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

by Shaughnessy, Monica

"Oh, nothing to bother you with," Sissy said. "Listen, Eddie, about your story…" She put a sandwich on his plate and took one for herself.

  "The Tell-Tale Eye?" He took a sip from his cup.

  "Well, I—" She giggled. "You'll think me childish and more than a bit nosy."

  "Never." I rubbed against his leg, angling for another piece of meat. He obliged.

  "I think I have a better title." She clasped her hands and put them in her lap. "And even a few ideas about the plot."

  "You?" Muddy asked. Her mouth was full of biscuit. "That was quite a nap you took."

  Eddie ignored the old woman. "Do tell, dear wife. I await your every suggestion."

  She topped off his coffee and smiled. "I have much to tell, my husband. Join me in your office?"

  "I shall be delighted."

  Some days later, Eddie sat on the stoop outside our house, chatting with Mr. Coffin. The season had begun to turn, and November graced everyone's lips. I lay in the dry grass near them, along with Snow. We soaked up heat from the earth.

  "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.

  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!"

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  Copyright © 2014 by Monica Shaughnessy

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Jumping Jackalope Press

  Shaughnessy, Monica

  The Tell-Tail Heart / Monica Shaughnessy

  eISBN: 978-0-9885629-6-7

  Jacket Design: Monica Shaughnessy

  Edited by Red Adept

  If you enjoy cat mysteries, you may want to check out The Cat's Last Meow by Mandy Broughton.

  Book Description: A cat, a miser, his accountant and lawyer, add three old ladies who travel in style—conditions are ripe for murder.

  The Cat’s Last Meow

  Chapter One

  Never much of a fantasy fan, I knew one thing for certain: Odell Greenry loved Precious every bit as much as Gollum loved his “precious.” And while both objects of obsession could be possessed, neither could be mastered.

  “Poisoned!” He shoved the cat at me.

  “Poisoned?” I re-entered the here-and-now. “Why poisoned?” The roomful of sycophants hung on my every word, awaiting my judgment. Unlike Gollum, old Odell had money—lots of it—which attracted hangers-on. And I, as the cat expert, received sycophantism by proxy.

  “Is the cat ill or not?” Another voice. Hmm—round face, flat nose. Mental dredging produced a name—Raul—and occupation—accountant.

  I knew the routine. Frowning, I laid Precious on the exam table that stood in for her shrine to examine the hairless brute yet again. Of course she struggled, so I took charge. Like a jackhammer to concrete, that was the approach she understood.