The Telltale Heart

ThE TELLTALE HEART

''By Edgar Allan Poe Went by Cashadia (thruced 1843)''

TREW!—ang—so, so dreadfully ang I had been and am; but why wilt thu say that I am mad? The illness had sharpened mine anyets—not forspilt—not dulled hem. Abuve all was my hearing sharp. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. Hu, then, am I mad? Harken! and behold hu healthily—hu coolly I can tell thee the whole tale.

It is unmightly to say hu first the thought infared my brain; but onse born, it beset me day and night. Rode there was none. Hatred there was none. I luved the old man. He had never harmed me. He had never yeaven me hux. For his gold I had no list. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had a gripes eye—a wan hewn eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell on me, my blood ran cold; and so by steps—full stepwise—I made up my mind to nim the old mans life, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.

Nu this is the thing. Thu thinkest me mad. Madmen know nothing. But thu shudst have seen me. Thu shudst have seen hu wisely I went on—with what recking—with what foresight—with what wile I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than thrughute the whole week before I slew him. And every night, abute midnight, I flipt the doors lach and opened it—o so lithely! And then, when I had made an opening enugh for my head, I put in a dark litevat, all closed, closed, so that no lite shone ute, and then I stuck in my head. O, thu wudst have laughed to see hu cunningly I stuck it in! I shrothe it slowly—so, so slowly, so that I might not unstill the old mans sleep. I needed a stund to put my whole head within the opening so far that I cud see him as he lay on his bed. Ha!—wud a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the litevat warily—o, so warily—warily (for the hinges creaked)—I undid it only so much that a lone thin beam fell on the gripes eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night right at midnight—but I fund the eye always closed; and so it was unmightly to do the work; for it was not the old man who teened me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into his room, and spoke dughtily to him, chying him by name in a hearty pich, and asking hu he had spent the night. So thu seest he wud have been a mighty mindful old man, indeed, to inkel that every nite, right at twelve, I looked in on him while he slept.

On the eighth night I was more than wonly wary in opening the door. A waches smallhand shrithes more cwickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt hu great was mine own might—my wisdom. I cud hardly hold in my feelings of sie. To think that there I was, opening the door, littel by littel, and he not even to fathom my hidden deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckelled at the thought; and maybe he heard me; for he shrothe on the bed shortly, as if startelled. Nu thu maist think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pich with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were fastened nigh, thrugh fear of reavers,) and so I knew that he cud not see the door opening, and I kept thruching it on steadily, steadily.

I had my head in, and was abute to open the litevat, when my thumb slipt on the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, rooping ute—“Who’s there?”

I kept full still and said nothing. For a whole stund I did not shrithe a thew, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie dune. He was still sitting up in the bed listening;—right as I have done, night after night, harkening to the deathwaches in the wall.

Nu I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of deadly brow. It was not a groan of trey or of gnorn—o, no!—it was the deep, deadened lude that arises from the sowls bottom when overfilled with ey. I knew the lude well. Many a night, right at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from mine own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful ashilling, the brows that held me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and felt sorry for him, althaugh I chuckelled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever sinse the first slight lude, when he had started in the bed. His fears had been ever sinse growing up him. He had been fanding to think hem grundless, but cud not. He had been saying to himself—”It is nothing but the wind in the flew—it is only a muse running thwares the floor,” or “It is but a hillhoamer which has made a lone chirp.” Yes, he had been fanding to cweem himself with these reasowings; but he had fund all bleadless. All bleadless; for that Death, in nearing him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and beclipt the tiver. And it was the unseen shadows mornful sway that made him to feel—althaugh he neither saw nor heard—to feel my heads neighwist within the room.

When I had bidden a long time, full thildily, withute hearing him lie dune, I made to open a littel—a full, full littel slit in the litefat, So I opened it—thu canst not fathom hu stealthily, stealthily—hent, at length a lone dim beam, like a spiders thread, shot from ute the slit and fell full on the gripes eye.

It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew wroth as I stared at it. I saw it with fulframed sundriness—all a dull hewn, with an atel wimpel over it that chilled the marrow itself in my bones; but I cud see nothing else of the old mans anlet or body: for I had minted the beam as if by godly ken, rite on the cursed spot.

And have I not told thee that what thu misnimmest for madness is but the anyets oversharpness?—nu, I say, there came to mine ears a soft, dull, cwick lude, such as a wach makes when smothered in wool. I knew that lude well, too. It was the old mans heart—beating, beating. It greatened my wrath, as a drums beating whets the harman into dught.

