Tell-Tale Heart

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THE
TELL-TALE
HEART
BY
EDGAR ALLAN POE
COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Short Story: “The Tell-Tale Heart”
Author: Edgar Allan Poe, 1809–49
First published: 1843
The original short story is in the public domain in the
United States and in most, if not all, other countries as well.
Readers outside the United States should check their own
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download this e-story. The
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This PDF ebook was
created by José Menéndez.
T
RUE
!—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
3
4
THE TELL-TALE HEART
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;—
EDGAR ALLAN POE
5
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
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