Halloween

It’s true — I have always been nervous, very nervous. But why do you think I am mad? I’m not! My illness has only made my senses sharper, not weaker. Especially my hearing — I could hear everything: sounds from heaven, the earth, and even from hell. So how can I be mad? Listen carefully, and you will see how calm and healthy my mind is while I tell you my story.

I can’t explain how the idea first came into my head. But once it was there, it never left me — day or night. There was no reason for it. I wasn’t angry with the old man. I even loved him. He had never been unkind to me. I didn’t want his money. I think it was his eye — yes, his eye! One of his eyes looked like that of a vulture: a pale blue eye with a strange film over it. Whenever he looked at me, I felt cold inside. So little by little, I decided to take the old man’s life, to free myself from that eye forever.

Now, you think I’m crazy. But mad people don’t plan carefully, do they? You should have seen how clever I was, how carefully I prepared everything! I was never kinder to the old man than during the week before I killed him. And every night, around midnight, I slowly opened his door — oh, so gently! When the door was open just enough for my head, I pushed in a closed lantern, so that no light could escape. Then I carefully put my head inside. You would have laughed to see how slowly I moved, making sure not to wake him. It took me an hour just to move my head far enough to see him lying in bed. Would a madman be that patient?

When I was finally inside, I carefully opened the lantern — very slowly, because the hinges made a small noise — just enough to let a single thin ray of light fall upon the old man’s eye. I did this for seven nights in a row, always at midnight. But each time, the eye was closed, so I couldn’t do it — because it was not the old man who made me angry, but his Evil Eye. Every morning, when day came, I went to his room and spoke kindly to him, calling him by name and asking how he had slept. You see, he never suspected that every night, just at twelve, I was looking at him while he slept.

On the eighth night, I was more careful than ever when opening the door. My hand moved more slowly than the minute hand on a watch. Never before had I felt so powerful, so clever. I could hardly stop myself from smiling. There I was, opening the door little by little, and the old man had no idea what I was doing or thinking. I quietly laughed to myself — but perhaps he heard me, because he suddenly moved in his bed, as if frightened.

You might think I stopped — but no. The room was completely dark, as black as pitch. The shutters were closed tightly because the old man was afraid of robbers. So I knew he couldn’t see me. I kept pushing the door open slowly, slowly.

I had just put my head inside and was about to open the lantern when my thumb slipped on the metal catch. The old man jumped up in bed and shouted, “Who’s there?”

I stood completely still and said nothing. For a whole hour, I didn’t move a muscle. I didn’t even hear him lie down again. He was still sitting up in bed, listening — just as I had done, night after night, listening to the ticking sound of the death beetles in the wall.

Soon, I heard a quiet groan. I knew it was the groan of mortal fear. It wasn’t a sound of pain or sadness — oh no — it was the soft, broken sound that comes from deep inside the soul when someone is terrified. I knew that sound well. Many nights, at midnight, when everyone else was asleep, I had felt that same terrible fear myself.

I knew exactly what the old man was feeling. I even pitied him a little — though I was smiling inside. I knew that since the first small noise, he had been lying awake, trying to convince himself that there was nothing to be afraid of. He was probably saying, “It’s just the wind in the chimney,” or “It’s only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “Maybe it’s just a cricket making a sound.”

But his efforts were useless — all in vain. Death was already near, moving closer with its dark shadow before it, covering the old man like a cloak. And that shadow made him feel — even though he could not see or hear — that something, or someone, was there in the room with him.

After I had waited a very long time and heard nothing, I decided to open the lantern just a little — only a tiny crack. I opened it so quietly, so carefully, that you would not believe it. At last a faint ray of light, thin as a spider’s thread, came out of the crack and shone on the vulture eye.

The eye was open — wide open — and I became furious as I looked at it. I could see it clearly: dull blue with a ugly film over it that made my bones feel cold. I could not see any other part of the old man’s face or body because I had aimed the light exactly at that cursed spot.

Have I not told you that people mistake my sharp senses for madness? Well, then I heard a low, dull, quick sound, like a watch wrapped in cotton. I knew that sound too. It was the old man’s heart beating. The sound made me more angry, like a drum making soldiers brave.

Still, I stayed very still. I hardly breathed. I held the lantern without moving and kept the thin ray on the eye. Meanwhile the heart’s terrible beat grew stronger. It got faster and louder and louder. The old man must have been terribly afraid. Louder and louder it went. Do you understand me? I have told you I am nervous — I am. In that very quiet house at that dead hour, such a sound filled me with fear I could not control. For a few more minutes I held back and waited. But the beating kept growing. I thought the heart would burst. Then I grew afraid someone next door might hear it. I decided the old man’s time had come.

With a loud cry I opened the lantern and jumped into the room. He screamed once — only once. In a moment I pulled him to the floor and dragged the heavy bed over him. I smiled, pleased that my plan had worked so far. But for several minutes the heart kept beating, though it sounded muffled. I did not worry; I thought it would not be heard through the wall. Finally the sound stopped. The old man was dead.

I moved the bed and looked at the body. Yes, he was completely dead. I put my hand on his heart for several minutes. There was no beating. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more.

If you still think I am mad, listen to the careful steps I took next to hide the body. The night moved on and I worked quickly but quietly. First, I cut the body into pieces. I took off the head, the arms and the legs.

After I had finished, I lifted three floorboards from the old man’s room and put all the pieces of the body into the space under them. Then I put the boards back so cleverly that no one could tell anything was wrong. There was nothing to wash away, no blood stains. I had been too careful for that. A tub had caught everything. Ha! ha!

When I had finished, it was four o’clock, and the sky was still dark. At that moment someone knocked at the front door. I walked down to open it, feeling light and happy — what had I to fear now? Three men came in. They were polite and introduced themselves as police officers. A neighbour had heard a scream during the night, someone had reported it to the police, and the officers had come to check the house.

I smiled to myself. What had I to fear? I welcomed them. I said the scream was only a dream. I told them the old man was away in the country. I took the officers all around the house and invited them to search. I showed them his things, safe and undisturbed. I was so confident that I even brought chairs into the old man’s room and asked them to sit and rest. I sat down too, exactly over the spot where the body lay under the floor.

The officers seemed satisfied. My behaviour had convinced them. I felt perfectly calm and at ease. They talked about ordinary things while I answered cheerfully. But after a time I began to feel strange. I grew pale and wanted them to leave. My head began to hurt and I thought I heard a ringing in my ears. Still they sat and chatted. The ringing grew clearer and clearer. I spoke more to try to get rid of the feeling, but it did not stop. At last I realised the sound was not in my ears.

I must have gone very pale, but I kept talking and my voice was louder. The sound kept growing. It was a low, dull, quick noise — like a watch wrapped in cotton. I tried to breathe calmly but the noise grew more definite. I spoke faster and with more force, but the sound kept increasing. I stood up and argued about small things, waving my arms wildly, but the noise became stronger. Why would they not go? I walked up and down the room with heavy steps, as if angered by what the men said, but still the noise went on and got louder. Oh God! What could I do? I was foaming at the mouth. I raved and swore. I swung my chair and scraped it across the floor, but the sound rose above that and grew and grew. Louder and louder it became. And the men smiled and talked pleasantly, as if they could not hear it. Could they really not hear it?

No, they heard. They suspected. They knew. They were making fun of my fear, I thought. Anything was better than this pain. I could not bear those polite smiles any longer. Something inside me would break. I felt I must scream or die. And then — again — louder and louder!

“Villains!” I cried, “stop pretending! I confess! Tear up the boards! Here! Here! It is the beating of his hideous heart!”