The Tellstales Heart - E.A. Poe Parody
Yes, I’m annoyed. Ridiculously annoyed I had been, and still am; but mad, you say? You’d think putting up with those terrible stories would dull my senses to reality, but no -- rather, it has destroyed my imagination. Above all, it destroyed my ability to think about anything decent. As a philosophy major, I have considered heaven and earth. I have thought of hell, but those tales put me through it. Listen! I’m going to tell you what happened, and it’s going to have an actual damn POINT to it.
It’s not easy to put into words how the idea first entered my mind; but once I thought it, I could think of nothing else. There was nothing I wanted, I couldn’t feel anymore. Sure, I loved the old geezer. He had been a nice enough fellow. He’d always been supportive. He didn’t have money, and if he had, I wouldn’t have wanted it. It was his storytelling! Yup, definitely that. He had the wit of a goat -- his stories were drawn out, his characters were flat, his grammar was atrocious, and his plots, oh don’t even get me started on his ambiguous, dry, tangled, boring plots! Whenever he would start telling me a tale, I would have to zone out for hours; and then -- over time -- I decided that I had to kill him, to put an end to his rancid taste in words.
So here’s what I’m getting at. You think I’m crazy. Insane, out of my mind. But you should have heard what I had to put up with. You should have witnessed how well I tuned out that blathering idiot -- how hard I worked to stay awake through his -- how tough--how immensely difficult it was to pull this off. I was so patient with the old fart and his awful stories for the whole week before I finally shut him up. Every night, from around eight until midnight, I’d sit next to his bed and let him disappoint me with his flat works of fiction. Then, after he’d finished his tale of an orphaned boy who lost his parents to a murderous pyromaniac and went on to become the world’s fastest swimmer after having given up at becoming a figure skater, or the tale of a mouse who befriended a cat and travelled across the Great Wall of China in a post-apocalyptic world in search of the last samurai in order to -- well, you get the point. I let him tell me these tales and I pretended, with oh such difficulty, to enjoy them, and over time, I even started to act them out as he told them. Oh, you would have laughed to see how I acted out a little girl who found a lost, rusty bicycle and rode it every day until she was an old, decrepit woman, and was seen by a handsome young prince who claimed it was his when he was a child (which, yes, I already know doesn’t make sense in terms of how time works) and who married her for finding his lost childhood bike and his magic kiss turned her young again. It was awful. Yet, I acted every step out, fooling the old man into thinking I was just so caught up in his tales that I couldn’t help but to react in such a jolly way. It took hours of sweat and misplaced modifiers and lack of originality and gaping plot holes to convince the guy I was actually enjoying it. Ha! Anybody with a mind less keen than my own would have cracked under the pressure, if not the appalling prose. And every night, every night after being afflicted with awful anecdotes, after the old fart talked himself tired, he would take his book (self printed, of course, since not the most desperate of publishers would dare touch his work), tuck it under his pillow, and snore, unaware of his disgrace, his lack of attention to detail or originality, his non sequiturs and nasty narratives. For seven long nights I listened to his crap, and it was impossible to do the work; see, it wasn't the old man himself that vexed me, but his stories, his words, his evil writings.
And so, after every night of this nonsense, as he slept, I crept back into his room and slithered toward his bed. I slid his book out from under the pillow and cautiously, oh so cautiously (for the book sleeve crumpled) -- scribbled out the pages with a marker, one by one, ever so slowly, to seal those lousy words from innocent eyes. I did this for seven long nights -- there were a lot of pages, you see. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into his room, spoke to him in a courageous manner, calling him by name in a tone so hearty, and inquiring as to whether he dreamt any dreams -- boorish cliches of dreams, no doubt, if a mind so simple as his could dream even any dreams. So you see he would have been a very profound old coot, indeed, to suspect that every night, at the witching hour, I looked upon him with hatred while I destroyed his work. But he had committed them all to memory, his horrible stories, and never did see the inside of that hardcover monstrosity.
On the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than mine did. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers -- of my keen mental judgement. I could hardly contain my feelings of triumph. I had rid the world of his book. But in that triumph, I knew, with his book no longer readable, the tales he told existed in but one place, still looming over me. His mind. His dull, dreary mind. To think that there I was, opening his door, bit by bit, and he couldn’t even dream of my secret deeds or thoughts -- no, he definitely wasn’t creative enough for that. Which is why I had to snuff out that mundane mind. I chuckled lightly at the idea; and maybe he heard me, because 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 (you see, he had blackout curtains, to block out the bright city lights), and so I knew that he couldn’t see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it, steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and was about to do the deed, when my thumb slipped from the handle and the doorknob clicked and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out -- “whoozit eh what?” I kept quite still, obviously, and said nothing. For a whole hour I didn’t move a muscle, but in the meantime I didn’t hear him lie back down. No, no, he was still sitting up in his bed, listening; just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to his damn crappy stories.
