The Tell-Tale Heart

You think I'm mad. I know you do. But I'm not. I'm just… nervous. Very, very nervous.

It’s a condition that hasn’t dulled my senses. It has sharpened them.

My hearing, above all, is acute. I can hear everything in heaven and on earth. I have even heard many things from hell. So how can I be mad?

Just listen. Listen to how calmly I can tell you the whole story.

I can’t say how the idea first entered my head. But once it was there, it haunted me day and night. There was no object, no passion. I loved the old man. He had never hurt me or insulted me.

I didn't want his gold. I think it was his eye. Yes, that was it.

One of his eyes looked like a vulture's—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it looked at me, my blood ran cold. And so, slowly, I made up my mind to kill the old man and rid myself of that eye forever.

This is the important part. You think I’m mad, but madmen know nothing. You should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I moved, with what caution and foresight I went to work. I was never kinder to the old man than during the week before I killed him.

Every night, around midnight, I would turn the latch on his door and open it so gently. When the opening was just big enough, I would put in a dark lantern, completely closed so no light escaped. Then I would thrust in my head. You would have laughed to see how cleverly I did it.

I moved it slowly, so slowly, so I wouldn’t disturb his sleep. It took me an hour to get my head far enough in to see him on his bed. Would a madman be so patient?

Then, I would undo the lantern, so cautiously—the hinges always creaked—just enough so a single thin ray of light fell upon the vulture eye. I did this for seven long nights. But the eye was always closed, so it was impossible to do the work. It wasn’t the old man who bothered me, but his Evil Eye.

Every morning, I would go boldly into his room and speak to him cheerfully, asking how he’d slept. He would have to have been a very profound old man to suspect that every night, at twelve, I looked in on him while he slept.

On the eighth night, I was even more cautious. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than mine did. I felt the extent of my own powers, my own cleverness. I could barely contain my feeling of triumph.

To think that I was there, opening his door, little by little, and he didn't even dream of my secret deeds. I chuckled at the idea.

Perhaps he heard me. He moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. You might think I drew back, but I didn't. His room was pitch black, with the shutters fastened tight, so I knew he couldn't see the door opening. I kept pushing it, steadily.

My head was in. I was about to open the lantern when my thumb slipped on the tin fastening. The old man sprang up in bed, crying out, "Who's there?"

I kept still and said nothing. For one full hour, I did not move a muscle, frozen in the sliver of open doorway as if I had turned to stone. In the crushing silence, my hearing sharpened further still. I could hear the dust settling on the furniture.

I could hear the frantic, pointless scuttling of a spider in the far corner of the room. But I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up, a rigid shape in the darkness, listening. He was listening just as I have done, night after night, to the tiny, patient ticking of the deathwatch beetles inside the walls, counting down the seconds of a life.

Then I heard a slight groan. I knew it was the groan of mortal terror, not of pain or grief. It was the low, stifled sound that comes from the bottom of a soul overloaded with awe.

I knew that sound well. Many nights, at midnight, it has risen from my own chest, its dreadful echo making the terrors that distracted me even deeper. I knew what the old man felt. I pitied him, though I chuckled inside.

He had been lying awake ever since the first small noise. He had been trying to tell himself it was nothing, just the wind or a mouse. But it was no use. Death had stalked him with its black shadow, and it was the influence of that unseen shadow that made him feel my presence in the room.

After waiting a long time, I decided to open a very, very little crevice in the lantern. I opened it so stealthily, until a single dim ray, like the thread of a spider, shot out and fell right on the vulture eye.

It was open. Wide open. I grew furious as I looked at it. I saw it with perfect clarity—all a dull blue, with a hideous film over it that chilled me to the bone. I could see nothing else of the old man’s face, for I had aimed the ray, as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.

Haven't I told you that what you mistake for madness is just my senses being overly sharp? Now, a low, dull, quick sound reached my ears, like a watch wrapped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It increased my fury, just as the beating of a drum gives a soldier courage.

But still, I held back. I barely breathed. I tried to hold the ray steady on the eye. Meanwhile, the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and louder every second.

The old man's terror must have been extreme. It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! Do you hear me? I told you I am nervous. And now, in the dead of night, in the dreadful silence of that old house, such a strange noise terrified me.

For a few minutes more, I stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. A new anxiety seized me—a neighbor would hear the sound! The old man's hour had come.

With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once. In an instant, I dragged him to the floor and pulled the heavy bed over him.

I smiled, the deed almost done. For many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. But this didn't bother me; it wouldn't be heard through the wall.

At last, it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. He was stone dead.

I placed my hand on his heart and held it there. No pulse. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If you still think I'm mad, you won't when I describe the wise precautions I took to hide the body. The night was ending, so I worked hastily, but in silence. First, I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head, the arms, and the legs.

I then took up three planks from the floor and hid the pieces in the space underneath. I replaced the boards so cleverly that no human eye could have seen anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out.

No stain, no blood-spot. I had been too careful for that. A tub had caught it all.

When I was done, it was four o’clock in the morning, still dark as midnight. As the bell rang the hour, someone knocked at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart. What did I have to fear?

Three men entered, introducing themselves politely as police officers. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor. Foul play was suspected. They had been sent to search the house.

I smiled. What did I have to fear? I welcomed them. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man was away in the country.

I took them all over the house and told them to search well. I led them, finally, to his room. I showed them his treasures, secure and undisturbed. In my confidence, I brought chairs into the room and asked them to rest. In the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, I placed my own seat on the very spot beneath which lay the corpse of my victim.

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was completely at ease.

They sat and chatted about familiar things. But soon, I felt myself getting pale and wished they would leave. My head ached, and I thought I heard a ringing in my ears. But still they sat and chatted.

The ringing became more distinct. I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling, but it continued. No doubt I grew very pale. I talked more fluently, my voice rising. But the sound increased.

What could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—like a watch wrapped in cotton. I gasped for breath, but the officers didn't hear it. I talked more quickly, more vehemently, but the noise steadily grew. I stood up and argued about trifles in a high key, with violent gestures, but the noise grew.

Why wouldn't they be gone? I paced the floor with heavy strides, but the noise only increased. Oh God! What could I do?

I foamed, I raved, I swore! I swung my chair and scraped it on the floorboards, but the noise rose over everything and kept increasing. It grew louder—louder—louder! And still, the men chatted pleasantly and smiled.

Was it possible they didn't hear? No, they heard! They suspected!

They knew! They were making a mockery of my horror! That’s what I thought then, and that’s what I think now. But anything was better than this agony.

Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could not bear those hypocritical smiles any longer! I felt that I must scream or die! And now—again!

Hark! Louder! Louder! LOUDER!

"Villains!" I shrieked, "stop this game! I admit the deed!

Tear up the planks! Here, here! It is the beating of his hideous heart!"