Tynan Portillo presents…featuring the best horror stories of the 19th century…welcome to The Poe Show podcast. Narrated by Tynan Portillo.

Today’s episode, the most remembered and most beloved work of Edgar Allan Poe: 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. (smoke) 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 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 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 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 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 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. 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,—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 definiteness—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. Why would 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. Oh 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!”

Hello and welcome back to The Poe Show, I’m your host Tynan Portillo.

If you enjoyed this episode then text someone right now and get them to listen too and leave a good review because your help helps the show. On The Poe Show YouTube channel I have also reviewed Netflix’s The Fall of the House of Usher and I’m soon to do The Pale Blue Eye. On Spotify and YouTube you can comment which stories you’d like to see in the future.

Now most people don’t know this, but this story is actually based on a real murder that took place in 1830. An old man named Joseph White was robbed and murdered in his home by Richard Crowninshield Jr., who had been employed to do so by one Francis Knapp. Crowninshield ended his own life but Knapp was brought to trial and convicted. A man named Daniel Webster gave a description of the crime, saying in a published pamphlet, “An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butcherly murder, for mere pay. Truly, here is a new lesson for painters and poets. Whoever shall hereafter draw the portrait of murder, if he will show it... where ... last to be looked for ... let him not give it the grim visage of Moloch... Let him draw, rather, a decorous, smooth-faced, bloodless demon; a picture in repose, rather than in action; not so much an example of human nature in its depravity, and in its paroxysms of crime, as an infernal being, a fiend, in the ordinary display and development of his character.”

That excerpt goes on to describe in dramatic detail how Crowninshield snuck into Joseph White’s home, slowly turned his doorknob, killed the old man, checked for pulse, then left out the window. Webster also says, “The guilty soul cannot keep its own secret…it feels an irresistible impulse to be true to itself…The human heart was not made for the residence of such an inhabitant…He feels it beating at his heart, rising to his throat, and demanding disclosure. He thinks the whole world sees it in his face, reads it in his eyes, and almost hears its workings in the very silence of his thoughts. It has become his master ... It must be confessed, it will be confessed.” One can see how that would have had such an impact on Edgar Allan Poe’s mind for a good story. But what about burying the body under the floorboards?

It’s also worth mentioning that Charles Dickens wrote a story called “A Confession Found in a Prison in the Time of Charle’s the Second,” where a man kills his nephew because he can’t look him in the eye, and places a chair over the secret grave.

For any who don’t know, I make all the music for each episode in this podcast and as I composed the music for this episode I looked for especially sharp sounds that grated against the ear in order to make it as uncomfortable as possible. I got really in touch with my Bloodborne roots, if any of you have played that masterpiece of a game. I listen to that soundtrack all the time and I took a lot of influence from it for the parts with the cello. But towards the end, I wanted it to feel like this was really all in the narrator’s head, so I wanted the music and heartbeat to take over, not any other sound effects like the officers laughing. It makes you question what was actually real.

Just as well, you may have noticed that there was a bit of a demon voice involved in this telling. Why? Well, so we can really feel that this man is a demented monster.

On that note, the use of an “evil eye,” throughout history and different cultures, has been associated with individuals who have been cursed by a malevolent gaze, usually of envy, and certain symbols like the nazar boncugu protects them from that curse. Thinking about that, we can see that while the old man is the one with the evil eye, the narrator is the one with the malevolent gaze. Our narrator is pure evil, that’s why I used the demon voice. Now, the narrator does say he doesn’t envy the old man’s gold, but perhaps he envies the old man’s ability to live and not fear death. Whereas the narrator lives in fear all the time, hearkening to his own mortality ticking away. Maybe he feels like he’s wasting his life looking after this old man and just wants to get away.

I guess I should mention I wanted the narrator to be smoking because it gave him an air of being cool and calculated, while really being a crutch he needed in order to stay calm. So go back and listen to the times that he takes a drag on that cigarette, is he calm? Or is he calming himself down?

I wanted to save this episode until it was Halloween season and I am glad that I waited. My skills in music composition, editing, mixing and my equipment have seriously improved. I also wanted to give this story a spin I hadn’t heard before, most iterations I’ve seen and heard have the narrator sounding insane, but I wanted to give an interpretation where he seemed more like a psychopath and kind of reliving the stuff that gave him this joy, this triumph. Where he would start out normal but then say something insane and then go back to normal.

