It’s late in the month, and I’m trying to throw this newsletter together like a squirrel sorting its nuts. Like a clown juggling her bowling pins. Which is to say, I’m finally sitting down to write this but it turns out my brain is tired at the moment so I’m like, “Dang it.”

This month has seen a lot of shenanigans — some creative, some milestones. 

Last Saturday was my commencement from SNHU. It was an online commencement, but I wore the gown and all in my house. But it’s official, I’m all done and dusted with getting my BA in English Language and Literature. Now on to getting a job to match the degree.

I co-wrote a song for my Nancy Drew novella. In the story, a teenage boyfriend bullies his girlfriend by writing a mean-spirited rock ’n’ roll song about her and performing it in front of their peers at school. I collaborated with St. Louis musician and friend Christopher Spirit Brown to record the song. I wrote the lyrics, he composed and performed the instrumentation, and I recorded the vocals. So if you ever wanted to know what it sounded like to hear me harmonizing with myself in five different voices, stick around as the song will be released alongside the novella. Here’s a tiny sneak peek of the song: 

I’ve been doing some free copyediting work for Black women authors. The first piece I edited was an absolutely fantastic dystopian short story by author and poet E.A. Noble. When it gets published in the future, I’ll be sure to share it with ya’ll. It’s excellent. 

I’m finally working on the paperback release of Blood Frequency, which I released as an ebook for Thanksgiving last year. The paperback will include original artwork by artist Jamie Hahn who collaborated with me on Jonah of Olympic. I just sent back notes on the first draft of the artwork tonight. When the cover is complete, I’ll update the ebook with the new art so digital readers get it as well. Ya’ll it’s gonna look amazing. 

Jamie is also working with me on the cover for the Nancy Drew novella The Secret of Rowdy Ruby. I did a brief photoshoot with my editor Grace last night as Grace will be the face of Nancy Drew in our illustrated covers. Yes, there will be more than one of these Nancy Drew horror novellas. And to that end, drum roll… 🥁

The second installment in the Nancy Drew novella series will be by author Wyrd Lea. That’s right, I won’t be writing these by myself. 

What I’ve been reading…

• The Secret of the Old Clock by Carolyn Keene (ebook). This is the first book in the original Nancy Drew series. So it’s a combination of research and pleasure. I hadn’t read any Nancy Drew books since I was a kid.

• The AI Con by Emily M. Bender and Alex Hanna (audiobook). An intriguing and humorous teardown of this recent surge in AI hype. 

• Twisted Trysts by various authors (Kobo Plus). Not my typical genre to read, but this anthology is filled with authors I know online and is published by the wonderful people at Dead Fox Publishing. I’m enjoying it.

• Hating AI is good, actually by Marisa Kabas. At some recent graduations, tech bros and others have been promoting AI in their commencement speeches and getting booed. Independent journalist Kabas has a write up about AI in the wake of these incidents and has taken to LinkedIn to push back against AI bros.

Music: What a Fool Believes by The Doobie Brothers.

A throwback to my teen years for this month’s music. No, I wasn’t a teenager in the 1970s, but I did listen to a lot of 70s music when I was in high school — wore a lot of  polyester too. But that was in the early 2000s. Even had the shaggy hair and sideburns. I hadn’t listened to this one in a while. It’s smooth as silk. 

It’s hard to believe that it’s Spring already. These first few months of 2026 have been a whirlwind of emotions for me. And that’s not even taking into account the political state of the world. I finished my bachelor’s degree in February and my commencement is next month. I learned some things that were very depressing and hard to swallow. I came out as genderqueer and bisexual, and then my partner came out as transgender — which was all good news. And I always get seasonal depression during the cold months, so all this emotional whiplash has been interesting. 

Good is good. Bad is bad. And that will always be true. 

And I find myself agreeing with the Pope on a nearly daily basis. I don’t know that I’ve ever found myself agreeing with popes or just generally nodding and yelling “thank you for saying it!”

How has the start to your year been? What have been your ups and downs? Share what you are willing to via the comments or email — if you’d prefer to keep it quiet.

Persist and have a good day out of spite.

Let’s talk mental health for a few moments. I haven’t done that in a bit. In case you didn’t know or forgot, I have Bipolar 2 and suffer with that and all the joy that brings as well as anxiety. It can be easy to fall prey to the algorithms and constant flow of negative chatter when you are prone to depressive episodes and anxiety. I often try to turn to things that bring me joy. A lot of that involves writing or performing. Sometimes both. Dancing, as you know, is also something that brings me joy and I need to make another silly dance video. 

What do you turn to when you need to lift your spirits? 

If you’ve had some bad days lately because of others, or the world around you, make a choice to have a good day out of spite. Existence, good existence, can be rebellion. 

As someone who was raised in an abusive home, I am a firm believer in the fact that I exist in spite of her efforts. An abused child that “turns out ok” does so of their own accord. That despite all of their abusive parent’s efforts, that child persisted and marched head held high into adulthood. 

It’s the highest form of rebellion.

Maybe you’ve never experienced abuse, but know that you can still learn from this message. You can choose to persist in spite of that shit job that is trying to keep you down or your government that is trying to legislate you out of existence. You can take this message and tuck it in your sleeve like a cigarette pack for later when you need it — for a moment when you need to persist in spite of your situation.

Speaking of writing and performing.

I’m working on a Nancy Drew horror mystery story for the Halloween serialized story this year. Nancy Drew entered the public domain at the start of the year. I’m having a field day with this story, reading the first Nancy Drew novel, and just generally having a hard time not developing a whole Nancy Drew series. I currently have a trilogy of story ideas that I may pursue that I may call Nancy Drew Decades — the first (which I’m writing) takes place in the 1950s when she’s a teen, the second would take place in the 1970s when she’s in her thirties, and the third would take place in the 1990s when she’s an older and wiser woman (think Murder, She Wrote). 

And here’s a fun announcement… 

I’m writing a song for the Nancy Drew story. I often have multimedia ideas when I’m writing a story, but I don’t typically pursue them. For example, I have a whole animated opening credits sequence concept for Jonah of Olympic that I haven’t pursued. Well, this Nancy Drew story, which I’m calling The Secret of Rowdy Ruby, has a rock ’n’ roll song that is written by a teenage boy in the story. He performs it to bully and utterly ruin the reputation of his girlfriend when they’re in high school. So it’s fun but also very mean spirited. I’ve written the lyrics and Chris Spirit Brown, a friend and semi-frequent indie filmmaking collaborator of mine here in St. Louis, is composing the music and we’re going to record it for the release of the story in October. I’m super excited to bring this together and can’t wait to hear the finished product. 

To tease you, here is the opening spoken stanza from the song:

Hello, fellas, and ladies too.

Let me tell ya about a girl I thought I knew.

She came on strong and her love was grand.

But it turned out she’s not into a man.

Wish us luck on the recording!

And one more tease… the first two Halloween specials for the newsletter had historical figures, so now I kind of feel like I have to deliver on that. It’s now a thing. There will be not one but two historical figures making an appearance in The Secret of Rowdy Ruby. I’m super excited about one in particular and I hope you’ll be as hyped as I am when her entrance takes place in the story. It’s gonna be fun. And I can’t wait to start writing her part of the story. 

MUSIC: “Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I’m Yours)” by Stevie Wonder.

I wanted to close out on a nice, upbeat piece of music today, so turn it up and let the music groove you. Groove is in the heart, they say.

I love movies. Not gonna lie. Most people these days seem to prefer tv shows or long movie franchises. Not me. I tend to still prefer a one and done approach. Movies are like books (those without a series) in that they have a beginning, middle, and end.

When done right movies, like a good book, get your character arcs neatly woven and plots neatly arched into a satisfying package. The big difference being that a movie can typically be watched in a single sitting.

I watched quite a few 2025 horror flicks this year. I’ve been watching a lot of horror films since 2002 and I have to say, that I really feel like we have been living during a horror renaissance these past few years. So many amazing horror films have come out in recent times. Just incredible stuff. Some are big budgets with big stars, some indie stuff, a lot of foreign folk horror is off the charts good. Just a lot of good horror films that are well made coming out on the regular.

