Tales of Terror

by Les Martin

  “Where is this Amontillado?” Fortunato grumbled. “At the end of the earth?”

  “Not quite,” I said. “But I told you this cellar is large. So many are buried here.”

  “Ah, yes. Your family,” said Fortunato. His lips curled. “The noble Montresors. Tell me, what is your coat of arms? I forget.”

  “A huge human foot of gold in a field of blue,” I said. “The foot is crushing a snake. While the snake’s fangs are biting the heel.”

  “And the motto?” asked Fortunato.

  “‘No one who angers me goes unpunished,’” I told him.

  “Very good,” said Fortunato. He started to chuckle. But a fit of coughing cut his laughter off. I opened another bottle for him.

  “Try this,” I said. “It is even better than the first.”

  He drank eagerly, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Excellent,” he said. Then he made a strange gesture with his hand.

  I looked at him, puzzled.

  He made the sign again.

  When he saw that I did not understand, he said, “It is a sign of the Masons. The secret society that I belong to. I wanted to see if you were one of us.”

  I smiled. “But I am. This is my sign,” I said. From under my cloak I took a mason’s trowel.

  It was Fortunato’s turn to look puzzled. Then he smiled. “Ah, a joke. You surprise me. You do have a little wit at least.”

  He took another long swig. He threw the empty bottle against the wall. The broken glass fell among bones piled there.

  “Not all your family had coffins,” he said.

  “There were many Montresors,” I said. “Generations and generations of Montresors and their servants. And others as well.”

  “Along with all this wonderful wine,” said Fortunato. He looked at the high wine racks. His eyes still shone. But now through a mist. A mist of drink. His voice was blurred, too. “But where is the Amontillado?”

  “Not far,” I assured him.

  Fortunato’s walk was even more unsteady now. I gripped his arm to keep him from stumbling.

  “Maybe we should go back,” I said again. “Feel how cold it is getting. Feel how damp the rock is. Luchesi can—”

  “Forget Luchesi!” Fortunato bellowed. “The Amontillado!”

  “Yes, the Amontillado,” I said.

  The passageway sloped downward through one archway after another. The archways were lower and lower. The saltpeter was thicker, too. It hung like cobwebs everywhere. Bones were piled along the walls up to the curved ceiling.

  “We’ve reached it,” I announced.

  I pointed to the end of the passageway lined with skeletons. There was a low arch. There was a pile of bones in front of it. Beyond the arch a final room had been cut into the rock.

  “At last the Amontillado,” Fortunato growled hoarsely.

  “Yes, the Amontillado,” I said.

  Fortunato broke into a staggering run. The bells on his cap jingled. He reached the archway before me. He stuck his torch into the room, but it no longer was flaming. His torch gave off only a feeble glow. He could not see where the room ended.

  “Go in,” I said. I followed close behind.

  “The Amontillado! Where is it?” Fortunato demanded. He had reached a bare rock wall. Puzzled, he stared at it.

  He did not notice the iron rings in the rock. Or the chain hanging from one of them. And the padlock on the other.

  I did not give him time to notice.

  Swiftly I passed the chain tight around his body. Then I fastened it with the padlock.

  I pulled the key out of the lock and stepped back to the archway.

  “Feel the rock, dear friend,” I said. “How damp it is. How cold. I beg you once more. Let us return. No? You won’t? Then I must leave you. But first I will do you one last favor. I will make sure no one disturbs you while you enjoy the Amontillado.”

  “The Amontillado!” said Fortunato. He shook his drunken head dully. He still did not know what was happening.

  “Yes, the Amontillado,” I said as I pushed aside a pile of bones.

  Behind them was a heap of large building stones. There was cement as well. I used wine instead of water to mix the cement. Then I set to work with my trowel. I laid a row of stones across the entrance to the room.

  I heard a signal that the wine was wearing off Fortunato. There was a low moaning cry. It was not the cry of a drunken man.

  Then there was silence. Stubborn silence. Or perhaps hopeless silence.

  I kept on working. I laid a row of stones on top of the first row. Then another. And another.

  At that point I heard the chain loudly clanking. He must have been desperately trying to break it. Or tear it free from the wall.