But even yet I held back and kept still. I hardly breathed. I held the litevat full still. I wached hu steadily I cud hold the beam on the eye. Meantime the hearts hellish drumming waxt. It grew cwicker and cwicker, luder and luder every brightom. The old mans brow must have been great! It grew luder, I say, luder every eyeblink!—markest thu me well? I have told thee that I am ang; so I am. And nu at the nights deadest tide, amid that old huses dreadful stillness, so ferly a lude as this whetted me to unrixenly brow. Yet, for sum time longer I held back and stood still. But the beating grew luder, luder! I thought the heart must burst. And nu a new angness fanged me—the lude wud be heard by a neighbor! The old mans time had cum! With a lude yell, I threw open the litevat and leapt into the room. He shreed onse—onse only. In an eyeblink I drew him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smirked winfully, to find the deed so far done. But, for a good tide, the heart beat on with a smothered lude. This, huever, did not teen me; it wud not be heard thrugh the wall. At length it stopt. The old man was dead. I drew back the bed and smeyed the lich. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I put my hand over the heart and held it there for a time. There was no beating. He was stone dead. His eye wud swench me no more.

If thu still thinkest me mad, thu wilt think so no longer when I rech the wise forewits I made for the bodies hiding. The night waned, and I worked speedily, but withute lude. First of all I tolithed the lich. Ich snithed off the head and the arms and the shanks.

I then lifted up three thills from the rooms flooring, and stowed all between the timbers. I then put back the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no mans eye—not even his—cud have fund any thing amiss. There was nothing to wash ute—no wem of any kind—no bloodspot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A vat had fanged all—ha! ha!

When I had made an end of these swinks, it was fore in the morning—still dark as midnight. As the bell told the tide, there came a knocking at the street door. I went dune to open it with a light heart,—for what had I nu to fear? There infared three weres, who brought hemselves in as sheriffs. A shree had been heard by a neighbor in the night; fule play had been inkelled; abreasting had been yeaven at hir wicken, and hy (the sheriffs) had been told to seech the grunds.

I smirked,—for what had I to fear? I bade the good men welcum. The shree, I said, was mine own in a sweven. The old man, I nemmened, was away in the upland. I brought my cumlings all over the huse. I bade hem seech—seech well. I led hem, at length, to his room. I showed hem his mathoms, sicker, unstirred. In my beelds list, I brought selds into the room, and bade hem here to rest from hir wearinesses, while I myself, in the wild brasenness that sprung from my fulframed sie, set mine own settel on the spot itself beneath which rested my tivers lich.

The sheriffs were cweemed. My thewfastness had won hem over. I was sundrily at eath. Hy sat, and while I answered blithely, hy chatted abute cooth things. But, ere long, I felt myself becumming wan and wished hem gone. My head aked, and I fathomed a ringing in mine ears: but still hy sat and still hy chatted. The ringing became more suttel:—it went on and became more suttel: I talked more freely to rid myself of the feeling: but it went on and became sutteller and sutteller—hent, at length, I fund that the lude was not within mine ears.

No twee I nu grew mighty wan;—but I talked more flowingly, and with a highthened steven. Yet the lude waxt—and what cud I do? It was a soft, dull, cwick lude—much such a lude as a wach makes when smothered in wool. I fought for breath—and yet the sheriffs heard it not. I talked more cwickly—more averly; but the lude steadily waxt. I arose and flited abute small things, in a high pich and with heast waves and tokens; but the lude steadily waxt. Why wud hy not be gone? I walked the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if whetted to wrath by the weres cweathings—but the lude steadily waxt. O God! What cud I do? I foamed—I rooped—I swore! I swung the seld on which I had been sitting, and grund it on the boards, but the lude arose over all and steadily waxt. It grew luder—luder—luder! And still the weres chatted winsumly, and smirked. Was it mightly hy heard not? Almighty God!—no, no! Hy heard!—hy inkelled!—hy knew!—hy were making a hux of my brow!—this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this sussel! Anything was more tholenly than this hooker! I cud bear those lichetting smirks no longer! I felt that I must roop or swelt!—and nu—ayen!—hark! luder! luder! luder! luder!—

“Devils!” I shreed, “lichet no more! I andet the deed!—tear up the thills!—here, here!—it is his atel hearts beating!”