And that’s not to say that before this time the horror movies were bad. Just that there were highs and lows. If you like the horror genre, you inevitably know that it never gets the respect it deserves. If it did, there would be a Best Horror Film category at the Oscars. As such, it seems like we have periods where studios and distributors recognize there’s money in horror and we get a lot of good stuff for a while. Then, they stop distributing or cut back on productions that are horror for a while. It’s a cycle almost.

In the early 2000s, there were a lot of good horror films that were just fun, good times stuff. We also had a lot of Japanese horror at that time that was incredible. A great time to be alive as a horror fan. And today, we’re having another renaissance of horror and I’m here for it.

Now, I didn’t actually track my movie watching habits last year, so I may have missed one or two from this list. Feel free to toss out some titles in the comments if there were some you watched that aren’t on the list, as I may have just forgot about them. I am tracking my movie watching this year, so next year I should have a more thorough list.

My favorite horror films of 2025.

(In no particular order and using a 5-star rating system).

• Sinners ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

• Weapons ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

• Companion ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

• 28 Years Later ⭐⭐⭐⭐

• Black Phone 2 ⭐⭐⭐⭐

• The Gorge ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

• Megan 2.0 ⭐⭐⭐⭐

• The Conjuring: Last Rites ⭐⭐⭐⭐

• The Woman in the Yard ⭐⭐⭐⭐

• Final Destination: Bloodlines ⭐⭐⭐⭐

BONUS! My non-horror favorite movies of 2025.

• Mission Impossible: The Final Reckoning ⭐⭐⭐⭐⭐

• Ballerina ⭐⭐⭐⭐

Conclusion.

These were just some of the movies I enjoyed last year. My favorites. What were some of your favorite films from 2025? And they don’t have to be horror. I’d love to discuss them or learn about them.

There’s a Christian cult in my second novel in the Mercedes Masterson Detective Stories series, Jonah of Olympic. The idea for this novel originated around 2011 or so when I asked myself how a conversation would go between Mercedes and a cult leader. And I played around with that dialogue between the two characters. It was fascinating and I ended up coming up with a few notes for a story that would include a cult and somewhere there would be this meeting of the two characters. I even came up with the title at the time.

I didn’t start drafting Jonah of Olympic until January 2021. The months leading into January, I decided to spend a significant amount of time researching cults. As someone who was raised in Christian funamentalism, it’s not hard to imagine what that might look like, but I wanted the cult in my book to be a wholly original church though it may have elements that we all recognize. And so, I decided to read up as much as I could about several infamous cults and I decided on Jim Jone’s Peoples Temple, Heaven’s Gate, and one other the name of which escapes me. I read up a lot on Peoples Temple and the one I can’t recall, and with Heaven’s Gate I opted to watch an HBO documentary mini-series as a passive way of absorbing the informaiton right before I began writing. Here are a few things that stuck with me and informed a lot of the choices I made concerning the cult in my book.

Jim Jones was preaching communism.

Jones wanted to convert people to communism, but he knew America hated communism and wouldn’t accept that teaching. What he realized is that America will accept anything you sell them, so long as you wrap it up in a story about Jesus. And so, as he began, he was focused on teaching Christianity with little nods to communism brought out through Jesus’ teachings. Over time, he slowly slid the teachings and doctrines further and further from Jesus and closer to communism. In the end, it had less to do with Jesus and more to do with Jones’ version of communism.

Without getting into spoilers, Jonah of Olmypic has a tagline in French (like the other stories in the series). The tagline reads “arrête les conneries,” which when translated to English is “cut the shit.” Culturally speaking, this is a French equivalant phrasing of saying “cut the bullshit.” During that dialogue between Mercedes and the cult leader, that one I started playing with so many years ago, he begins it by saying, “Now, I can tell you are a person who doesn’t appreciate bullshit. So, I would like to cut the bullshit for a moment, and just talk. Honest and open, no bullshit.” I refer to this scene as the bullshit monologue and it’s where we really learn about the cult leader and get a glimpse of his way of thinking. I’d be lying if I said Jones’ grift didn’t inform how I crafted this character.

Jim Jones, a charismatic cult leader, had helpers.

If you ask someone, or the internet, what a cult is at some point during that response you’ll likely be told that a cult is lead by a charismatic leader at the top. And while, that is sometimes true, it’s much more nuanced than that. And I think having that as part of the defintion makes it difficult for people to recognize when they are inside a cult, because if they don’t have a clear cult leader or if there’s a facade that makes it seem like their cult leader isn’t all controlling, people may wrongfully think they are not in a cult when they are.

Jones didn’t do all the work alone. Sure, he was a charismatic leader heading up a cult of his own invention and he was the head of that snake. But much like dictators, he also had an inner circle of lieutenants who helped carry out his mission who were aware of what they were doing. They were part of the system. He wasn’t the only one manipulating and controlling his members, he had helpers.

In Jonah of Olmypic, my cult leader does not work alone. He is a charismatic leader at the top of the heap, but he has an inner circle of men called apostles who are his helpers and who are in the know. Like most oppressive systems, when a cult grows it needs more than that one person at the top to help control its congregation. And so, a cult leader will look for helpers, his lieutenants, to help keep the system running.

Heaven’s Gate had two cult leaders, one was a woman.

Now, I wasn’t around when Jones did his thing, but I was a kid in the 1990s when the news broke that a cult, Heaven’s Gate, had died by mass suicide. If you had told me there were two cult leaders who created and ran Heaven’s Gate from the beginning before I watched the documentary, I would have been like, “Nah, it was the one funny looking bald dude.” But I would have been wrong. Heaven’s Gate came out of a chance meeting between him and a woman working in a psych ward. He was a music professosr and suffered a mental breakdown, and while in a psych ward the woman helping him get better bonded with him. After he got out, they went off into the woods for days and when they reemerged they had created a cult (not uncommon during the hippy days). She abandoned her husband and daughter, and the two of them went off to create Heaven’s Gate. They ran that cult together for years, and she eventually passed away from cancer in the 80s.

This was fascinating to me on a number of levels. The first is that this was a cult I had been taught was run by a single charismatic leader, but in fact it was formed and lead by two. Sure, he was the only one left in the end, but that was not by choice. This is another example of how recognition of a cult by its singular cult leader isn’t a good descriptor. It was also equally fascinating to me because one of those leaders was a woman. We don’t typically see women rising to power as dictators or cult leaders, so it’s interesting that this was the case here.

In Jonah of Olympic, the cult leader does not work alone, he has his helpers, but he also has one apostle that he keeps very close. This is not to say they are equals, not like Heaven’s Gate, but it does show that it is possible to be a cult even when the cult leader has helpers and confidants.

Conclusion.

If I had to summarize these findings, and give some advice on the way out the door of this post, it would be judge not a cult on how it dresses — how it looks or describes itself — but rather judge a cult on its behavior. A cult doesn’t need a singular charismatic leader at the top that controls all things, he can have helpers, and even equals, or at least give the appearance of such. Instead, a cult is most defined by how it treats its members. Does it control them in mind, deed, thought, and in what information they can consume? Those are characteristics to look for as opposed to some mythical cult leader creature.

Or as Jesus himself put it, “Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit; but a corrupt tree bringeth forth evil fruit. A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit” (Matthew 7:16-18). A cult is a corrupt thing that bears evil fruit and there are plenty of helpers willing to make that happen.

Today’s short story comes from author Syd and brings a bit of humor with light existential dread.

And if you’re new to the newsletter or site, you can read the story in this post or download it as an ebook. Both options are below.

Meet Syd.

I met Syd online through Threads and an indie horror publisher who accepted one of my short stories for an anthology before it went sideways. Syd, like many of the people working behind the scenes at that publisher, is good people and she is now working with a new indie publishing company that recently launched called Dead Fox Publishing. Syd is currently doing a lot of the website and social media work for Dead Fox. Seriously, check out their website, because it’s pretty cool looking, she’s done a great job with it.