  I stopped to better enjoy the sounds. I sat down on a pile of bones to listen to the noise. It was like listening to music.

  The clanking ended. I went back to work. I finished the fifth row. The sixth. The seventh. The wall was as high as my chest now.

  I paused again. I thrust my torch over the wall. I could dimly see Fortunato’s chained figure.

  Screams burst from his throat. Hideous screams. One after another.

  I stiffened. I retreated. My hand went to the hilt of my sword. Then my other hand touched the rock side of the passageway. I felt how solid it was. How strong. I thought of the iron rings in the rock. The rings that Fortunato was trying to pull out. I relaxed.

  I returned to my unfinished wall. I answered Fortunato’s screams with my own. My screams were louder and stronger. He was quiet by the time I stopped.

  I laid the eighth row of stones. The ninth. The tenth. Almost all of the eleventh. The last row.

  By now it was midnight. The wall reached the ceiling. There was a single gap left. I just had to put one large stone in place. Then cement it.

  It was heavy. Panting, I lifted it. I moved it partway into the gap. Then I heard laughter. It made my hair stand on end.

  It was followed by a sad voice. A voice that did not sound like Fortunato at all.

  “Ha, ha, ha!” it croaked. “What a clever joke. You are a witty fellow. I am sorry for ever thinking the opposite. We’ll have a good laugh about it back at Carnival. Over a good bottle of wine.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Over the Amontillado.”

  “He, he, he!” Fortunato cackled. “Right. Over the Amontillado. But it’s getting late. People will wonder where we are. My wife will start worrying. Let us be gone.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Let us be gone.”

  “For the love of God, Montresor!” Fortunato shrieked.

  “Yes,” I said. “For the love of God.”

  I waited for him to say more. But there was nothing.

  “Fortunato!” I called.

  No answer.

  “Fortunato!” I called again.

  Still no answer.

  I thrust my torch through the hole. It barely fit through the gap. I let it drop into the room.

  I heard only the jingling of bells. The bells on Fortunato’s fool’s cap.

  Suddenly I began to feel a little ill. Because of the dampness, no doubt.

  I hurried to cement the last stone into place. Then I piled old bones against the new wall. They covered it completely.

  That was half a century ago.

  The bones have not been disturbed.

  Fortunato, rest in peace!

  They say I am mad. Do not believe it. I am sane. Totally sane and intelligent. Highly intelligent. Of course, like all highly intelligent people, I am sensitive—very sensitive.

  Take my sense of hearing. My hearing above all. Drop a pin and I will hear it. But my other senses are keen as well. My sense of sight, for instance. I see things that most people cannot. Otherwise the old man still would be alive.

  You see, on the surface, I had every reason to like him. He was always sunny and smiling. He would try to brighten my darkest moods. He was kind and understanding. He never questioned my complaints about
the world. He charged me no rent for my room in his house, asking only for help with heavy chores. Indeed, when I could not sell my writing, he offered to lend me money. Not that I would take it—especially when I looked into his eye.

  His eye, I say, for he had only one, with a black patch over the other. It was a pale blue eye. Even now, I can close my eyes and see it. A film coated that eye like a shimmering teardrop. But that coating could not hide his pity. I could see it plain as my face in the mirror.

  It was easy to see why he looked down on me. He was rich and I was poor. He had known success in life and I knew only failure. I could understand his scorn—but I could not forgive it. I had to make him pay for it. But more than that, I had to wipe that scorn from his eye. He had to see me as I really was. He had to look up to me. He had to die with his cursed eye open.

  Each day I answered the old man’s smile with my own. Each day I returned his kindness with my own. Each morning I asked if he had slept well. Each bedtime I wished him pleasant dreams. And each night at midnight I opened his bedroom door. I opened it slowly, silently, and carefully.

  Night after night I did this. You see, practice makes perfect, and mine would be the perfect crime.

  As I said, each midnight I opened his door. I opened it just wide enough for my head to poke through. In my hand was a lantern. It was lit but covered with cloth. I thrust the lantern into the room. I parted the cloth so that a single ray of light fell on the old man in bed. I moved the light to fall on the eye I hated. But for seven nights that eye remained closed. And it had to be open to see me when I struck. Everything had to be perfect.

