A Story For Halloween: ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ by Edgar Allan Poe


Turn off all your lights, and read this famous horror story by candlelight to get yourself into the Halloween mood.  Happy Halloween everyone!

” 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 forever.

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—until at length a single dim ray like the thread of the spider shot out from the crevice and fell 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 thefloor, 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.

I 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 evenhis—could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no bloodspot whatever. I had been too wary for that.

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. Whywould they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men—but the noise steadily increased. O 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 anything was better than this agony! Anything 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!”

Source: ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’ by Edgar Allan Poe – Berfrois

Why Do I Write?


Writing is my emotional release. Since my mind is always churning with ideas, it helps to organize my thoughts. After a writing session, an enormous amount of  pressure is relieved. A feeling of lightness and clarity comes over me. Until the heaviness returns, I’m compelled to write again.

Why do you write? I’d love to hear your comments..

Priceless Moment at The Smithsonian

A Priceless Moment at The Smithsonian

Over the weekend, our family visited Washington, D.C for the first time. The Smithsonian was our last stop for the day. After waiting on line for over thirty minutes in the blistering hot sun, we shuffled into the museum. Inching through the museum’s doors, a blast of air conditioning snapped us out of our heat induced stupor. A large crowd gathered around a young woman in a blue uniform, as she held a megaphone. Her inaudible, muffled announcement ricocheted off the museum’s pristine white stone walls. Walking closer towards the crowd, the Star Spangled Banner blaring. As we got closer, we saw visitors surrounding and supporting an enormous American flag. My nine-year old son captured this unforgettable moment. We couldn’t have asked for a more heartwarming welcome to D.C.



(photo, C. Peterson)

Sophie takes a deep breath as she bites her chapped lips, her clammy skin sticking to her thermal underwear, after a full day of skiing. Shifting his weight, Scott pulls his hoodie over his head, tucking in his thick brown ponytail under his black hat. Checking himself out in the rearview mirror, lifting his chin up, tightens the hoodie’s drawstring under his neck. His large rough hands slap Sophie’s left thigh. “Ready? Let’s go.” His Oakley sunglasses block the glare from the snow, he stops himself taking a moment to look at her. She nods, giving him a weak smile.

Driving towards the eye of the storm, the large snowflakes turn to chunks of hail. The windshield wipers squeaked back and forth in a steady beat as the hail knocked on the windshield. Sophie’s chest tightens as she realizes why Scott seemed so familiar. She read a story in the local paper last week about young girl who was assaulted, early in the morning, while jogging alone on a bike path. Twirling her aquamarine earrings, she visualizes the police sketch of the suspect from the newspaper: white male, six-foot or taller, wearing sunglasses and a hooded jacket. She turns her back towards Scott, biting her lips even harder.

Scott opens the window just enough to let a rush of cold air enter the bright red Range Rover. Lighting up a joint, he takes a hit, holding it in front of Sophie’s face. “Want a hit?” Sophie shakes her head. “No thanks, I’m good.” As the smell of marijuana overwhelms the SUV, her nausea begins. Scott fumbles with the radio with one hand, the other on the steering wheel and nearly veers off the unplowed road. “Whoah!” His wide stunning smile that used to turn her on, now made her cringe. Stroking the side of her neck, she felt a tickle in her throat, which triggered a loud coughing fit. Grabbing her inhaler after rummaging through her backpack, she deeply inhaled two puffs. “Hey, you ok over there, sweetie?” She glanced at him for a moment, then looked down. “Yep. I’m OK. My asthma has been acting up from the high altitude.” He nodded as he kept his eyes on the snowy road, taking a hit from his joint every few minutes. “Let’s see what this baby is made of!”, stomping his boot on the gas pedal. Driving off the narrow mountain road, he takes the turn too fast as he skids out on the empty highway. The Range Rover’s back-end swerved, jerking Sophie from her seat, bumping up against Scott. Her heartbeat pounded faster. He grabs the steering wheel tight, coaxing it back to the center of the highway. “You know, for an old truck, this thing handles pretty nice.” Forcing a smile, “I bought it knowing about the bad storms out here.” He chuckles in his deep voice and smirks, checking out her body, head to toe. His cold stare penetrates her entire being. Sophie’s eyes fill up with tears, as her throat starts to tighten again.