The Tell-Tale Heart

I am not mad. Do not call me mad. Madmen cannot plan with such care, such precision. Madmen act in chaos. But I, I knew what I was doing. Every move, every thought, was deliberate.

You see, I loved the old man. He had never wronged me, never spoken a cruel word, never denied me anything. But his eye… that pale, film-covered, vulture’s eye. Whenever it fixed upon me, a chill spread through my bones. It was not him I hated—it was the eye. That one, terrible, inhuman eye.

So I decided he must die.

For seven long nights, I crept into his room at the stroke of midnight. Slowly, ever so slowly, I opened his door until only a sliver of light from my lantern fell across him. But each time, the eye was closed. And if the eye was closed, how could I strike? No, it was the eye I wanted, not the man.

On the eighth night, fortune—or fate—gave me what I sought.

I slipped into his chamber, and my hand trembled as I slid open the lantern. A faint creak awakened him. He stirred. His voice, cracked with age, asked into the darkness, “Who’s there?”

I did not answer. I stood there, silent, holding my breath. Minutes passed, heavy as hours. The old man sat up in his bed, listening, frightened. Then, at last, his eye opened. Wide. Pale. A ghastly orb staring straight at me.

The rage surged within me. My heart pounded. A terrible echo filled my ears—not my heart, but his. Thump. Thump. Louder, faster, desperate. He knew death was upon him. The fear in that sound drove me to act.

With a sudden cry, I rushed upon him. He shrieked once, but I dragged him to the floor and pulled the heavy bed over his frail body. The thumping grew louder, then weaker, then stopped. Silence. He was dead.

Quickly, carefully, I worked. I dismembered him, limb by limb, smiling at my own cleverness. No blood, no mess—I was too skillful for that. I pried up the floorboards and tucked the pieces beneath. When I pressed the boards back down, not a single stain remained. No one would ever know.

Morning came, and with it, a knock at the door. Three policemen entered. A neighbor had heard a scream. I welcomed them warmly, even cheerfully. I showed them every room, explaining the old man was away. My manner disarmed them.

We sat together in the very room of the deed. I placed chairs over the spot where the body lay hidden. I was confident, even arrogant. We spoke casually. I laughed. I joked.

But then…

A sound.

Soft, faint, distant. At first, I told myself it was my imagination. But it grew. A low, steady beat. Thump. Thump.

I smiled and continued to speak louder. The officers looked at me curiously but said nothing. The sound rose again. Louder. Thump. Thump.

It was his heart. His heart, still beating beneath the floorboards.

I talked faster, my words tumbling. The men sat calmly, yet the sound hammered in my ears. Louder! Louder! My temples throbbed. Sweat drenched my skin. I paced, I raved, I shouted. Still the thumping grew.

They smiled. They did not hear it. But I did. Oh, God, I did!

It was unbearable. It was agony. At last, in a frenzy, I shrieked:

“Yes! Yes, I killed him! Tear up the boards! Here, here—it is the beating of his hideous heart!”

And in that instant, the sound stopped. Only silence remained, and with it, the ruin of my own mind.