DimensionBucket reads the classic story by Edgar Allan Poe, sure to put you on the edge of your seat in suspense. Our narrator tells the story of how he murdered an old man, to put an end to his maddening eye.
True! Nervous -- very, very nervous I had been and am! But why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses -- not destroyed them.
Above all was the sense of hearing. I heard all
things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in the underworld.
How, then, am I mad? Observe how healthily -- how calmly I can tell you the
whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea
entered my brain. 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 bird, a vulture -- a pale blue
eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell on me, my blood ran cold; and so --
very slowly -- I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and free
myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You think that I am mad.
Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how
wisely and carefully I went to work!
I was never kinder to the old man than during
the whole week before I killed him. And every night, late at night, I turned
the lock of his door and opened it – oh, so gently! And then, when I had made
an opening big enough for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all
closed that no light shone out, and then I stuck in my head. I moved it slowly,
very slowly, so that I might not interfere with the old man's sleep. And then,
when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern just so much that a
single thin ray of light fell upon the vulture eye.
And this I did for seven long nights -- but I
found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it
was not the old man who was a problem for me, but his Evil Eye.
On the eighth night, I was more than usually
careful in opening the door. I had my head in and was about to open the
lantern, when my finger slid on a piece of metal and made a noise. The old man
sat up in bed, crying out "Who's there?"
I kept still and said nothing. I did not move a
muscle for a whole hour. During that time, I did not hear him lie down. He was
still sitting up in the bed listening -- just as I have done, night after
night.
Then I heard a noise, and I knew it was the
sound of human terror. It was the low sound that arises from the
bottom of the soul. I knew the sound well. Many a night, late at night, when
all the world slept, it has welled up from deep within my own
chest. I say I knew it well.
I knew what the old man felt, and felt sorry for
him, although I laughed to myself. I knew that he had been lying awake ever
since the first noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever
since growing upon him.
When I had waited a long time, without hearing
him lie down, I decided to open a little -- a very, very little -- crack in the
lantern. So I opened it. You cannot imagine how carefully, carefully. Finally,
a single ray of light shot from out and fell full upon the vulture eye.
It was open -- wide, wide open -- and I grew
angry as I looked at it. I saw it clearly -- all a dull blue, with a horrible veil
over it that chilled my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man's
face or person. For I had directed the light exactly upon the damned spot.
And have I not told you that what you mistake
for madness is but a kind of over-sensitivity? Now, there came to my ears a
low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when inside a piece of cotton. I
knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man's heart. It
increased my anger.
But even yet I kept still. I hardly breathed. I
held the lantern motionless. I attempted to keep the ray of light upon the eye.
But the beating of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder
and louder every second. The old man's terror must have been extreme! The
beating grew louder, I say, louder every moment!
And now at the dead hour of the night, in the
horrible silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to
uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I stood still. But the
beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst.
And now a new fear seized me -- the sound would
be heard by a neighbor! The old man's hour had come! With a loud shout, I threw
open the lantern and burst into the room.
He cried once -- once only. Without delay, I
forced him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled, to
find the action so far done.
But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a
quiet sound. This, however, did not concern me; it would not be heard through
the wall. At length, it stopped. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and
examined the body. I placed my hand over his heart and held it there many
minutes. There was no movement. 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 steps I took for hiding the body. I worked
quickly, but in silence. First of all, I took apart the body. I cut off the
head and the arms and the legs.
I then took up three pieces of wood from the
flooring, and placed his body parts under the room. I then replaced the wooden
boards so well that no human eye -- not even his -- could have seen anything
wrong.
There was nothing to wash out -- no mark of any
kind -- no blood whatever. I had been too smart for that. A tub had caught all
-- ha! ha!
When I had made an end of these labors, it was
four o'clock in the morning. As a clock sounded the hour, there came a noise 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 said they were officers of the
police. A cry had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of a
crime had been aroused; information had been given at the police office, and
the officers had been sent to search the building.
I smiled -- for what had I to fear? The cry, I
said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I said, was not in the country. I
took my visitors all over the house. I told them to search -- search well. I led
them, at length, to his room. I brought chairs there, and told them to rest. I
placed my own seat upon the very place under which lay the body of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. I was completely at
ease. They sat, and while I answered happily, they talked of common things.
But, after a while, I felt myself getting weak and wished them gone. My head
hurt, and I had a ringing in my ears; but still they sat and talked.
The ringing became more severe. I talked more
freely to do away with the feeling. But it continued until, at length, I found
that the noise was not within my ears.
I talked more and with a heightened voice. Yet
the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound
like a watch makes when inside a piece of cotton. I had trouble breathing --
and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly -- more loudly; but
the noise increased. I stood up and argued about silly things, in a high voice
and with violent hand movements. But the noise kept increasing.
Why would they not be gone? I walked across the
floor with heavy steps, as if excited to anger by the observations of the men
-- but the noise increased. What could I do? I swung my chair and moved it upon
the floor, but the noise continually increased. It grew louder -- louder --
louder! And still the men talked pleasantly, and smiled.
Was it possible they heard not? No, no! They
heard! They suspected! They knew! They were making a joke of my horror! This I
thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this pain! I could bear
those smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! And now -- again!
Louder! Louder! Louder!
"Villains!" I cried, "Pretend no
more! I admit the deed! Tear up the floor boards! Here, here! It is the beating
of his hideous heart!"
You have heard the story "The Tell-Tale
Heart" by Edgar Allan Poe. Your storyteller was Shep O'Neal. This story
was adapted by Shelley Gollust. It was produced by Lawan Davis.
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Words in This Story
nervous - adj. often or easily becoming
worried and afraid about what might happen
underworld - n. the place where dead people go in Greek myths
vulture - n. any one of several large birds that eat dead
animals and have a small and featherless head
lantern - n. a light that has usually a glass covering and
that can be carried by a handle
terror- n. a very strong feeling of fear
well - v. to rise to a surface and flow out — usually +
up
horrible - adj. very bad or unpleasant