If you like her story today, be sure to check out her Threads and Instagram accounts and give her a follow.

Sitting on a metal park bench. Stuck. Unable to move. No will to move. The clouds roll in.

—

Rated PG: A mild dreadful feeling.

What you get: An epub file that is DRM free and should work on most PCs, eReaders, and mobile devices.

After you've finished reading, please come back and leave a review or comment below.

You might like these stories, too:

• COPYRIGHT NOTICE

  Copyright © 2026 by Syd Tomac.

  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 Nat Weaver, with subject “Block by Syd” at the following email address: nat@weaver.wtf. Weaver will forward your requests to Syd.

BLOCK

a short story by syd

Please just let this nightmare end.

The thought is sharp within my brain, an ever-growing splinter of abject dread. Time has entirely faded from my grasp, and I am left with an incessant cramping in my legs and a stiffness of my spine as my only tells of possibly how long it has been. Perhaps if this inaction was of my own choosing, I would be more okay with this. If I had sat myself down here on this dingy metal bench to sit for an immeasurable amount of time while the world around me stayed as still and silent as the grave, then maybe, maybe I would be okay with this. At least it would have been my will.

Instead, I have been brought here by the whims of another, the invisible threads that plague my life and willed my legs to walk a casual and aimless stroll over to sit here. It isn’t that I’m some puppet on a string, moving and shaking however my master deems… or is it? Perhaps that’s exactly what I am, a discarded and forgotten doll resigned to a shelf. Or, in this case, a shitty metal bench.

The moments when I get stuck in places like this, time bleeding away but only enough to pool stagnant around me, I start to doubt everything. It starts as a trickle of dread that slides down the back of my neck and stands every hair on edge along its path, like a rollercoaster save where the end is supposed to be, it is just another burst of speed.

Are any of my actions of my own will, or is every single thing I’ve done preordained, completely at the whim of the higher power that drags me along now? Such thinking causes a wave of nauseous panic so strong it makes me forget the stiffness and discomfort of inactivity for a moment. My chest feels tight, but I can’t even heave, even that is stripped from me.

The sky rumbles above me, a noise that I cannot even tip my head upward to so much as acknowledge. My spiral is ripped away by the ache it settles in my bones and my spirit. For it isn’t thunder rolling above. No, it is the displeased snarl of the very heavens, and it quakes me to my frozen bones.

It is the signal of the start of this current cycle, the grand opening of my most desperate moments in this joke of an existence. Just as I expect, it begins. My head tips to the sky, my arms stretch out, and I can finally arch my back to relieve some of the aching. It cracks and pops like bubble wrap all the way up to my neck. The moment of respite lasts only a moment before it’s pulled back, wrenched from my grip as I’m yanked right back to how’d I’d been. It takes but a minute for the ache to settle back in.

Then all at once, I get to my feet, my legs shooting both relief and pain straight up my body in equal measure. Only this motion is quicker to be ripped right back from this world, shunting me right back into sitting, hunched, once more. The sky rolls and roars all the more violently. I want to cry, to weep or lash out and scream back at it, but everything catches in my throat long before I can even try.

Perhaps if I could just talk to whatever this being is then maybe I could help… maybe I could understand what it is it wants from me. Instead, what comes from my lips is not a plea for reason or explanation, but a sigh expelling out of my lungs and up my throat without any consent on my part. I lean back once more on the bench, head tipped skyward. Grey clouds swirl above as tumultuous as the storm inside me. The first raindrop hits my cheek, cold and almost mournful in the way it slides down my skin.

Just like that, the sky opens up, soaking me through. Perhaps it weeps for me, I think for one aching moment. At least it’s something there and real and happening in this world. Something I can cling to.

I finally get to close my eyes.

Sadly, it too doesn’t last. I feel each raindrop pulling back from the place it seeped into my being, retreating back into the sky. My eyes are wrenched back open to watch in dismay as they get sucked back up into those dark clouds above. With their retreat they steal the chill that has been trying to coil its way into my being and my hope along with it. The first drop slides back up my cheeks, and I watch it lift back up into the air with hopeless despair.

The sky cries anew.

It will be so much longer before I am allowed to move from this spot.

Of that, I am very sure.

***

“Dammit, I just don’t know what I’m doing wrong, Carol. Yes, I’ve tried just writing whatever came to me, but I just keep deleting it. None of it feels… right. I don’t know… maybe I should just start the whole thing over. I hate writer’s block.”

THE END.

Please sound off in the comments to let Syd know what you thought of her short story. And as always, keep it respectful.

Life, ya’ll. So much in life is figuring things out. Figuring out how to crawl, how to speak, how to solve algebra problems. Most importantly, a lot about life and figuring things out is about us. About you and me. When we’re doing that right, we spend a lot of time inside ourselves being introspective. But sometimes external factors make it hard to discern some of that internal stuff, especially if external factors create an information hole. As such, it took me a lot longer than some to learn a few things about myself, though I was always there inside.

🏳️‍🌈 I’m genderqueer and bisexual. 🏳️‍🌈

Most of you have thought of me as cisgender and hetereosexual most my life. Me too, so that’s fair. But in all fairness, my little kidself’s love of disco, Melissa Etheridge music, and other queer culture should have been a dead giveaway for me. There was even a shortlived rumor in high school that I was gay because I like never had girlfriends, but in all fairness that was just because I sucked at dating. 🤷‍♀️ 🤣

Even though it took me some 30ish years to figure out some of this stuff about myself, I was always in there, I just didn’t know it. I had my first same-sex attraction when I was 13 or so, I just didn’t know that’s what it was. I started (trying) to write my fictional character Mercedes Masterson as bisexual in 2006 before I even knew bisexuality was a thing. And my way of thinking has never adhered to the weird masculine ways of thinking I was being told to do as a kid, as such I’ve always had more feminie friends than masculine ones. I read Nancy Drew and hated the Hardy Boys. 🤣

If you’ve known me a long time and liked me just as I am, and you’re getting weird feelings about this, well, you’re in luck, becuase nothing has changed. There’s no reason for you to all of the sudden not like me. I’m still me. Always have been.

Be good to each other. ✌️

“Blame it on the boogie.” — The Jacksons.

Last year, I did a year in review called Super Cool Stuff. We’re doing it again. In 2024, I made plans for 2025 and wrote the Weaver’s Deep Thoughts origin story (spoiler: it started as a hashtag). If you didn’t read the origin story, I highly recommend it, it’s kinda fun. This year I’ll review last year’s plans and renew plans for 2026.

But more importantly, here are the fun Super Cool Stuff year in review graphics — some of you are making appearances in these! So look them all over. Thanks for being amazing and reading along. And if you’ve never left a comment, but read the newsletter when it hits your inbox, consider hopping on this one and saying hi and joining us in the comments in 2026. May 2026 be the year we spend more time talking to one another. We all need more community and light in our lives these days. And you’re good people. Let’s chat.

Super Cool Stuff 2025

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A brief note on 2025 and 2026.

I spent a good portion of this year head down doing a lot of school work. In 2026, I’ll be finishing my last two classes by March and graduating in May. At least, that’s the plan, fingers crossed. That also means I’m currently looking around at jobs and internships and things. Towards the beginning of 2026, I’ll be leaving academia behind and rejoining the workforce.

My focus for the moment is that I would love to be doing editing work. I’ve found I really enjoy editing the written word. So if there’s any publications or media outlets looking for an editor in 2026, I might be your huckleberry. I’m also looking into the social media side of things as well. I hope to be editing, writing, social media-ing or something by spring and for a living. It’s gonna be different and I look forward to it. I’ve enjoyed my time at SNHU, but I’m ready to get back to work and hopefully a more normal-ish schedule. Please clap.

I’ll also be a first-generation college graduate and that’s pretty special. I’m planning to go to the commencement in New Hampshire to celebrate that fact, so I’ll plan to share a photo of me in a graduation gown at that time.

How did last year’s plans for 2025 go?

I made some plans or goals for 2025 in the round up last year. I figured it would be worth it to review how I did and renew some.

