Echoes of a Guilty Heart

I never meant to kill him.

He was a quiet man, meticulous in everything he did, with a house that smelled of old wood and order. I rented the upstairs room from him. He never pried. Never scolded. Never shouted. But every evening, when he retired to his study, that eye…

That eye haunted me.

It wasn’t that it looked at me often. No, it hardly ever did. But when it did—when it passed over me—it didn’t blink. A glassy, pale iris like milk left out too long. Clouded. Cold. It made my skin crawl, made my breath catch, made my thoughts twist.

And in that twisting, something awful began to bloom.

I began to hear things.

First, I thought it was the ticking of his grandfather clock echoing through the vents. Then I thought perhaps it was my own heart. But no, this beat came from elsewhere. It was wet. Rhythmic. Uneven. Thump... thump... thump...

It happened every night, precisely at midnight, when the house was still and the old man asleep.

I would lie awake, hands over my ears, as the sound echoed louder. It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. But neither could that eye be natural. That cursed eye watched, even when it was closed.

I stopped sleeping.

Each morning, I watched him descend the stairs, shaking his kettle, his slippers dragging softly. I knew his habits well. Too well. My mind cataloged every gesture, every breath.

One night, the thumping grew so loud I fled my bed, pacing in the dark. I ended up outside his door. His room was quiet. Too quiet.

I stood there, trembling. My breath steamed the brass doorknob. I turned it slowly. I only meant to look, to see. But once inside, I found myself watching him sleep.

And then the eye opened.

Only halfway. Just enough.

I don’t know when the pillow found its way into my hands. Or how it ended up over his face. But when the thrashing stopped, when the room returned to stillness—I didn’t feel horror. I felt relief.

The eye would never open again.

But then came the sound.

That awful, cursed sound.

Thump... thump... thump...

I froze.

It came from beneath the bed.

In a panic, I pulled up the mattress, tore the slats apart—nothing. Still, the sound grew louder. I couldn’t bury the body in the woods; people would ask questions. So I chose the basement.

Behind the furnace, under the coal pile—I dug.

I wrapped him tightly and buried him deep. Layer after layer of black soot and ash covered the body. I stood back, sweating, my shirt clinging to my chest.

Silence.

Finally.

For two days, I walked like a free man. Ate. Slept. Smiled.

Then, on the third night, it returned.

At first, just a faint murmur. Like water dripping from a leaky faucet.

Then: thump... thump... thump...

My ears rang. My vision darkened at the edges. I tore through the basement. Nothing. I pounded the walls, checked the vents, opened the furnace. Still, it beat on—relentless and mocking.

It was his heart.

It had not stopped.

I laughed, at first. Then screamed. Then sobbed. No one heard. No one came. That’s when I knew: it wasn’t the heart I buried that haunted me—it was mine.

Each beat was a hammer blow of guilt.

I couldn’t leave the house. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. The neighbors must have noticed the smell. They called the police. They arrived on a gray morning, their shoes wet with dew. I let them in, offered them tea. They said it was just a check-in.

I played the part well.

They sat in the lounge. I smiled. Nodded. Even joked. But behind their words, beneath their laughter, I heard it again.

Thump... thump... thump...

I talked louder. Louder still. The tea spilled from my hand.

“Is everything alright, sir?” one of them asked.

I snapped.

I screamed. I confessed. I pointed to the coal pile, shrieking, “There! There he is! Don’t you hear it? That sound! It won’t stop!”

They pulled me back as I clawed at the basement floor with bloodied nails.

Now, I sit in a room with padded walls.

They say I imagined it. That there was no sound. That his heart stopped the moment I killed him.

But I know the truth.

I still hear it.

Thump... thump... thump...

And I always will.

Moral of the Story:

“A guilty conscience is louder than any sound. What we bury in silence, the mind will unearth in madness.”