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The door to the attic creaked open in front of me. In the secluded obscurity of the attic I felt something rustle. As I walked deeper into the on-going darkness a malodorous smell invaded my nostrils. After minutes of utter silence-something began to awake. Suddenly everything had become more sinister and colder. As I glanced down I saw the moth-eaten rugs along with spiders crawling all over the floor. This place had perceptibly not been maintained as it had: dust powdering every single surface, cobwebs along with towering piles of newspapers. In the distance I saw a motionless hand-but then it moved. Whatever it was: it was going to break out. After a few minutes it stated to shuffle more viciously. Then it started breaking through. In seconds it destroyed the wardrobe. However I was unaware that being me the news papers were about to fall over. The came open me like a tiger ferociously tearing the flesh of its prey. As I regained my balance to stand up-I saw it. I saw the elevated figure mount before my eyes. It had; thick black hair which accompanied his dull personality, ...
When he arrived at the home the servant who took his hoarse and directed him to the room that Mr. Usher was in greeted him. Inside the house was also very ornate, but it to had also been left alone for to long. The entire house had a gloomy atmosphere that would put a chill down most people’s spines. When he entered the room his friend was staying in he was warmly welcomed. He could not believe the changes that his dear childhood friend had endured.
He grew his beard out, which was a deep black color and extended up to his eyes. It was luxuriously thick and he would light matches within it to have a fiery look upon which he gazed at his enemies. It was terrifying for those who met him in person and he was described as a
I stumbled onto the porch and hear the decrepit wooden planks creak beneath my feet. The cabin had aged and had succumb to the power of the prime mover in its neglected state. Kudzu vines ran along the structure, strangling the the cedar pillars that held the roof above the porch. One side of the debacle had been defeated by the ensnarement and slouched toward the earth. However, the somber structure survives in spite. It contests sanguine in the grip of the strangling savage. But the master shall prevail and the slave will fall. It will one day be devoured and its remains, buried by its master, never to be unearthed, misinterpreted as a ridge rather than a
Edgar Allen Poe’s short story, “The Fall of the House of Usher”, sets a tone that is dark, gloomy, and threatening. His inclusion of highly descriptive words and various forms of figurative language enhance the story’s evil nature, giving the house and its inhabitants eerie and “supernatural” qualities. Poe’s effective use of personification, symbolism, foreshadowing, and doubling create a morbid tale leading to, and ultimately causing, the fall of (the house of) Usher.
Orr- He had thick, wavy brown hair parted in the middle. He also had buck teeth and bulging eyes. He also furnished all knowledge.
The feeling of uncanny continues throughout the next paragraphs. The house Mrs. Drover enters is given characteristics that suggest that it is living. There is a "bruise in the wallpaper" and a piano "had left what looked like claw-marks" (36). On their own, these descriptions would not have created uneasiness. But, the house that bruises and furniture that leaves claw-marks contribute to the sense of uneasiness that had already begun to develop. W...
The Phenomenology of Space--Attic Memories and Secrets Since Gilbert and Gubar's The Madwoman in the Attic, critics have assumed that attics house madwomen. But they use that concept as a metaphor for their thesis, that women writers were isolated and treated with approbation. In most literature, attics are dark, dusty, seldom-visited storage areas, like that of the Tulliver house in The Mill on the Floss--a "great attic under the old high-pitched roof," with "worm-eaten floors," "worm-eaten shelves," and "dark rafters festooned with cobwebs"--a place thought to be "weird and ghostly. " Attics do not house humans (not even mad ones). They warehouse artifacts that carry personal and familial history—often a history that has been suppressed.
In her book “The Tall Building Artistically Reconsidered”, architecture critic Ada Louise Huxtable discusses the skyscraper. Huxtable composed a response to Louis Sullivan’s manifesto, “The Tall Office Building Artistically Considered”, which was composed in 1896. In his manifesto, Sullivan states, “It is the pervading law of all … true manifestations of the head, of the heart, of the soul, that the life is recognizable in its expression, that form ever follows function. This is the law.” Sullivan argued that a building’s exterior should reflect the interior functions. The problem with the skyscraper is not a technical one, but an artistic one. Huxtable’s view on the form and function of the skyscraper successfully follows Sullivan’s beliefs.
hair stood out from his head in all directions. He bore an ax on his
In height he was rather over six feet, and so excessively lean that he seemed to be considerably taller. His eyes were sharp and piercing, save during those intervals of torpor to which I have alluded; and his thin, hawk-like nose gave his whole expression an air of alertness and decision. His chin, too, had the prominence and squareness which mark the man of determination. His hands were invariably blotted with ink and stained with chemicals, yet he was possessed of extraordinary delicacy of touch [...]” (Conan Doyle)
The uncontrollable, insufferable stench pervaded the gloomy passage, I walked on in anxiety. My limbs quivered hysterically not because of cold, but of the trembling shadows around the asphalt pavement. Petrified and juddering, I uttered prayers in murmurs, imploring God or angels to protect me in this vile, desolate place. I felt instinctively that I had embarked on danger. To enter the graveyard I must skirt around a stack of brown frosted leaves, the countless flashing fragments shine in the vivid bitter light.
Perhaps it was the nearly reticent creak of the walls that drew a cautious breath from his body, and made him tense as he sat covered by a thick blanket in his desk chair. He had become accustomed to a nervous habit of tensing and shuddering. For years he heard the house speak to him through creaks and groans, and he had at first passed it off as rotting wood and strong winds being the cause. But ever so little was it the sun came out from hiding behind the darkened clouds that blocked it did he still hear it, when the wind was little to none. Anyone he may have told would’ve called him a fool, but only once in a great while would he have company. The sheriff seemed to come by quite often with his mouth turned down and eyes darting about his
The story unfolds in a rickety colonial mansion described by the narrator plainly as “a haunted house” (Gilman 1) with barred windows and rings bolted to the walls (Gilman 2). These features along with the “horrid” (Gilman 6) yellow wallpaper entrap the narrator and swaddle her in her own madness. As the “woman” (Gilman 6) in the wallpaper takes hold of the narrator’s psyche she grows sinisterly corporal, depicted through the unintelligible sporadic entries. The purpose of the narrator’s journal warps from entries assuring herself of the pettiness of her sickness to entries that confirm and act as horrendous safe haven’s for her unhinged mental condition. Entries like “I see her in that long shaded lane, creeping up and down. I see her in hose dark grape 'arbors, creeping all around the garden” (Gilman 8) juxtapose nonchalant writing style with dark subject matter in a way that creates a disturbing tone that must be uncomfortably ingested by
...en a strange feeling down his spine again, as if something was breathing on his neck. He turned slowly… seeing if someone was behind him and then boom! The figure was right there, about seven feet away, trying to grab him with his big, skinny, hands, with his sharp and dark fingernails that could rip a man’s heart out… He fell down, so surprised by the strange figure.
I wiped my tired blue eyes as I stumbled down the steep wooden steps that creaked under the pressure of my callused summer feet. My matted, curly hair reeked of bonfire from the late night before. My nose was stuffy from sleeping in one of the humid upstairs bedrooms of my grandparent’s farmhouse. The thick, oak door at the bottom of the stairs squeaked when I pushed it open. As I turned left and shuffled into the bright yellow kitchen, I was hit hard with the smell of black coffee and burnt toast. My eyes confirmed it. There, on a brown oval shaped table sat two pieces of black toast covered with a half inch of butter and smothered with creamy peanut butter. I laughed to myself, knowing I better eat that crumbling brick my grandmother calls