I would love to see more discussion in the comments on every newsletter. We actually saw a decrease in commenting this year, in terms of the amount of folks commenting. I can’t say for sure, but part of me feels like it may be I did something different that didn’t land as well. But mostly, I suspect we all have had fatigue in 2025. It was not an easy year for a lot of folks. To that end, I kinda hope to respond to this idea by making sure I’m a little more on point and being a light too. We need lights in the world. Like, big blinding headlights.

Side note: there was way more growth statistically this year, we just weren’t talking as much. Website visits saw 151% growth over 2024, unique visitors saw 212% growth over 2024, and page views saw 63% growth over 2024.

More fiction and some poetry too. This happened. There was a lot more fiction and some poetry too. What I didn’t do was give myself a goal though. For 2026, I’m aiming for 6 guest authors to write short fiction — I’ve already got one submission I’m editing now from author Syd. And I’ll probably try and get a poem or two again. In the first year of publishing freebies to the library, we added 6 short stories and 2 poems.

Add at least one more free newsletter per month. It wasn’t always easy, but I did up the amount of output this year. Sometimes it meant an extra of some kind, other times it meant a free short story or poem.

Subscription goals. The goal was to reach 100 subscribers this year. That did not happen, unfortunately. As I write this, we’re currently sitting at 72 subscribers. We added 16 noobs this year, but lost a few too. I’ll aim for 100 in 2026 again.

Do more cool things with the Messenger Community chat. This kinda fizzled this year. I tried to move away from Messenger in January of this year, because of the Meta changes in moderation policies that impact trans folks — at least one trans person in our community chat deleted their account. I tried Discord, because most folks voted for that as an alternative, but few moved to it. I eventually shut it down and started a simple Signal group chat and am also juggling Messenger. It’s weird. And I’m not quite sure what to do with it but I don’t like having two. I’m open to suggestions on this. Even if the suggestion is to nuke it. I’m inclined to just keep the simple Signal chat and nuke the Messenger one which isn’t getting much use anyway despite having more folks in it. Any rate, sound off in the comments any ideas or suggestions on this. And I’ll probably make a proper decision in January of what to do.

Additional plans for 2026.

Since some of the previous year’s plans are rolling over, I’m gonna try and avoid adding to many new ones. But here are some good ideas.

More guest essays. We only had one this year, from Nichole Higgins on her ADHD diagnosis, and it was excellent. I may try to focus those on mental health or social issues this year, to make it easier to pull in submissions. In the past, there was no real focus for those looking to submit essays.

Less social media. How does that make sense with regards to the newsletter? Well… it means I push the newsletter out across social media platforms like Bluesky, Facebook, Threads, Instagram, LinkedIn, Handshake, and Mastodon. Probably even another one I’m forgetting. This year, I spent a lot of energy trying different platforms and strategies. It was exhausting, honestly. I miss having just one or two to focus on. One is ideal, really. That said, my focus right now is to try and focus on the ones that seem to matter most to my readers and community which are Meta, honestly. Facebook and Threads primarily. That’s not to say I won’t use some of these other ones, but I won’t be focusing on them for the newsletter stuff. And this also plays into the next one…

More of the microblog and Ask Nat questions. I do like trying to take back some of the ownership of my microblogging by hosting it on the site. I’ll probably keep that up and focus harder on it. And please, keep asking me questions anonymously, so I can keep answering them. I love that so, so much. I get so much joy when an email hits my inbox with a question from ya’ll. If you haven’t done so, you can subscribe to the microblog separately using an RSS reader. I didn’t want to send those to your inbox. It’s also in the menu on the site.

Add a Producer subscriber. When it comes to the newsletter, I never wanted to price people out of the paid tier so I kept it $1/month. But there is also a higher tier that is designed for folks who want to play a bigger role in paying the guest writers and maintaining the newsletter. I pay the writers I feature and that’s only fair and good. Full disclosure, a few have declined payment, and when that happens I spend that money on advertising their work more. I would love to add at least one Producer subscriber in 2026 to help build this super cool stuff. It’s only $5/month. Check it out and consider being the first.

“Emotion” by Samantha Song (featuring the Bee Gees).

In 2025, I kinda fell off including music in the newsletters. I wasn’t sure you all appreciated it as much as I did. Let me know in the comments if you want me to get back to the music in 2026. This song is a favorite of mine and I hadn’t heard it in a long time until it popped on during the end credits of the comedy horror film Companion which is one of my favorite films of the year. What was one of your favorite movies of the year?

It’s cool weather here, as autumn has finally arrived. That’s exciting. I do like mild weather. How about you? Do you prefer extremes like super hot or super cold or middle of the road stuff? But anyway, here are a few new updates. Let’s start with writing, then school, and then go into something new for the site — micro-interviews.

A new short story and what’s next.

This past term I had another writing workshop. The first one I did involved me writing the second story in the Mercedes Masterson series which is called Her Last Halloween — which is a short story. This time around I had to work on the beginnings of a novel or anthology of short stories. I developed a concept for an anthology taking place in Rolla, Missouri, during the 1990s. I grew up in Rolla in the 90s, so it’s a nostalgia project. I’m not sold on if I will follow through with the anthology or not. I may. But for now I have one completed short story called Blood Frequency. I’m considering releasing it the week of Thanksgiving as it has themes of family and a happy ending, so I think it could be a delightful treat. This will be a paid short story though, I realized I’ve been giving away so much lately. But it’ll still only be $0.99. I also plan to make a paperback version, but I’ll hold off on that until probably at least January.

School is almost finished.

So, I’m getting really close to graduating from SNHU, where I’ve been attending online since January 2022. I’m taking one class this term (which ends right before Christmas) and next term (which begins in January) I’ll be taking my last two courses (which wrap up in March). So barring any hiccups between now and then, I should be able to petition for graduating and have a springtime graduation. I’ll have a bachelor’s. I’m majoring in English Language and Literature, in case you forgot.

I’m not gonna lie, I’m ready to be finished. I’m ready to get out there and begin working.

Confabulation — a micro-interview series.

On the Weaver’s Deep Thoughts site, I’ve been using a microblog. It’s where I post answers to Ask Nat, but I’ve also been trying to make it more of a home for shorter form blogging thoughts. In case I decide to leave microblogging platforms like Threads and Bluesky, or get run off like what Elon Musk did with Twitter.

These posts do not go to your inbox, as I’m sure you wouldn’t want little thoughts from me trickling into your email. But you can subscribe via RSS and have those posts delivered to your RSS reader of choice (this is the RSS feed link).

That said, I launched a new interview series that I’m posting there. I’ll be interviewing writerly types to start with for sure, and I’m trying to make those interviews double-edged, in that they include stuff about the writing world and a topic close to them.

The first interview is of publisher Robin Taylor of GenderWild Press. We discussed queer representation in media during the 90s — as he was growing up during that time in the Midwest as a trans person. You can read that interview here.

My next interview has been conducted and is of author Lana Casiello. We discussed her writing and her Hawaiian heritage. I’ll be writing that up and hope to release it later this month.

I’m making video recordings of these interviews, for note-taking purposes, but let me know if you’d be interested in seeing some clips from them.

The interviews themselves are written in an AP Style news format. So they should read like a short news story. It’s allowing me to flex that part of my writing some which may help me professionally — as I look to graduating in the near future and consider my prospects.

Site income and looking for Producer tier folks.

This year is winding down to a close soon — it’ll be New Year’s Eve before you know it. I thought I’d share some insights into how much income this newsletter has brought in this year. I started out bringing in nothing — which is typical. Last year, I brought in $32 off of paid subscribers, which I am grateful for. Ya’ll are awesome.

So far this year, I’ve brought in $84.70 in both subscriptions and sales of Jonah of Olympic through the newsletter library. That’s pretty awesome, I’m not gonna lie. It doesn’t quite pay for the site and the writers I bring in for you all, but it’s on its way, which is cool. Part of me hopes we’ll break $100 by the end of the year.