Suddenly I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror, not of pain or of grief. It was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. The groan of a total wuss! I knew the sound well. Far too often, just after sunset, when all the world readied for sleep, it has swelled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terror of seeing that old codger walk toward me, book in hand, ready to lay upon he is ill-written words wrecked terror upon my mind. Oh yes, I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him -- although not really. Sorry not sorry and all that. Yes, I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. I knew his fears had been growing and growing ever since then. He’d been trying to imagine them as no cause for concern, but his imagination, weak as it was, could not do so. He was probably trying to say to himself -- “It’s nothing but the wind in the chimney, maybe a mouse on the floor. Or heck, maybe it was just a cricket that chirped, like, one time and one time only, right?” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these thoughts; but he had found them all in vain. All in vain, because Death, in approaching him, had stalked his black shadow before him; death had enveloped him, the victim. And it was the mournful influence of that unperceived shadow of Death that caused the uncreative old man to feel -- though he had neither seen nor heard -- to feel the presence of my head within his room.
(Typical. Absolutely no skill when it comes to writing, but an acute spatial awareness of his surroundings. Gosh, this man choked me -- not, obviously, literally in the way I planned to choke him, but... well, you get the picture.)
Anyway, after I’d waited a long while, very patiently I might add, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to push open only slightly -- very, very slightly the corner of the curtain next to the door. So I pushed it aside -- you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily -- until, at length a tiny ray of nighttime light pollution, like the thread of a… I don’t know, neon spider? (Ugh, his inability to create basic similes or metaphors is rubbing off on me.) Anyway, a tiny thread of light, just enough for my eyes to adjust and see his silhouette, fell upon him as he was -- I just cannot believe this -- writing. Yes, apparently I had been waiting there for hours, unmoving, barely breathing, thinking he was all paranoid and attentive, when really he was just night-writing. IN THE DARK! Who even does that? Jotting down ideas for his next incohesive instalment of story-time drudgery -- and I grew furious as I gazed upon the sight. I knew without a doubt he was coming up with a bunch of ridiculous ideas that have nothing to do with each other, his pen scribbling out more and more nonsense onto the page, a dull, blue-ink stream of terrible writing, the idea of which chilled the very marrow in my bones; it was all I could focus on, that damned pen in his damned hand, writing in that damned notebook, his damned awful ideas! And didn’t I mention to you that what you mistake for madness is merely over-awareness of this godawful writing? Yes, I majored in philosophy, but I also minored in creative writing, so it’s not just that I personally didn’t like his writing, but I knew, from a technical standpoint, that it wasn’t merely unenjoyable, but also just… just really, really bad! Now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull sound. Despite its softness, it was not unlike the deafening chirp of spring cicadas, enveloping the entire atmosphere for hours upon hours, in just a few moments of his mumblings. It was the old man muttering his ideas out loud as he wrote them, just as horrid in their first draft dribble dripping monotonously from his mouth as they become in their final draft. This heightened my rage as the dripping of a leaky faucet in an otherwise silent room drives a man’s mind to unrest.
But like, seriously, this guy’s prattling is way worse, because on top of his voice just sounding outright awful, there are the words -- which, by this point, I don’t have to tell you again are just -- oh but I will -- they’re the worst! The absolute worst!
But despite my inner turmoil, I refrained and kept still. I barely breathed. I stood motionless, steadily holding the curtain so as not to draw attention to myself, to burn into memory exactly where his pen was, how it slid on the paper, writing that filth, that garbage, as the hellish hand moved quicker and quicker, and his mumbling grew louder, yet more incomprehensible.
I continued to stay still, though. I didn’t move a muscle. I barely even breathed. Completely motionless. I was completely still. Through all that, the old man kept mumbling. In fact, he started mumbling faster. Like he was hoping writing some crap down on paper would calm him down or something, I guess; and apparently he can’t write without murmuring out loud to himself. His creative muscle, had he even one in his entire body, must have been straining. The scribbling of his pen grew faster. At such a pace, the flow and syntax of his words must have been extremely messy. And yet the ferocity of his writing grew harsher, I say, harsher every moment! -- I told you I was nervous, right? Well, I was. Still am. But seriously, at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of this old house, so annoying the noise that was his scribbling and mumbling excited me to uncontrollable irritation. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the mumbling and scribbling grew louder, louder! I thought he’d rip through the paper with how aggressively he was writing. And suddenly a new fear came up -- the fear of what another of those rancid stories being finished, being fully brought to reality, what it would do to my very soul. I was very much personally offended by how bad these were. Seriously. If you read one, you’d understand. But don’t. No, really, don’t read one. Don’t subject yourself to that type of torture. Trust me.
Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, the story. I couldn’t have him finish it. So then, I decided, the old man’s hour had come. With a loud yell, I threw open the door and leapt into the room. He shrieked once -- just once. In an instant, I ripped the writing utensils from his hand and dragged him to the floor, then suffocated him with his own pillow, keeping from him the air like he, with his horrid stories, had snuffed the light from my very soul. I smiled, knowing the mumbles I heard through the pillow must not have been the tellings of terrible tales, but the sounds of muffled terror. This didn’t vex me, because I couldn’t make out any poorly-chosen words; and, of course, because that’s totally what he gets for instilling within me the terror of both poetry and prose. For turning fiction into some sort of severe psychological torture. Seriously. Like bad-writing ptsd or something. I just can’t even. But, like all things, it eventually came to an end. The old fart was dead. I removed the pillow and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon his heart and held it there for a while. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His stories would bother me no more.
Look, if you still think I’m mad, you won’t think so after I tell you about all the wise precautions I took in concealing the body. The night went on, and I worked quickly, but silently. First things first, I dismembered the corpse. I removed the head and arms and legs. And to top it all off, I cut out his heart and stuffed it into his blabbering mouth. Eat your heart old, oh man. Hah! Then I took the book, that bloody awful book, and stuffed it into a bag with the head. Even with its pages unreadable, I wanted the damn thing out of my sight. Anyway, then I took up a few floorboards -- they’re mahogany, you know -- and stuff his, uh, parts, right under there. Then I replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out -- no stain of any kind -- no blood-spot whatsoever. What, you think I don’t know how to lay out a tarp? Not to mention I used the tub. Anyway, when I was done all that, it was about four o’clock. Still dark. But then, right on the dot, just as the old grandfather clock chimed, there was a knocking at the door. Pretty coincidental timing, eh? I knew I was in the clear, so I went down and opened it with a light heart. Three cops. Apparently someone heard the old bugger’s shriek and called it in. Annoying. But hey, I had nothing to fear; like I said before, they couldn’t have found anything. I let them in, even though they didn’t have a warrant. No need to raise suspicion. I smiled and told them the shriek was mine -- night terrors. The old man, I said, was out of town. I gave them a once-over of the whole apartment, told them to check out whatever they wanted. Eventually, we got to the old man’s room. I showed them that all his stuff was undisturbed. Being a little overly enthusiastic, I must admit, in my confidence, I dragged in some chairs and told them to take a load off. I had the audacity of my perfect triumph to actually sit right on top of where I hid the old victim’s corpse. Yup, right there.
The cops were satisfied. I’d convinced them with my manners. I was completely at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted openly. But before long, I felt myself getting pale, and wanted them gone (ACAB, after all). I had a headache, and there was a ringing in my ears. Yet, still they sat and chatted away. The ringing got worse. It went on and one, louder and more distinct. I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling, but it continued and gained definiteness -- until, at length, I realized that the noise wasn’t in my ears. Now I was getting really pale -- I talked more fluently, and slightly louder. But the sound increased -- and what could I do? It was a low, dull, aggravating sound -- like the sound of neighbours chatting through poorly insulated walls. No, no, not neighbours chatting. That old man, telling his stories, reading them out from beyond the grave, through the floor. I gasped, but the officers didn’t hear it. I spoke more quickly -- more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I got up and started ranting about trifling things, high pitched and with passionate gestures; but the noise kept increasing. Why the heck wouldn’t it stop? I walked back and forth quickly, almost as if I was getting frustrated by the cops’ observations -- and that noise still kept getting louder. Oh gods! I could almost make out the words. I could almost visualize him writing out poorly planned passages right there in the space under us. What could I do? I ranted, raved, swore! I flipped over the damn chair I’d been sitting on, and grated it along the floor, but the noise was everywhere, continually getting louder and faster. Louder and louder and louder! And still, the cops chatted pleasantly, and smiled. How the heck couldn’t they hear it? No, wait. Yeah, of course they heard it! --They suspected! --They knew! --They were mocking me, making fun of my horror. I thought so and I still think so. But honestly, anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this mockery! I couldn’t take it anymore, those hypocritical smiles! I knew I had to say something or die! And now -- again! --listen! Louder! Louder! Louder!
“Villains!”I I shrieked, “enough of this sham! I admit it! --Tear up the planks! Here, here! --It is the bothersome blabbering of his hideous head!”
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