[adapted]

by Edgar Allan Poe

It’s true! I have been very, very nervous—terribly nervous. But why do you say that I am crazy? My illness has made my senses sharper—not weaker, not damaged. Most of all, my hearing became extremely sharp. I could hear everything in heaven and on earth. I even heard many things from hell. So how can you say that I am mad? Listen carefully and see how calmly and clearly I can tell you the whole story.

I cannot say exactly when the idea first entered my mind, but once it did, I could not stop thinking about it. I had no real reason for it. I was not angry. I loved the old man. He had never hurt me, never insulted me. I did not want his money. I think it was his eye! Yes, that was it! He had an eye like a vulture—a pale blue eye with a cloudy film over it. Whenever his eye looked at me, I felt a cold chill in my blood. And so, little by little—very slowly and carefully—I decided that I would take the old man’s life. That way, I would be free of the eye forever.

Now, this is the important part. You think I am mad. But madmen know nothing. You should have seen me! You should have seen how carefully I planned everything—how cautious I was—how cleverly I hid my intentions! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him.

Every night, at exactly midnight, I slowly turned the lock on his door and gently opened it. Oh, so carefully! When I had made a small opening, just big enough for my head, I pushed in a dark lantern—one that was completely closed so that no light could escape. Then, I stuck my head inside. Oh, you would have laughed to see how sneaky I was! I moved my head so slowly—so very, very slowly—so that I would not wake him up. It took me a whole hour just to get my head inside far enough to see him as he lay in bed. Ha! Would a madman be so careful and wise?

Once my head was fully inside the room, I gently opened the lantern—oh, so carefully! So carefully! (Because the hinges creaked.) I opened it just a tiny bit—just enough for a single thin ray of light to shine onto his vulture eye. I did this for seven long nights—every night, exactly at midnight. But every time, the eye was closed, and so I could not do what I had planned. Because it was not the old man who troubled me, but his Evil Eye.

And every morning, as soon as the sun rose, I went boldly into his room and spoke to him cheerfully, calling him by name in a friendly voice and asking how he had slept. So you see, he would have had to be a very smart old man to even suspect that every night, exactly at twelve, I was watching him while he slept.

On the eighth night, I was even more careful than before while opening the door. The minute hand of a watch moves faster than I did. Never before had I felt so confident in my own skill—so clever and powerful. I could barely contain my feelings of victory. Imagine! There I was, slowly opening the door bit by bit, and he had no idea of my secret plans or thoughts.

I even let out a quiet laugh at the thought—but maybe he heard me. Suddenly, he moved in his bed, as if he had been startled. Now, you may think that I pulled back in fear—but no, I did not. His room was as dark as pitch, completely black, because the shutters were shut tight out of fear of robbers. So, I knew he couldn’t see the door slowly opening, and I continued to push it open—slowly, steadily, carefully.

I had my head inside the room and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped on the metal latch. Instantly, the old man jumped up in bed and called out, “Who’s there?”

I stayed completely still and said nothing. For a whole hour, I did not move a single muscle. I listened carefully, but I never heard him lie back down. He was still sitting up in bed, listening—just as I had done many nights before, when I had listened to the faint ticking sounds of insects in the walls, thinking they were warnings of death.

After a while, I heard a soft groan, and I knew it was a groan of pure terror. It was not a groan of pain or sadness—oh no!—it was a low, muffled sound, the kind that comes from deep inside the soul when it is filled with fear.

I knew that sound very well. Many nights, at midnight, when the rest of the world was asleep, I had heard that same terrible sound rise from my own chest, making my fears even worse. Yes, I knew it well.

I knew exactly how the old man felt, and even though I felt sorry for him, I also laughed quietly to myself.

I knew that he had been awake ever since he first heard the noise and moved in his bed. His fear had been growing ever since. He had tried to convince himself that there was nothing to be afraid of, but he could not.

He had whispered to himself, “It’s just the wind in the chimney” or “It’s only a mouse crossing the floor” or “It must be a cricket chirping once”.

Yes, he had tried hard to calm himself with these ideas, but it had been useless. Completely useless.

Because Death itself was coming closer to him. Its dark shadow had already covered him, even though he could not see it or hear it. He could only feel that something terrible was in the room.

When I had waited a long time, very patiently, and still did not hear him lie back down, I made a decision.

I decided to open the lantern just a little—a very, very tiny opening.

So I slid it open—you cannot imagine how slowly, how carefully—until finally, a thin, weak beam of light, as fine as a spider’s thread, shone through the small opening and fell directly onto the vulture eye.

The eye was open—wide, wide open—and as I stared at it, I felt filled with rage. I saw it clearly—a dull blue color, covered by a horrible, cloudy film that sent a chill deep into my bones. But I could not see anything else of the old man’s face or body, because I had instinctively aimed the thin beam of light directly at that terrible eye.

