It's a cold and rainy day here on East Mountain--a day representing a radical change from the warm, spring-like conditions we enjoyed just yesterday. As we transition into the warmer months of the year, which will eventually bring upon us long days of intense sunshine and relentless heat, it's nice to hearken back to those gloomy winter afternoons of not so long ago when a mix of dark music, a horror story and a cup of tea were the order of the day.
It's been a busy couple of weeks for me and between re-writing a story for possible publication and addressing life's every-day issues, I really haven't had much time to add anything new here. Instead and as a filler, I thought I would post one of my favorite Edgar Allan Poe stories here for your reading pleasure.
The Tell-Tale Heart, published in 1850, shows Poe at his very best; at least in my opinion. I hope that you'll enjoy this story as much as I have.
The Tell-Tale Heart - by Edgar Allan Poe
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.
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.
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. Oh, you would have laughed to see how
cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly - very, very slowly, so that
I might not disturb the old man's sleep. It took me an hour to place my
whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay
upon his bed. 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.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually
cautious in opening the door. A watch's minute hand moves more quickly
than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own
powers - of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of
triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little,
and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly
chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed
suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back - but no.
His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the
shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew
that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on
steadily, steadily.
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. I knew the sound well.
Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled
up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors
that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt,
and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been
lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the
bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying
to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself -
"It is nothing but the wind in the chimney - it is only a mouse
crossing the floor," or "It is merely a cricket which has made a single
chirp." Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these
suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death,
in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and
enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the
unperceived shadow that caused him to feel - although he neither saw nor
heard - to feel the presence of my head within the room.
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.
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 scarcely breathed. I held the lantern
motionless. 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! The old man's hour
had come! 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.
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!
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.
No doubt I now grew _very_ pale; - but I talked
more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased -
and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound - much such a sound
as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. 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 END-
The stories of Edgar Allan Poe are currently in the public domain.
This post is dedicated to Sally. The truth of the matter is that I know hardly anything about her. About all I do know for sure is that her grave lies back in the nearby woods--abandoned, set several feet away from the other abandoned graves. But at least the others once had an enclosure of sorts--a fence defining a family plot. Sally's marker however, stands alone. It bears no last name and no epitaph. A shroud of mystery surrounds the person who once was known as Sally.