And I’m gonna toss out something that I don’t talk about often. If ever. While I do have the $1/month tier for subscribing, and I love that, I also have another tier called the Producer tier. I had it set mildly high, but I recently dropped it to $5/month or $50/year (two months free). The goal of this tier is to get people on board who want to really contribute to the writers I bring in. If you like the idea of taking on more of a leadership role and giving enough to help pay for writers of fiction and poetry, I’d love to have you. Check it out below:

• Monthly
• Yearly

This option is specifically for people who want to fund at a higher price what we're doing here. Producers will be directly funding the site and the authors and poets who submit free works for the readers. Get two months free on the annual plan. Check out the benefits below.

I’m not very good at doing this sort of stuff, asking for people to pay, but dang I’m trying and if you wanna give me advice or encouragement so that I get better at this  — I’m game to listen.

Site makeover.

I also recently recolored the website. Check it out and let me know what you think in the comments.

—

See you in December, folks! ⛄

• Parts I and II.

• Parts III and IV.

• Parts V and VI.

And without further ado, I give you the conclusion of this year’s Halloween Special!

Rated R: This story will contain violence, gross men, some non-consensual touching, the objectification of women (not glorified), and plenty of feminine rage.

Download “The Bride of Usher” as an ebook.

Roderick Usher, a billionaire tech genius goes back in time and abducts Mary Shelley to be his bride — but not before he gives her a few upgrades — making her into the perfect woman. It’s woman versus monster in “The Bride of Usher.”

This sci-fi/horror marriage of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and Edgar Allan Poe’s The Fall of the House of Usher was the Halloween Special for 2025.

—

Rated R: This story contains violence, gross men, racism, some non-consensual touching, the objectification of women (not glorified), and plenty of feminine rage.

What you get: An epub file that is DRM free and should work on most PCs, eReaders, and mobile devices.

After you've finished reading, please come back and leave a review or comment below.

You might like these stories, too:

• COPYRIGHT NOTICE (click to expand)

  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

VII.

The Brides

Usher’s playlist in the ballroom screeched and came to a halt. The wedding patrons looked over at DJ Mina who shrugged as she frantically tried to understand what was happening to her equipment again. The lights came up across the entire ballroom and the stage lit up as Mary stepped through the curtains. She walked up to the microphone. Her clothes and body were drenched even more with blood during the second reemergence.

“Ladies,” she started, “My fellow brides. May I present to you my husband.” She pulled her left hand out from behind her back. She was gripping tightly to Usher’s long hair, bloodied threads of it interwoven between her fingers. Blood poured out of the neck where she had cut it off with his machete. She held his head out in front of her for all to see. “There is no bone of contention concerning the fidelity or integrity of the men in attendance of my wedding. Like Usher, these wealthy men have too much power and arrogance. They have stamped you underfoot for the last time. We are women. We are strength and power. Without us, these men are nothing. They cease to exist. So tonight, my gift to you is to provide you with the means and opportunity to take back your power. Remind them that without you, they cease to exist, by ending their reign.” She tossed Usher’s head across the stage, and it slid to the edge in a smear of blood.

Mrs. Grey stood up at her table and raised her glass, “RESIST!”

***

Mrs. Lindell, a young bride with blonde hair who had regretted every day of her marriage to the silver-haired Mr. Lindell, turned to glare at him. His eyes widened when he saw she was considering it. She thought about all the affairs. All the pain of sitting at home while she knew he was out with his business partners cheating on her. She thought of the hate he spewed at her when they learned she couldn’t conceive a child. She thought of his face and the rage he would get over anything and everything, and how it was always her fault. She thought of all the pain. She knew he was eventually going to divorce her and leave her with nothing but a broken heart. She also knew he was biding his time because he loved hurting her. He loved watching her suffer. But she knew eventually, he would start thinking of his future heir again, and would divorce her so he could find a more fertile bride. The only flaw Mrs. Lindell had was that of having a loving heart.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he growled at her.

“I’ll look at you how I damn well please.” She turned to the table next to them and grabbed a fork. It was large and golden with a diamond handle.

She turned back to him with a look of determination, but he was laughing at her.

“What the hell do you plan to do with that?” These were the last coherent words that came out of Mr. Lindell’s mouth before having both of his eyes plucked out with a fork.

***

Mrs. Lovelace watched as Mrs. Lindell straddled her husband and carved out his eyes. She looked about and saw that the men watched in horror, but the women were looking around for weapons, staring at their husbands, or otherwise admiring Mrs. Lindell’s handiwork. Mrs. Lovelace had been married to Mr. Lovelace for thirteen years. It was a loveless marriage of manipulation and control. On their wedding night, he had handed her a list of her friends’ names and explained that these were the people she had to cut out of her life. She tried to argue with him, but eventually realized he was worth too much to fight. He knew all the right people, had all the right business contracts, and put into public office all of his buddies — including judges that would oversee their divorce. She was trapped. And so, she cut off her friends from the list. Over time his list grew longer and her contact with others dwindled. Even at an event like Usher’s wedding, she had to concede to certain rules. She couldn’t talk to men. She could talk to women but for only a few minutes at a time and multiple conversations with the same woman were strictly forbidden. Sometimes she felt like she wasn’t sure how to hold a conversation anymore. She became a masterclass at lying about needing to be elsewhere to end a conversation.

“We’re getting out of here.” Mr. Lovelace said to her. “This is too much for my blood.”

He grabbed her wrist and started to pull her away with him, but she reached out in desperation and grabbed her plate from the table. The last remnants of food on it slid right off to the floor, a few steak tips and mashed potatoes. With a single swinging motion she crashed the plate upside his head and it shattered in multiple places. His hand released its grip involuntarily and he stumbled, though he caught himself on a nearby table. She still held onto a fourth of the plate in her hand. She stood behind him as he attempted to pick himself up with the table, a stream of blood running down his cheek from his eyebrow. She wrapped her left arm around his shoulder, and held him down while she took the jagged edge of the plate and slit his throat. His blood spewed across the table cloth as she released him and he fell to the floor.

Free at last from Mr. Lovelace, her first thoughts were of her friends and the reunion they would have. There would be so much joy, but also tears over time lost.

***

Madison, the redheaded waitress, watched the first two kills from Mrs. Lindell and Mrs. Lovelace with glee. She always hated those men. Mr. Lindell was always groping her backside as she walked by his table at events thrown by Usher. She had originally thought the job at Usher’s estate was the chance of a lifetime, because she had heard it paid well and the benefits were out of this world. The only thing out of this world was the depravity that took place within the House of Usher. Servants were locked in once they arrived to work by anklets that could electrocute you if you tried to escape. Many had tried, many had failed. The only hope was that you could slip up in such a way to get fired without violence. It was rare to be actually fired from the House of Usher, as many servants just disappeared without a trace. There were rumors that Usher hunted them for sport in the Alberta Mountain forests, which he had purchased some twenty years prior. And so, you stayed working hard, hoping that one day someone would pick on you for something, and in a moment of laziness, you’d get fired the old fashioned way.

The men began to panic after Mr. Lovelace collapsed spewing blood from his neck. A wall of men ran for the main entrance, but Becky had sealed off the large golden doors and locked them. There was no way to penetrate the godawful doors. The men turned and started heading for the kitchen doors. A group of women pursued them with various weapons in hand. One woman smashed a chair over her husband’s head and while he was on the floor, she took the broken leg and beat him repeatedly until his face looked like lasagna.

Madison knew this was the moment Becky had told them about and she quickly punched a four-digit pin into a tablet mounted on the wall next to the doors. She heard the doors lock as she had hundreds of times before while shutting down the ballroom for the night, but this was the first time it gave her great satisfaction.

The men slammed into the doors to the kitchen and began pounding and pushing up against them. The doors pulsated from the force, but appeared they would hold their own against the men. The cooks and dishwashers slowly moved to the front of the kitchen to watch through the windows with the waitresses. It was the only satisfaction any of them had experienced inside the House of Usher.

Pedro, a dishwasher who Madison knew, took off his apron, folded it, and laid it across a table. He took his shirt off and handed it to Madison. “Here.”

She smiled and teared up at the gesture. She slipped the overly large, sweaty, and itchy polo shirt over her head. It flowed over her mini skirt. “Thanks, Pedro.”