And haven’t I told you before? You mistake my sharp senses for madness. My hearing was too powerful, not broken! And now, in the silence of the room, I suddenly heard a low, dull, fast sound—like the ticking of a watch, wrapped in cotton to muffle the noise.

I knew that sound very well, too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart.

Hearing it only made me angrier, just like the sound of a drum gives a soldier the courage to fight.

But even then, I held back and stayed completely still. I barely breathed. I held the lantern steady, making sure the thin ray of light stayed fixed on the eye. Meanwhile, the terrible beating of the heart grew faster and faster, louder and louder with every second. The old man’s fear must have been overwhelming! It got louder, I tell you—louder every moment! Do you understand me now?

I have already told you that I am nervous—yes, I am! And now, in the dead silence of the night, inside the dark, quiet house, such a strange sound filled me with uncontrollable fear. Yet, for a few more minutes, I forced myself to stand perfectly still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart would explode. And then, a new fear gripped me—what if a neighbor heard the sound? The old man’s time had come!

With a loud cry, I threw open the lantern and jumped into the room. He screamed once—just once. In an instant, I grabbed him and threw him to the floor. Then, I pulled the heavy bed over him. I smiled happily, knowing that the act was almost complete. But for many minutes, the heart kept beating—a muffled sound, still there under the bed. This did not bother me, though. I knew it was too faint to be heard through the walls.

Finally, it stopped. The old man was dead. I moved the bed and examined his body. Yes—he was completely, absolutely dead. I placed my hand on his chest and held it there for several minutes. There was no heartbeat. He was completely dead. His evil eye would never bother me again.

If you still think I am mad, you won’t anymore once I explain the careful steps I took to hide the body. The night passed, and I worked quickly but silently. First, I took the body apart—I cut off the head, the arms, and the legs.

Then, I lifted three wooden planks from the floor of the old man’s room and placed the body parts underneath. I put the planks back so perfectly, so cleverly, that no one—not even the old man himself—would have been able to see that anything was wrong. There was no mess to clean up—not a single stain, no trace of blood anywhere. I had been too careful for that. A large tub had caught everything—ha! ha!

When my work was done, it was four o’clock in the morning, and still as dark as midnight. Just as the bell struck the hour, there was a knock at the street door. I went to open it, feeling calm and confident—after all, what did I have to fear now?

Three men entered. They introduced themselves politely as police officers. A neighbor had heard a scream during the night and had become suspicious. They had reported it to the police, and now the officers had been sent to search the house.

I smiled—for what did I have to fear? I welcomed them warmly. I told them that the scream they had heard had been my own, from a bad dream. I also told them that the old man was away in the countryside.

I took them all through the house. I encouraged them to search—search everywhere! Finally, I led them to the old man’s room. I showed them all of his valuable belongings, still in place, untouched.

Feeling so confident, I even brought in chairs and invited them to sit and rest after their hard work. In my wild excitement and absolute victory, I placed my own chair directly over the spot where the old man’s body lay hidden beneath the floor.

The officers were satisfied. My behavior had convinced them. I was completely at ease. They sat down, and as I answered cheerfully, they chatted about ordinary things. But after a while, I started to feel pale and wished they would leave. My head began to ache, and I imagined a ringing sound in my ears. Still, they sat there, still chatting. The ringing grew louder—it kept getting clearer. I spoke even more, trying to ignore it, but the sound did not go away. Instead, it became sharper—until, finally, I realized the sound was not in my ears.

I must have turned very pale, but I kept talking, speaking faster and louder. Still, the sound grew—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, fast sound, like the ticking of a watch wrapped in cotton. I gasped for breath—yet the officers did not seem to hear it. I talked more quickly, more forcefully, but the noise only grew louder. I stood up and argued about meaningless things, my voice rising, my arms moving wildly—but the sound kept growing.

Why wouldn’t they leave? I started pacing the room, stomping heavily, as if I were angry at something they had said—but still, the noise grew louder. Oh, God! What could I do? I was losing control—I yelled, I raved, I cursed! I picked up the chair I had been sitting on and dragged it across the floor, making a loud, scraping noise—but still, the sound grew louder and louder! And still, the officers sat there, smiling, chatting pleasantly.

Was it possible that they didn’t hear it? Almighty God! No—no! They heard it! They suspected something! They knew the truth! They were mocking me, laughing at my fear! I knew it—I still know it! But anything was better than this torture! Anything was better than their fake smiles! I couldn’t take it anymore! I had to scream or I would die! And now—again! Hark! Louder! Louder! Louder! LOUDER!

“Villains!” I shrieked, “Stop pretending! I admit it! I did it! Tear up the floorboards—here, here! It is the beating of his horrible heart!”