The Tell Tale Heart

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THE TELL-TALE HEART

by Edgar Allan Poe

1843

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.