The Tell Tale Heart - Suspense Story

The Tell Tale Heart

EDGAR ALLAN POE 

Edgar Allan Poe

The Tell Tale Heart is a great suspense and darkness Story. 

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! One of his eyes resembled that 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 for ever. 

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, so 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 had 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 the 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 has 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 single 

dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the 

crevice and 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 now have I not told you that what you mistake for 

madness is but over-acuteness of the senses?—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 eye. 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 neighbor! 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.

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer 

when I describe the wise precautions I took for the 

concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked 

hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I 

cut off the head and the arms and the legs. 

I then took up three planks from the flooring of the 

chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then 

replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human 

eye—not even his—could have detected any thing wrong. 

There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no 

blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had 

caught all—ha! ha! 

When I had made an end of these labors, it was four 

o’clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the 

hour, there came a knocking 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 introduced themselves, with 

perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been 

heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play 

had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police 

office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the 

premises. 

I smiled,—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen 

welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The 

old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my 

visitors all over the house. I bade them search—search well. 

I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his 

treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my 

confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them 

here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild 

audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the 

very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. 

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced 

them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while  I   answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere 

long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My 

head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they 

sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct:—it 

continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to 

get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained 

definitiveness—until, at length, I found that the noise was 

not within my ears. 

No doubt I now grew very pale;—but I talked more 

fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound 

increased—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick 

sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when 

enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers 

heard it not. I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but 

the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, 

in a high key and with violent gesticulations, but the noise 

steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the 

floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by 

the observation of the men—but the noise steadily increased. 

Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I

swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it 

upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually 

increased. It grew louder—louder—louder! And still the 

men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they 

heard not? Almighty God!—no, no! They heard!—they 

suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery of 

my horror!—this I thought, and this I think. But any thing 

was better than this agony! Any thing was more tolerable 

than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no 

longer! I felt that I must scream or die!—and now—again!—

hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!— 

“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the 

deed!—tear up the planks!—here, here!—it is the beating of 

his hideous heart!”