H.P. Podcraft.com.

During the whole of a dull, dark 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 view of the melancholy

house of Usher.

I know not how it was, but with the first glimpse of the building, a sense of insufferable gloom pervaded my spirit.

I looked upon the scene before me, upon the mere house and the simple landscape features of the domain,

Upon the bleak walls, upon the vacant eye-like windows,

Upon a few ranks edges, and upon a few white trunks of decayed trees with an utter depression of

soul which I can compare to no earthly sensation more properly than to the after dream

of the reveler upon opium.

The bitter lapse into everyday life,

the hideous dropping off of the veil.

There was an iciness, a sinking, sickening of the heart, an unredeined dreariness of thought which no

goading of the imagination could torture into aught of the sublime.

What was it, I paused to think?

What was it that so unnerved me in the contemplation of the House of Usher?

It was a mystery all insoluble, nor could I grapple with the shadowy fancies that crowded upon me as I pondered.

Nevertheless, in this mansion of gloom I now proposed to myself a soldier of some weeks.

That was the, well a few of the opening lines from Edgar Allan Poe's, the fall of the House of Usher.

And you are joining us here on the H.P. Lovecraft literary podcast.

...