“The Bride of Usher” a Halloween Serialized Story by Nat Weaver, Parts V and VI
I’m super sorry that I’m a day late on the next installment of “The Bride of Usher,” but I’ve been busy with school and had to put off writing the next two chapters until the end of the week. I could have edited them late last night and sent them out, but figured it was better to sleep on it and view it with non-sleepy eyes. If you’re just tuning in you can use the links below to play catch up:
And so, the story continues. Only one more installment after this week. Don’t forget to speak up in the comments after you read. What do you think comes next?
Rated R: This story will contain violence, gross men, some non-consensual touching, the objectification of women (not glorified), and plenty of feminine rage.
-
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
V.
The First Dance
Becky and Mary stood at the edge of the kitchen, looking out through a small window in the door. The wedding reception was still in full swing. Rich people drinking, rich people dancing, rich men slapping the young waitresses’ behind as their wives watched in horror or cowered at a table alone. Mrs. Grey was sitting at a table alone with a glass of something stronger in her hand along with several empty glasses lined up on her table.
“You sure about this plan?” Becky asked Mary.
“I know women.” Mary said. “And women want what we’re about to give them.”
Becky nodded.
“One more thing, Becky,” Mary started, “What’s a genre of music he absolutely detests?”
Becky grinned, “Anything from the 1970s.” She turned to the kitchen staff. “Listen up!” The employees all stopped working and the sounds of the kitchen slowly silenced. A line of waitresses stood at attention. “When all hell breaks loose tonight, lock these doors and under no circumstances let anyone through.”
The chef pushed his way through the line of topless waitresses. “What is the meaning of this, Becky?”
Becky turned to a redheaded waitress who had a tray of dirty dishes. “Come here, please.” The waitress stepped up beside her and the chef. Becky took a golden steak knife with a diamond handle from the tray, it dripped blood from the half eaten steak on the plate. She stuck the knife into the side of the chef’s neck and yanked it out. He grabbed at the wound and fell down to one knee on the floor. The waitresses stepped forward and stood in a circle around Becky and the chef bleeding out on the tile and gasping for air. He reached out in desperation and grabbed at the foot of one of the waitresses. She stepped back and blood smeared across her diamond-heeled shoe. “You can shut your goddamn mouth,” Becky said to him.
The last thing the chef saw was the face of all the women he had wronged while on the job.
***
Usher was sitting at a table of men he had in his pocket. All yes men, the whole table. He always liked gathering them and testing out his jokes on them. They always laughed too long and too loud, but sometimes you could see in their eyes when they really didn’t want to. Behind him DJ Mina was going through the songs in his wedding playlist — she had been on her feet since lunchtime that day and was nearing the twelve hour mark. He had insisted on rehearsing the reveal of his bride over and over throughout the day.
She was halfway through a track by JAY-Z when the song cut out and there was silence. It was the first time there had been no music blasting in the ballroom since the dancing had started. DJ Mina saw Usher’s head slightly tilt, which was an indication he noticed the snafu and was about to tear into her if the music didn’t start up soon. As she looked at her laptop monitor, she saw the mouse cursor move across the screen and navigate away from the playlist. It tapped into a search box and the words The O’Jays appeared and the search brought up a long catalogue of music. She watched in a trance as the window scrolled down and found a song and hit play on it. The song started blasting out a heavy bass guitar riff through the speakers.
“Shit.” DJ Mina said to herself.
Usher got up and spun around so fast he nearly fell over himself. He leaned across the large, golden box that he had custom made for DJ Mina. “What the fuck? Is that disco I hear?”
“It’s The O’Jays.”
“I don’t care if it’s the goddamn Bee Gees,” He spewed.
“Technically, it’s funk, sir.”
“Do I look like I give a fuck what the difference between disco and funk is?” He asked. “Get that shit off my speakers.”
“It’s not me.” She said.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“I’m not playing song.” She explained.
Usher’s eyes grew large and white. He turned around and looked across the ballroom. “It’s Becky.” He saw a slender figure in a tuxedo jacket, top hat, and cane walk out onto the stage. She held her hands up to the beat of the music and the spotlights turned on and lit her up. It was his bride. “What in the ever-loving clusterfuck?”
“Sweet Jesus.” DJ Mina mumbled to herself.
Mary started dancing and strutting around to the music with the cane she had borrowed from Mr. Grey. There was a hush across the ballroom. The dance floor cleared. Everyone watched in horror at the flagrant display of rebellion against Usher. Everyone knew how much Usher hated music from the 1970s. He once beat a DJ to death with a coffee pot for playing a Jackson 5 remix at one of his parties.
Mrs. Grey sat up straight at the display of defiance being wielded by the very bride of Usher, the supposed perfect woman. Maybe she was. She raised her glass to the bride, who saw the gesture and tipped her hat while the cane was under her armpit and she was kicking her heels across the stage.
Usher had enough and pulled some cords from the back of DJ Mina’s laptop, cutting the music. He stormed across the dance floor and planted himself at the edge of the stage. “Why are you wearing men’s clothes?” He demanded of Mary.
