted harder. Usher was still just a silhouette, but she could tell he was facing her.
“Come forward, my bride!” He called out to her. His voice echoed and her ears vibrated.
She slowly moved across a golden stage. She was wearing only thin slippers made of such lightweight material that she felt like she was barefoot. The gold was cold and she wanted real shoes.
Usher reached out his hand to her, she was hesitant to take it, but he seemed kind if not weird. He had called her his bride. This was her husband? She didn’t recognize him at all. He had long, thick hair that was black with streaks of white strands throughout that gave him a sense of wonder. He wore a golden tuxedo encrusted with diamonds. In one hand he held a white top hat that he placed on his fluff of hair.
She took his hand.
He turned to the audience and pulled her forward next to his side for the people to see her. The audience was standing and clapping. An old man sitting at a table in the front put fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly.
“I can see her tits!” Another man yelled, and there was barrage of laughter and more whistling.
“Yes!” Usher shouted. “Are they not the most perfect breasts you’ve ever seen?” He put his hands behind her back, placed on her hips, and pushed her forward to the edge of the stage. He pulled up behind her, his back and crotch pressed against her. He reached around and cupped the bottom of her breasts, holding them for the crowd to see. She could feel his bulge against the small of her back. She felt dirty. She wanted to get away. She wanted to wash herself of the gold, the diamonds, the touch of Usher. “Are these nipples not perfection?!”
The crowd leaned and squinted to get a closer look of her nipples. The old man in front came to the edge of the stage and held up a monocle to his left eye. “You’ve outdone yourself, Usher!” He yelled as he reached down and adjusted his cock through his pants.
Usher placed his chin on her right shoulder. “I truly have created the perfect woman!” He shouted to thunderous applause. During the roar, he whispered to her, “This is your birth, my bride. My darling Whitney. Soak it in. Remember this moment for the rest of your life. I have given you life.”
Life? She felt dead inside.
