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By Edgar Allan Poe 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.

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

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.

You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with

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

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

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

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

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

I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly,

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?"

For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie

He was still sitting up in the bed listening;—just as I have done, night after night, hearkening

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.

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 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

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; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before

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

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

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enthusiasm

spot

distinct

rid