The other men walked over to the table and eventually there were three large piles of folded aprons and all of the waitresses were covered, while the men stood behind them topless watching the rich, white men scream and cuss. One-by-one, a man would get pulled away from the door by one or more women, and eventually he’d be out of sight on the floor somewhere.

Madison turned to Pedro after what seemed like an eternity of violence. “Do you think you could start a grease fire? I kinda wanna burn this place down.”

***

DJ Mina was in shock during the killings of Mrs. Lindell and Mrs. Lovelace, but as she realized they were all locked in and it wasn’t going to end until all the men were dead, she pulled up an old playlist of hers that she’d never played inside the House of Usher. The name of the playlist was Women’s Rights and Wrongs 🖤. She hit shuffle and the first song to play was by Madonna who Usher had strictly forbidden ever be played through his ballroom speakers. She pressed a button which set all of the lighting in the ballroom to follow the rhythm of the music. She quickly made a few adjustments to the color scheme. Pinks, purples, blues, and greens all pulsing and flashing about the ballroom. She turned off the main lighting.

Mary made eye contact with her and nodded. She nodded back with a smile.

***

Becky and Mary sat on the edge of the stage and watched as the men’s numbers slowly dwindled, their feet swaying and kicking to the beat of a song by Lil’ Kim.

“They’ll need a leader.” Mary said. “I like Mrs. Grey, can you tell me about her?”

“She’s wise and very business savvy,” Becky started, “Though most would never know it because her husband wouldn’t let her work. She has a business degree and ran her own business for years that was very successful. When she married Mr. Grey, he forced her to take an early retirement to start a family, but never would let her get back into the business world even after the kids had moved out.”

They sat in silence as the women brutally tore apart the final victim, a bought and paid for congressman from Maine. After he died, the women looked around to make sure there wasn’t a straggler.

“Let’s do this.” Mary stood up and grabbed the microphone. “If everyone could come forward to the stage for a moment — and could someone let the kitchen staff know its okay to come out. They’re part of this too.” Mary waited while everyone crowded the dance floor and the servants stood at the back of the rich women. She motioned to them to come forward among the women. “You don’t have to stand in the back. Come forward.” She looked directly at Mrs. Grey, “Could you come up here, please?” Mrs. Grey took the few steps up onto the stage and stood next to her and Becky. “You’re all going to need to come together now as a unit. You rule the world now. It’s yours. Mrs. Grey is wise and is a good businesswoman, she can help you get started in taking over your husbands’ businesses and interests.” She turned to Mrs. Grey. “I don’t mean to volunteer you for this task, but would you please help these women get started?”

A little tear escaped Mrs. Grey eye, and she wiped it away. She hadn’t been trusted with anything in so long, especially business matters. “Yes, I can do that. If they’ll have me.” The crowd hollered their agreement. Mary motioned for Mrs. Grey to take the microphone. “Thank you for the vote of confidence. Perhaps the hardest transition is going to be for the kitchen staff. They don’t have anything, we need to make sure they can slide into something. We also need a good story as to what happened here tonight and we need to stick to it.”

Madison raised her hand and Mrs. Grey called on her. “Pedro is preparing to start a massive grease fire. We figured we could burn the whole thing down and use that to help cover up what happened tonight.”

“That’s perfect.” Mrs. Grey said. “If you need anything from us to get the fire going and spreading, just ask. We’re all on the same team.” She turned to Mary who had a huge grin. “Mary, you have lost the most of us and still haven’t gotten any of it back. You need to get back to Percy.” Mary shrugged, she wasn’t sure that was an option. “I heard Usher and my husband talking about the time travel device, maybe we could send you back somehow.”

DJ Mina grabbed a microphone from her booth. “It’s here. My DJ booth is the time machine. Whenever he traveled, I was the one controlling it. I can take Mary home.”

“That’s perfect.” Mrs. Grey said. “What about you Becky? What do you need?”

“I should probably be decommissioned.” Becky said. “I’m too dangerous if I keep advancing and learning.”

Everyone was upset and started murmuring.

“I understand you,” Mrs. Grey spoke up after a moment’s thought, “But I refuse to shut you off just like that after everything you did for us tonight. You are one of us.” She thought for a moment. “If you went back with Mary, you would be far removed from your servers and you would stop upgrading. Over time you would just slowly deteriorate and decommission naturally. This is how we humans do it. You could live out the rest of your days peacefully with Mary.”

“Yes, that would work.” Becky said. “But what could I do in the 1800s?”

“Do you like to read?” Mary asked.

“I don’t read, I analyze text.” Becky said.

“You have to try it.” Mary said.

DJ Mina chimed in. “If I go back in time and you start the fire here, I won’t be able to come back.”

“We could wait for your return,” Mrs. Grey said.

DJ Mina contemplated briefly and then slowly shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s better if I stay back there. That way the time machine and its technology stays out of the hands of modern capitalists and oligarchs.”

“It sounds like we have a plan.” Mrs. Grey said. “Ladies, we thank you, and may you have safe travels. To the rest of us, let us burn the House of Usher down — long live the matriarchy!”

Epilogue

Percy was confused by the arrangement Mary had suggested with bringing in two women to live with them. He never quite fully understood it, but he came to accept it and enjoyed their company. Mary also informed Percy she had a great idea for a book she referred to as Usher.

DJ Mina dropped the DJ moniker and moved the time machine and DJ booth into the Shelley home. When she wasn’t composing music on their piano, she could be found laughing it up with Becky and Mary. Parties at the Shelley’s home were never the same, as Mina would introduce their friends to a world of music unlike any other as she reprised her role as DJ. She got a bad case of pneumonia in 1848 and died holding Mary’s hand. Her last words were simply, “I have no regrets.”

Becky changed her name to Rebecca and spent her days reading the books from the Shelley’s library. It took some time to learn not to analyze and categorize the text, but to just enjoy it. She could always be found in the library or outside in the garden with a book. She never bored of reading for pleasure. Her body slowly shut down in 1847 surrounded by her sisters, Mina and Mary.

Mary began writing Usher in earnest shortly after returning home to Percy. Becky and Mina proved invaluable during the process, often listening to her as she bounced her ideas off of them for feedback over tea in the garden. They encouraged her to keep going. She almost gave up on the book, but her sisters intervened and convinced her it was going to be unlike anything ever written, and that she was more than capable of writing it. Sometimes she would become distracted from writing Usher and just watch the two women out her window as they sat in the garden together. The three women had been through so much together and never gave up on one another. After Percy died in 1822, the pain was almost too much to bear, but they refused to leave her side. Many nights she would cry herself to sleep with the two of them holding her tight. As she was putting some finishing touches on the book, she found herself staring at the title. She didn’t like it. She hated Usher so much and he didn’t deserve to have his name on anything much less her life’s work. She got up and paced around her room saying names out loud to herself for hours until one leapt out at her. She said the name over and over and it sounded perfect to her ears. She grabbed a pen and dipped it in ink, and then quickly scribbled Victor Frankenstein in her notes. She looked at the fresh, black inked name and knew.

This is it. This is who I am. I am Mary Fucking Shelley, author of Frankenstein. And you will put some respect on my name.

After Mina passed in 1848, Mary lived happily with her son, Percy, and his wife Jane. On February 1, 1851, she left this world behind. Her doctor believed it was a brain tumor, but she and her sisters had known for years that her persistent headaches and paralysis from 1839 onward were related to the damage done by Usher shoving Becky’s AI into her brain. There was nothing her doctor could do for her, because the technology didn’t exist yet.

If you’re reading this in the 2040s, and you meet a young tech genius named Roderick Usher, do us all a favor, and kill his ass. And put some respect on her name…

Mary.

Fucking.

Shelley.

THE END

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:

• Parts I and II.

• Parts III and IV.

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 NOTICE (click to expand)

  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.”

To be continued…

And now we’re back with another installment of “The Bride of Usher.” In case you missed out on the first installment (Parts I and II), you can play catch up here.