This story has been adapted through the ages of course, and in film it has had some significant contributions. A silent expressionist short film was made in 1928, and it almost looked like a Tim Burton film. They used sharp angles and shadows to isolate characters and long pauses in the frames, the main character even looked a bit like Johnny Depp. The link to that video is in this episode description if you want to watch it.

In 1941 Metro-Goldwyn Mayer produced a short film which leaned more heavily upon a religious conscience of the main character, and the old man was actually a cruel master who abused his servant. The style of that short film was very intense. Also the master sounds and even looks like Joe Pesci. I thought that was funny. Link to that video will also be in the description.

Robert Eggers, who has directed masterpieces like The Witch, The Lighthouse and The Northman, directed a short film of The Tell-Tale Heart in 2008. This film almost felt like a Werner Herzog film and you can really see the beginning of what would have later become Robert Eggers’s signature style. It’s like watching a baby video of someone, it’s amazing to see what’s similar and different about them from their start. While watching Eggers’ film, I found the old man extremely unnerving, he had glass-like eyes and was extremely small and frail. Something seemed so…off about him. So I went to the IMDB page for the film and…there’s only a voice listed for the old man. And what I found out is…a human sized realistic puppet was used as the old man instead of a real actor. And I think that makes this short film so much cooler! Again, link to that will be in the description.

The metaphor of a vulture eye and a beating heart also tells me that our main character is obsessed with death. He has no ill will towards the old man, only towards his eye. Vultures are birds that usually feed on the carcasses of dead animals. The heartbeat is compared to a watch wrapped in cotton, and the old man…is old. There’s a reason that he’s an old man that gets murder. The narrator even says he was “hearkening to the death watches in the wall,” and “The old man’s time had come.” He recognizes the sound of mortal terror too, the fear of death. By killing the old man, the narrator is killing death and making himself immortal, essentially he is killing his fear. Which explains why he is so brazen with placing the guards on chairs directly on top of the floorboards under which lies the chopped up body of the old man.

And even then, can we trust anything this narrator tells us? We have no reason to trust him, in fact, he’s obviously delusional by the nature of the story so there’s a reason to NOT trust him! He tries to convince the reader that he’s telling the truth though, by involving many minute details. But in the end, he is still detailing a demented murder.

And who is the narrator speaking to? Perhaps one of the police officers of the story, an interrogator, a psychologist. Who knows?

And Edgar Allan Poe would have been writing about themes like this because he was an alcoholic. I mean I can imagine this, especially because it was published in 1843, being a sort of outlet for Poe.

Because his wife died in 1847 and it was the last 5 years of her life, Eliza Clem Poe’s life, that her sickness with tuberculosis got really really bad. So, you know, they’re in the middle of it right there. And while she is suffering from all of this, he… everyone he has ever known to get tuberculosis has died. So he’s trying to accept this truth, but he also doesn’t want to accept it. He’s written that before in a poem as well. And that was in the poem O Tempora O Mores.

And in the middle of this story being published, she would have been bedridden and getting worse and worse. And so I can imagine that Poe had many a night when he would be out drinking to try and deal with this thing happening to his wife, but then have moments where he says, “Why am I not at home with my wife?”

But Poe knew how to give people an entertaining story while also writing on a deeper level for those people who appreciated the themes in his subtext. So I hope that you remember this story not only for its brilliantly crafted narrative, but also for the themes that hide underneath. 

Thank you so much for listening to this episode of The Poe Show. If you liked it, then please like this episode, subscribe, follow on whatever platform you’re listening to, also leave a comment. You can leave a comment on Spotify and on YouTube about your favorite part of the story, what you liked, and of course any stories that you want to hear in the future. You can follow this podcast on TikTok @poeshowpodcast, and in fact, I got one comment about a future story. Frankenstein. Now, that’s a whole novel and I don’t have all of that time. So I am going to try to do my best to get maybe a couple chapters in. But I am going to do The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, definitely. You can also follow this podcast on Instagram or Threads @thepoeshowpodcast and of course follow on YouTube. I’m at 70 subscribers now, I’m so happy, I love that! And of course, if you want to support the show you can subscribe on YouTube and eventually I’ll be able to hit the threshold where you can start making some ad revenue. Or you can look at the link in the description and go to my Kofi profile and donate to help support the show.

Thank you guys so much for listening, and that’s all for now. But don’t worry, cause you’ll hear from me again, on the next episode on The Poe Show podcast.