Tell-Tale Heart

TRUE! --nervous --very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses --not destroyed --not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily --how calmly I can tell you the whole story.


The boy sat on his bed in the dark of a eerie silent summer night. He slowly opened the leather bound tome, knowing what macabre tales of horror and melancholy lay in them. He wanted to be thrilled, to be haunted, to be... alive. The pages fluttered gently in the still air, the boy's heart skipped a beat. He skimmed through the pages wondering which tale he should choose. Running his fingers absently along the spine of the book, his eyes suddenly caught something that was perfect for the night. A tale, of a tell-tale heart...


It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture --a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees --very gradually --I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.


As he read these lines, they seemed to take him or rather possess him in a certain way. Instantly he was carted away into a time when lamps lit the night and the wood of a door creaked. Where things still went bump in the night. The boy began to read the lines out aloud, to nobody in particular. He felt as if it was him telling the sordid tale... the tale of man who didn't know madness from sanity. The man who heard heaven and hell and lived to tell the tale until that one old man entered his life.


Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded --with what caution --with what foresight --with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it --oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously --cautiously (for the hinges creaked) --I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights --every night just at midnight --but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.


The boy's voice grew louder and bolder. Like an actor but also like a man who's very soul had been saturated with a madness that had consumed him. Sanity was no longer an option. In his mind's eye all he could see was that repulsive vulture eye and how the hatred filled the boy in his room. He retched and grunted as he read on louder and louder consuming and narrating the story at the same time. The old man was the one thing that was his end, he spoke on with nothing but the words on the yellow paper to guide him, slowly becoming more and more animated with each word. Telling the world, how he wanted to kill the old man and why it was wise of him to go about it as he had so far. He felt a deep soulful pain at the thought of speaking to the old man every morning. "Such a creature shouldnt be allowed to breathe." He said to himself as his his throat gulped to keep himself from regurgitating in sheer disgust. "I won't, I won't, I can't... I can't allow his eye to look at me any more... I CAN'T!!!!"


Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?" I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out --"Who's there?"
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; --just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall. Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe.When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little --a very, very little crevice in the lantern.


The boy smiled with mad glee... The old man feared him. He was in mortal terror and he the boy--- who had never before done anything that even resembled madness ever in his life--- had put that old man in that dreadful condition. "Yes, yes... he is afraid... he is so very afraid. Go on old man, feel the fear, for you are the reason for my madness. You and your vulture eye." And in all this anger he began to breathe hard. The words which were loud and confident until now suddenly became a stuttering shudder... he breathed the story into the room in quick gasps, the anger was consuming him. He wanted the old man to die of sheer fear... he shook from side to side as he uttered each word, telling others about his tale of madness. And as he did so a solitary tear trickled down the side of his face. The kind of tear that is so charged with anger that one doesn't even notice it. He knew it was soon going to be time... the time to...


So I opened it --you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily --until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.It was open --wide, wide open --and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness --all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? --now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man's terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! --do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me --the sound would be heard by a neighbour!


His eye... his disgusting dull blue eye... The boy shivered with a madness that he couldnt understand and slowly he began to hear that thumping.... resonating in every fiber of his being. The summer night was as still as can be and not a soul stirred that night, but the boy, so moved by the writers words, rocking back and forth in the self-consuming madness, heard the drum, he heard the distant drumming of the clock, enveloped in cotton. The boy began to panic, he sneaked peeks at the door every other instant, growing fearful, anxious, scared... insane. "The drumming... oh! the drumming of his heart!" He muttered feverishly in his sub-conscious mind as his fingers shivered over the black lines.
"The neighbours they'll hear me... they'll see my madness and they wont understand, they won't understand, they can't understand... no wait I have to... I have to do something." He looked around in panic, jerking his head from his left to his right and back to the worn page, reading each word as mortal fear consumed him... The neighbours...


With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once --once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.


The boy lunged forward with his bare fists and began pounding the air, the bed, the cotton from the pillows spewed forth generously as he finished the old man off... the drumming... it had to stop... it HAD to! He kept swallowing hard and looking at nothing in particular as a glazed look fell over his eyes, veiled in madness he had to finish what he had started. He can't let that heart beat any longer, the eye, the madness.. it has to stop. All of it, it has to stop. And then... abruptly... it did. The beating was no more. Sweat slowly dripped from his brow as he looked at the remains and breathed hard, the madness.. it was over. The eye... it was no more. Now he had to be shrewd. He had to do something about the old man...


If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye --not even his --could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out --no stain of any kind --no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all --ha! ha!


Yes, yes... the boy at thought of everything. Meticulously he cut open the body of the old man. Each arm, each leg slowly sliced and dismembered all the while maintaining an engineered precision, after all he was wise. There was no reason to fear he had been like a predator. Quiet, efficient and deadly. It was all over now. He giggled like a dizzy school-girl as the night hummed on. "I did it... that eye... Its no longer alive.. I , me, I did it!" He shook with a gleaming mad delight. HE was the genius. HE made the kill and HE would now deposit the body without so much as a whiff of a scuffle.



When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o'clock --still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, --for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled, --for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search --search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: --It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness --until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.


Ha! What could those stupid men know. The boy was the wise one. He was the one who so exquisitely executed the plan of finishing the old man. And he was the one who had so brilliantly deposited his body. The neighbour listening in was just pure co-incidence. They had no reason to suspect any foul play whatsoever. The men in uniform could be lead anywhere. Why he would even lead them to the very spot of the body. What could they possibly know. After all, he wasn't MAD... of course he wasnt.... but...the drumming... no... wait.... the drumming.... it can't be... he swallowed again and began to sweat, wait... no... how could it be. He spoke quicker... no no no... they can't... it can't. How? How? HOW?!

I gasped for breath --and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly --more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men --but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed --I raved --I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder --louder --louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! --no, no! They heard! --they suspected! --they knew! --they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now --again! --hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
"Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed! --tear up the planks! here, here! --It is the beating of his hideous heart!"

The panicked... he lied....ran, he screamed...and then he dove into the pillow and pulled out the beating heart... Crying hysterically he collapsed into his own lap in deep sobs. "How could they not hear? how could they mock me like that... am I mad? I must be mad... here here I won't lie any longer. I'm not as wise as I think... take this tell teale heart! I confess to my insanity... I confess." Slowly his sobbing ceased. The spinning world, came back into his view. The tears dried up. He look around and smiled. And then.... we pulled up the blanket and went to bed.


Thank you Mr.Poe for a great bedtime story.

For those of your who haven't read "Tell-tale heart" by Edgar Allen Poe, I recommend you read the original draft for I have taken a couple of liberties by editing the story. I couldnt possibly have done it any justice and I apologize in advance for the liberties I've taken. This post is just meant as a thank you to a man that has taught me and so many others what true emotion in writing is. Thank you again Mr.Poe.