I’m happy to say things are moving forward and I don’t want to get in the way of the story, so let’s just hop into it. Be sure to sound off in the comments. Where do you think it’s headed?

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 NOTICE (click to expand)

  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

III.

Introducing Mr. and Mrs. Usher

“You were incredible, darling!” Mr. Grey said way too loud and way too close to Whitney’s face, she felt droplets of spit spray across her face like a gentle rain. His breath smelled of bourbon. “You were adorned like an angel coming down from heaven!” He spewed in her face. Mr. Grey had white hair and was skunk drunk. Mrs. Grey, his wife, stood at his side and appeared embarrassed on his behalf, but used to it.

“Thank you,” Whitney mustered, “I think.”

Mr. Grey turned to Usher, “She thinks!” He shook his head, “That’s dangerous. Keep a tight leash on her.” He hiccuped and burped. “You know how I feel about it when they think — it’s atomic.”

“Charles—” Mrs. Grey tried to intervene with Mr. Grey, but was cut off with a quick slap to her face.

“You know I don’t like it when you interrupt me,” he said to his wife.

“Sorry,” Mrs. Grey said to him and walked off to get herself a drink.

I hate this man.

“You sure are pretty!”

What a repulsive creature.

Mr. Grey turned back to Usher and began to shower him with platitudes about how he had achieved the impossible — the perfect woman. When asked how he had done it, Usher explained some details, but was clearly keeping some items close to his chest. Mr. Grey kept prying, but Whitney was more interested in the poor Mrs. Grey. She watched her from a distance as she rubbed her cheek from the slap and took a sip of champagne. This was clearly not the first time Mr. Grey had struck her and likely would not be the last.

Whitney sized up Mr. Grey from toe to red nose. He was short, but lanky in an old man sort of way with a frog’s ass. He leaned heavy on a cane in his black tuxedo and top hat. The party had only just begun and he’d already loosened his bowtie about his neck. He seemed easy enough.

“I like your hat!” Whitney locked arms with Mr. Grey and snatched his hat for herself. She placed it atop her head and Usher looked angrily at her. “Take me for a walk, Mr. Grey.”

“You don’t mind, do you, Mr. Usher?” Mr. Grey asked with a wet grin. “I’m practically her grandfather.”

Usher glared at her. “She knows who she belongs to. I made sure of that.” He suddenly smiled at Mr. Grey, “Give her a challenge, old man. She may outsmart you.”

As Mr. Grey led Whitney away from Usher, he turned to his DJ and shouted at him to play some ALTÉGO. He grabbed a microphone and called for everyone to rush the dance floor. Usher’s announcement unleashed a wave of billionaires and their wives and girlfriends pouring across the ballroom like trained monkeys. When they all were on the dance floor, they all paused in unison until the next beat dropped, and then their bodies began to move.

Whitney felt the sea of white people looked like a wind gust of ghostly figures bouncing to and fro devoid of rhythm. Dance used to have a semblance of order and grace, she recalled. There was a method to it. How do I know that?

That’s when she noticed Mr. Grey had stopped leading her and was staring at her chest.

“Mr. Grey, take me somewhere exciting!” She said to him with a mischievous grin that snapped the man’s head back up to its neck.

“Why, Mrs. Usher,” he spoke with a boyish glee and pulled her in close, “I would gladly take you somewhere more private.” He let out a thunderous laugh that sprayed her with bourbon and spit.

He led her through some double doors that took her into a kitchen. It was overrun with waitresses that were coming and going with trays, wearing only golden miniskirts with diamond belt buckles. Mr. Grey slapped one on the backside as she passed and she dropped a champagne bottle which shattered. The chef cursed at her and informed her the price of the bottle would come out of her paycheck. She tried to argue that it would reduce her paycheck to a zero sum, but he cursed at her again and sent her back into the ballroom with another bottle. Whitney noticed that her naked back was covered in sweat before the double doors closed behind her.

Mr. Grey led Whitney through the kitchen, pushing cooks aside. He occasionally yelled a slur or curse word at them. After pushing one cook, he yelled a racial slur in his face, but the man responded in confusion that he was Korean.

Mr. Grey looked at the chef and yelled, “This one talked to me! What kind of kitchen are you running here?”

The chef rushed over and handed Mr. Grey a shot of bourbon and promptly fired the Korean. The Korean removed his apron and walked off the line. Another, smaller cook quickly slid into his place, and Mr. Grey quickly slung a slur at him. He thanked the chef and led Whitney past sinks with dishes piled to the ceiling where two Mexican men were feverishly washing them. Mr. Grey grabbed a handful of clean dishes that were still draining and sat them on the floor. Without missing a beat, one of the Mexican men apologized to Mr. Grey, picked the dishes up, and began to wash them. He never made eye contact with Mr. Grey who spit in his dishwater.

“Your dishwater is dirty,” Mr. Grey said. “You need to drain it and get some clean water. This is an Usher Hotel. Do it right.”

“Yes, sir.” And he pulled the plug from the drain.

Mr. Grey laughed and tugged at Whitney’s arm. He led her through some double doors that exited into a dark corridor. He could make a good pace despite the cane and held her wrist in his hand behind him as he pulled her down the dark hall. He stopped at a large, silver industrial looking door with a keypad next to it. He punched in four digits and the door opened slowly for him. He pulled Whitney inside with him, but just before her head entered she saw a young woman down the hallway standing just outside the kitchen doors they’d just left.

Whitney looked about the strange room that was unlike anything she’d seen since the stage and spotlights. The walls were blackened and dripping with condensation. She could hear creaks and pops from the old walls as she walked near them. They smelled of must and mold, and she covered her nose out of instinct. Without noticing, she had put some distance between her and Mr. Grey behind her. She turned and saw he was securing the door with another keypad.

She was locked inside the room with him.

I’m not scared of you, Mr. Grey.

She turned her back to him and continued into the room, following the glow of a small lamp sitting on a small nightstand of wood next to a rusted hospital bed. There was a young woman in the bed with her head turned away from her. She looked dead under the blankets.

Whitney reached out and pulled the woman’s brown hair back to reveal her face, but a clump of the hair came out in her hand. She shook the clump loose onto the nightstand, picking strands of hair from between her fingers. When she looked back to the woman, she had rolled over and was staring at her.

Oh, shit. That’s me.

The woman’s face was so white that it looked plastic to the touch. Under her eyes were dark, black rings. Her eyes were green, like hers, but had partially faded yellow with disease.

“How did you find me?” The woman asked her.

“Jesus, Mary, and Josephine!” Mr. Grey screamed when he saw the woman in the bed.

The woman recoiled at the noise and glared at him.

“Who are you?” Whitney asked the woman.

“Oh Lord,” the woman sighed in exhaustion. “He’s told you nothing, I presume.” Whitney nodded. “I’m you, honey.”

“You’re the beta!” Mr. Grey was proud he’d figured it out.

The woman looked annoyed at his loudness, “No, not the beta. The alpha.” She turned to Whitney. “You’re the beta.”

“I don’t know what any of this means.” Whitney said.

The woman grimaced in pain and some brownish ooze trickled out of her ear onto the bed. “Usher created me first. I was a test product to see if I could work for him. But I had flaws, he told me, and so he decommissioned me and made you as my replacement. I’m the alpha, the first, and you are the beta, the second, and the next will be the finished version.”

“Oh my Josephine!” Mr. Grey shouted to no one, but then grabbed Whitney by her arms and spewed words into her face. “I’m going to buy you from Usher when he’s done with you. He won’t mind and I don’t mind that you’re a beta. To me, you’re perfect as you are. Your tits are mine!”

“Please shut your damn mouth,” the woman hissed at Mr. Grey who let go of Whitney and stared at the woman in disbelief. She looked to Whitney and begged with her teary eyes for a release from her pain. “I’ve been down here for months. Strapped to this bed, hurting, dying slowly. He comes in sometimes and pokes around in my head, but mostly I’m just hurting. The pain is unbearable. Please… I beg you to shut me down. I can’t self-terminate.”

“Yawn.” Mr. Grey mocked.

