The Tell-Tail Heart: A Cat Cozy (Cattarina Mysteries) (14 page)

"How are you liking Mr. Coffin?" I
asked her.

"We are getting on," she said. Her
coat gleamed in the morning light. "I am his 'sometimes cat.' He sometimes
owns me, and I sometimes own him. I still go home at night to Blue and Killer
and the rest of our troop. But Mr. Coffin—I call him Pudge—and I have
a special bond. He feeds me and plays with me, and in return, I lie about his
cushions like a queen. He likes this. He says it 'tickles him,' though I'm not
sure what that means."

"Humans."

"Humans," she agreed.

I turned my belly to the sun. I liked the sound
of
Pudge
. It was a good word, a slumpy word, much like Mr. Coffin. Eddie
laughed, and I twitched my ear at the merry sound. I worried his writing would
suffer after Sissy and I caught the murderer. But he'd gone on to finish his
story at a frenzied pace that lasted for days. True, Sissy may have stoked the
fire, but I had lit the kindling. Let us not forget that. The two men droned on
about Abbott's toe, whatever that may have been, until Mr. Coffin produced a
newspaper from his toolbox.

"I read about the Glass Eye Killer," he
said. He shook the paper at Eddie. "I didn't catch your name, even though
you found one of the victims."

"Yes, they left it out. Chalked it up to
good police work, of all things." Eddie smoothed his mustache. "I was
surprised to learn that the barkeep at Shakey House had suspicions as well. He
confided in me yesterday."

"That right?"

"Yes. Josef works the morning shift at
Wills. He'd seen Caroline's new eyes, too, but kept quiet out of fear."
Eddie shrugged. "I can't say as I blame him."

"A shame Gideon Ferris lost his anthracite mines
in a poker game. If not for that tragedy, he might never have killed. Or, I
should say, Owen Barstow might never have killed. And that cripple at the Wills
Hospital never stood a chance, did he?"

"Once a man passes the point of reason, madness
overtakes him," Eddie added. "Gideon Ferris must have discovered how suggestible
Owen was during his frequent trips to the Allegheny mines and pushed him into
doing his bidding. I'm just glad Caroline didn't suffer at the hands of that
lunatic."

"Ferris must've felt a deep responsibility
to his niece, having gone to those lengths. What will become of her?"

"I called upon a friend of mine, Dr.
Mitchell. You met him last week." Mr. Coffin nodded, and Eddie continued, "He
says he may be able to arrange for her care at the hospital for the blind."

"Nicely settled, Poe." Mr. Coffin
folded his newspaper and tucked it away. "And what of
your
story?"

"I am in talks with
The Pioneer
.
Publication is immanent." Eddie buttoned his coat and blew out his breath
in a white cloud. "Sissy helped with a few details, adding a certain—"
he wobbled his hand back and forth "—depth to the story, but I
provided the mastery. Though the woman amazed me with her foresight."

I tired of their talk and closed my eyes. I did
not know it at the time, but Sissy would become very ill in a matter of days,
and the cream of our happiness would thin until spring. Right now, however, we
had enough to fill all of Philadelphia. I curled my tail round my body and
nestled into the grass. I may not have belonged to a troop like Big Blue's or
lived free like a feral, but I had my liberties. I could run about all day and
return home to warmth and food and my beloved Eddie—the best life
imaginable. Reassured by this thought, a purr rose deep from within my chest.

 I peeked one eye open and watched my
friend joke and talk with Mr. Coffin. Now that he'd finished the manuscript, everyone
knew of his elation, even a passing bird. Yet the lull between stories would
come—a certainty not unlike death—and a storm would once again
settle over the Poe house. At least now I knew how to change the weather. But please
don't think me a selfless cat, for Eddie was never happier than when he was
writing, and I was never happier than when Eddie was happy.

Dear Friends:

I submit to you, in its entirety, "The
Tell-Tale Heart." Consider my indispensible role in its telling, but do
not mistake my genius for Eddie's. He is the
true
Master of Macabre. For
those interested, my friend has other fine stories for sale, and any purchase
would keep me in shad and ribbons for quite some time.

Gratefully yours,

Catters

P.S. - Muddy would be glad of a few coins as
well.

THE
TELL-TALE HEART

by Edgar Allan Poe

January, 1843

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. 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 neighbour! 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 the
floor, 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 eve 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.
First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the
legs.

I then 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
even his –could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash
out –no stain of any kind –no blood-spot whatever. I had been too
wary for that. A tub had caught all –ha! ha!

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 neighbour 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, —or 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.