Yet, henceforward art thou
      also dead—dead to the World, to Heaven and to Hope! In me didst
      thou exist—and, in my death, see by this image, which is thine
      own, how utterly thou hast murdered thyself.”_




THE TELL-TALE HEART. 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! He had the eye
      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, 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 has 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 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 had 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 simple dim ray, like
      the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell 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 face or person: for
      I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the
      damned spot. And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but
      over-acuteness of the sense?—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 eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the
      heart increased.