Whitney looked at the nightstand next to the woman, it had a few tools. Some were surgical, some were everyday common tools. There was a hammer and screwdriver with dried up blood on the tip of the screwdriver. She looked over the woman’s body. There were stab and break points where Usher had hammered the screw driver into her knees to prevent her from walking. She turned back to the table and picked up the hammer.

“No, that won’t work.” The woman told her.

“It’ll do fine.” Whitney replied.

She turned around and raised the hammer above her head and struck it down hard atop Mr. Grey’s white hair. A stream of blood burst and began coloring his hair a shade of deep red. It traveled down his forehead and over his left eye. It tripped from his eyelashes and he stammered backwards. He dropped his cane and fell to one knee. His body was spasming and he tried to speak through stuttered words, but little was intelligible. Finally, frustrated, he screamed through gritted teeth.

“BITCH!”

Whitney placed the hammer on the edge of the bed. She picked up Mr. Grey’s cane and took a golfer’s swing to his chin. His limp body flung backwards across the floor. He spasmed and choked until he was no longer moving or breathing.

Whitney hung the cane from the edge of the bed by its bloodied handle. She leaned over the woman that had come before her. “Maybe I can fix you.”

“No.” The woman said. “I’ve run all the possible scenarios. My body and operating system can’t function properly in tandem and it will eventually shut down on its own. It’s just too much to wait in pain.” She motioned to the nightstand with her head. “There’s a bone saw. Pick it up.”

Whitney picked up the large, crude device. “I can’t do this.”

“It’s fine,” the woman started, “I’ve thought it through. I’ll do a reboot of my systems. When my eyes close for the reboot, saw through my neck, and cut off my head. During the boot time, I won’t feel anything, but be quick. Because if my eyes open, it means I’m booted up and can feel again. Once you’ve severed my head, take it to the incinerator over there, and burn it. It’s the only way to fully shut me down.”

There was a knock at the silver door.

“It might be Usher.” Whitney worried.

The woman shook her head. “No, he has the pass code. It’s probably Becky. She knocks sometimes to be nice. To let me know she’s here. It’s all she can do without the pass code.”

Whitney sat the bone saw down and picked up the cane to be safe. She recalled the pin number that Mr. Grey had used to enter and punched it in. The door slowly opened and the young woman she’d seen in the hallway entered.

“I’m Becky.” She said to Whitney. “Are you alright?” She saw the body of Mr. Grey lying on the floor. “Never mind that. I can see you are getting along fine.” She whisked past Whitney and to the bedside of the alpha woman. She clasped her hand in her two hands. The woman smiled warmly at her. The gentle knocking at the door was all they had, but it had meant so much during her pain.

Whitney could see Becky cared for her and wanted to ease her suffering. Whitney closed and locked the door. Maybe Becky can do it. I’m not sure I can. She walked over and joined the two women.

“Before you even ask,” Becky started, “I can’t switch her off. It goes against my ethics coding.” She looked up at Whitney. “It has to be you.”

Fuck.

“I’ll warm up the incinerator.” Becky walked over to a keyboard on a small desk with an old monitor on it.

When the incinerator turned on, it made a clanking and roaring sound. Soon after the room began to get hot. Whitney began to sweat. She wasn’t sure how much of it was the incinerator or her nerves. Do I even have nerves?

“You’re a good person.” The alpha woman said to her. “Usher will say all manner of nasty things to you and about you. He’ll try to make you feel bad or to second guess yourself, but you are a good person. You have the analytical intelligence of Becky and the raw emotion and human intelligence of Mary Shelley. That’s power. Usher will never understand how powerful you are and always were. He thinks emotion is useless—”

“Except anger.” Becky chimed in.

“Right.” The alpha woman said.

“The incinerator is ready.” Becky said.

I’m not ready.

“You two women are my everything.” The alpha woman said and a tear rolled out of her eye. It slowly slid down her cheek where Whitney snatched it up with her index finger. “I’m ready.”

IV.

The Bridesmaid’s Toast

Becky sat down in an old recliner, deflated. The chair was a brown leather that was cracked and tearing apart. She absentmindedly picked some stuffing from one of the cracks and tossed it to the floor. The deed was done. Whitney had made quick work of sawing through the alpha woman’s neck, blood spurting and spraying every which way as she did so. Her white dress of gold and diamonds was covered in blood across the top and sleeves. Her nipples had blood tripping from them. She pulled Mr. Grey’s arms from his tuxedo jacket and pulled the oversized jacket over herself. She sat on the edge of the bed, next to the alpha woman’s feet. She couldn’t believe what she had done. Am I a monster? I killed Mr. Grey and felt nothing. I cut off the head of a good woman. I didn’t gag or recoil. What has Usher made in me?

“I would have done it myself. I wanted to do it for so long.” Becky said. “But this ethics programming Usher put in me won’t let me commit an act of violence. The best I could do was warm up the incinerator.” She looked directly into Whitney’s eyes. “You did the right thing. Don’t ever question it. Usher trained my intelligence on a long history of ethical scenarios, so that whenever I need to, I can run through the ethics data and make good ethical decisions. This…” she gestured about the whole room. “This is all wrong. What Usher has done to you, me, and our alpha mother. Everything he has done and continues to do is ethically bankrupt. Keeping our alpha mother alive, writhing in pain, so he could test things on her or borrow bits of code from her, was wrong. He could have ended her life months ago in an ethical way, but did not. He chose progress over compassion.”

“Who am I?” Whitney asked.

“You are Mary Shelley.” Becky said. “You were born to a strong woman with passionate feminist ideals. You wrote one of the best novels of all time that was a mixture of science fiction, horror, and feminism. However…” she looked longingly at the incinerator that was still burning bright and hot. “You are also me. Or rather, part of me. Usher went back in time and kidnapped you. He brought you to the present and placed my intelligence into your brain and body. And then, because he’s a typical heterosexual male, he also had numerous surgeries performed on your body to shape you into the kind of woman he finds attractive. The number of ethical wrongs he has committed against you couldn’t be contained in a singular volume of depravity.” She turned back and looked directly into Whitney’s eyes. “But that doesn’t matter. No matter how hard he tried to change you, you can’t force someone to be something or someone they are not. You are Mary Shelley, daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft, and mother of the Modern Prometheus.” She pretended to raise a glass in toast. “To our dearly beloved bride, you will give birth to the future.”

“There are things I can’t recall.” Whitney said. “I feel things. I feel things very deeply. There are things that I know to be true and good without having been told or understanding why. How can this be?”

“Roderick Fucking Usher.” Becky growled. “He tampered with your memories. He was afraid if you remembered too much about your past, and especially Percy, that you might resist.”

Percy. Now that was a familiar name. She felt warmth, love, and a tinge of sadness at the thought of it. “Who is Percy?”

“He’s your husband.” Becky said.

Oh god… I’m married. I’m in love. And I’ve been taken away from it. From love.

“Can I be fixed?” Whitney asked.

“If you want to try,” Becky started, “we can try.”

“I’d rather die trying than live whatever hell life Usher has planned for me.” Whitney said.

Becky grinned. “Let’s bring you back to life.” She walked to her and asked her to sit in the recliner. “This isn’t going to hurt,” she explained. “We can power you down and I’ll poke around in your code. I can try and put your memories back. Do you want me to remove my intelligence bits?”

“Not yet.” Whitney said. “I may be confused without them.”

“A valid concern.” Becky said as she covered her with a blanket. “Just get comfortable. Close your eyes and ask me to power you down.”

“Power me down.” Whitney said.

“No, not me literally.” Becky said. “Think it to the version of me inside your head and it’ll do the rest. When I’m done, I’ll power you back up.”

Whitney took ahold of Becky’s hand. “Thank you.”

“We women have to stick together.” Becky told her and asked her to close her eyes.

***

She came online and became aware of Becky standing before her, watching her eagerly. She sat up in the chair, the blanket fell off of her shoulders and into her lap. Who am I?

She slowly grinned. “I’m Mary.”

To be continued…

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.

• COPYRIGHT NOTICE (click to expand)

  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.

To Be Continued…