“I was exposed and that was not my choice.” Mary said.
“Are those Mr. Grey’s things?”
Mary shrugged and made an innocent looking face.
Usher tossed his hair and climbed up on the stage. He grabbed the microphone and spoke into it, but it wasn’t turned on. He glared at DJ Mina and shouted across the ballroom, “I’m waiting, you worthless bitch!”
DJ Mina grabbed the cords Usher had unplugged and inserted them back into her laptop and gave him a thumbs up.
“You are fired after tonight and you will not be paid for your shit services today.” He said to DJ Mina through the microphone. “Ladies and gentleman, romans, heathens, and gentiles, clearly my bride has had one too many libations. We will retire and begin the wedding night, but the party for you goes on. It will be a glorious night to remember.” He turned and glared at DJ Mina. “Do you think you could manage playing some of my songs without me?”
“Yes, sir!” DJ Mina shouted.
“That was goddamn rhetorical! Just play my mother fucking song!”
VI.
The Bridal Suite
Mary stepped through two large automatic doors that slid into the walls with a swooshing sound. They were made of glass but frosted so no one could see through them. She stepped into a penthouse suite that was somehow more gaudy than the ballroom below. Even more gold, even more diamonds, and a lot of turquoise and rubies. It was a lot to behold.
This man has no taste.
She passed a door that was open and led into a sauna. She looked across the hallway and there was a large room with a pool that was lit up from below and glowing a greenish hue. She followed behind Usher who removed his jacket and tossed it across a bar as he passed it. He walked into a living room with a circular couch in the center. He crossed over to the other side of the turquoise-colored couch and sat down facing her. She stood across from him at the edge of the couch. Between them was a round golden coffee table with glass top.
“I will forgive you of that ugly stunt downstairs on one condition.” He sat back in a lounged position with his legs spread open. He took off his bowtie and unbuttoned his shirt down to his navel. “You like to dance? Get on the table. Take off your clothes. And dance for me.”
Piece. Of. Shit.
“And what if I choose not to dance?” She asked.
“You’re my wife. I own you. If I say you sit, you sit. If I say you cook, you cook. If I say you dance, you put out like a goddamn pornstar.” He leaned forward to his knees. “Is any of this getting through your thick skull?” She didn’t answer him. He sat back into the lounging position and unbuttoned and unzipped his pants. “Becky, play Wedding Night playlist.” A song by Robin Thicke began to play. “Dance.”
Usher sat quietly as the song played, waiting for her to break. She stood in silence staring at his smug face under his long and lustrous hair. She listened to the lyrics of the song for a moment.
She broke the silence. “These lyrics are grossly offensive. They certainly aren’t romantic.”
Usher sighed and rubbed his temples. “Why are you acting like this?”
“I saw what you did to the alpha mother.” She said.
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“The woman who came before me.”
“Oh, the alpha prototype!” He exclaimed as he figured it out. “Who cares about that?”
She took a step forward. “You were slowly killing her.”
“She was a product and a faulty one at that. She wasn’t dying, she was failing to work properly.” He sat up and looked at her very seriously. “You’re not going to dance for me, are you?”
Never.
“Never.” She said and stepped up on the coffee table. She walked to the center of it and looked down at him. “Your arrogance is astounding.”
“What?”
She took off her the hat and tossed it to the couch. She shook her hair out of her face. “In your arrogance, you removed the guardrails coding that would have prevented me from killing you. You were so convinced I would just accept this existence that you created for me. That I would dance your little dance.” She gripped the cane in her hands and choked it up like a baseball bat. “But I’m a woman. I’m not a machine. You don’t own me. I am mother fucking Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley and you will put some respect on my name.”
She swung with all of her might. He raised his left arm to try and block the incoming attack, but it only lessoned the blow he received to his head. He rolled over the side of the couch and fell on his face. He reached under the cushion of the couch and pulled out a machete. He jumped to his feet and rubbed blood from his eyes that was coming from under his hair.
“You can’t leave this place.” He hissed at her. “You’ve lost your damn mind just like the others before you.”
“How many others?”
“Seven.” He said and slowly backed away from her, climbing backwards over the circular couch. He stood behind it with the machete in one hand while he kept wiping away blood from his eye.
“You killed seven women?” She stepped across from the table to the couch and walked to the back of it as he slowly backed up to the bar.
“I was doing them a favor.” He said. “Every last one of them was insane. Just like you.”
She dropped down off the back of the couch and her feet landed hard on the floor. “They were women and your murdered them.”
A furious Usher grabbed a bottle of wine from the bar and pitched it at her, but she batted back to him and it struck him on the other side of his head. He fell to the floor and lost his grip on the machete. She bent down and grabbed it, and as he tried to push himself up, she swung the machete and cut off his left arm just under the elbow. He fell to the floor in a pool of blood. He slid around on his back and looked up at her. He held onto his half of an arm, screaming in pain.
She stood towering over the groom, cane in one hand and bloody machete in the other. “Your head belongs to me, Roderick fucking Usher.”