  On the eighth night, I opened the door more slowly than ever. Never had I felt so powerful. The old man did not dream what I was doing—and would do. I almost chuckled at his blindness and my brilliance.

  Maybe I did chuckle. Maybe he heard me. I do not know. I only know I heard him stir in bed.

  But this did not stop me. Tonight nothing could stop me. Tonight everything felt perfect.

  I had my head in the room and was about to shine the lantern when a second sound reached my ears. It was the rustle of the old man rising from bed. Then came a quavering cry, “Who’s there?”

  I froze. For an hour I did not move. It was not hard to stand so still. Quite the reverse. I enjoyed every moment. It was like letting ice cream slowly melt on my tongue. I wanted to make it last. It was delicious to picture the old man trembling in the dark.

  He would tell himself it was nothing. He had heard the wind in the chimney. Or maybe a mouse had run across the floor. His shivering would not stop. He could not see my head in the doorway, but he could feel it. He could feel a growing chill—the chill of death coming closer. I could picture this, for I myself have had this waking nightmare. I have had it all too often.

  After an hour, I still had not heard him lie down. He, like me, was frozen, but he was frozen with fear.

  It was I who moved first. Ever so slightly, I parted the cloth on the lantern. The thinnest of rays shot out. Like an arrow hitting the center of a target, it fell on the old man’s pale blue eye.

  Still I did not move. That glistening eye held me in its spell. It seemed to drain the blood from my body. Then I heard the sound a ticking watch might make.

  At first it was muffled, as if the watch were wrapped in cotton. Only someone with my sharp hearing could hear it. I not only heard it, I knew what it was. It was the beating of the old man’s heart.

  It did not frighten me. Not in the least. In fact, it made my own heart quicken. It was like a drum calling me to battle. My body tensed. My muscles swelled. I ached to spring into action.

  Still I paused. I wanted to let this force fill me from head to toe.

  But the beating kept getting louder. Louder and louder. Soon neighbors would hear it. I had to stop it. Already it was so loud that I could barely hear my own yell as I ripped the cover off the lantern. I could barely hear the old man scream as I charged into the room. He was still screaming as my fingers found his throat.

  Grunting, I choked that scream off. As my fingers tightened, the beating grew fainter. I smiled. Only I could hear it now. I gave a final squeeze. The beating stopped. I put my hand on the old man’s chest. I held it there a full minute. There was no movement. He was stone dead.

  Joy washed over me. The joy of victory. But I did not lose my head.

  I carried the old man into the bathroom and laid him in the tub.

  Hours later, my task was done. The old man’s body lay in pieces in the space below the bedroom floor.

  I replaced the boards so perfectly that no one could see they had been disturbed.

  I washed the tub so that not a trace of blood remained.

  Finally, I straightened the bed coverings.

  Such care took time. I heard a church bell strike four. No matter. I could sleep late. And I could sleep well.

  Bone tired, I returned to my room. I put on my nightclothes. I lay down in bed and pulled up the covers. Then I heard a knocking on the front door of the house.

  Instantly I was wide awake. I felt my heart racing. But I made myself move slowly. I took my time going to the door. I made a show of rubbing sleep from my eyes when I opened it.

  Three policemen stood there.

  Was anything the matter? I asked. My voice dripped with respect.

  The police were just as polite. They hated to bother me. But a passerby had reported a noise in the night. It might have been a scream. It might have come from this house. They had to look into it. Could they come in?

  Another person might have shown fear. Not I. I welcomed them. In the hallway I faced them without flinching. I answered their questions without a stutter.

  No, I had heard no noise.

  Yes, I was in the house alone.

  No, I was not the owner.

  The owner was on a trip to Europe. He was in poor health and looking for a cure.

  I was here to look after his property.

  The policemen nodded. They were ready to believe me. They were ready to go.

  A weaker man might have let them leave, but not I. I would not let them go so quickly. I had waited too long for a chance like this. It was my chance to mock the world that had mocked me for so long. These stupid fools would not cut it short. I would play them for fools a bit longer. I would leave no doubt who was the better man.

  Maybe there had been a noise, I told them. Thieves might have broken into the apartment. The owner had valuables in his bedroom. Perhaps thieves were still lurking there. Would the officers come with me to make sure everything was all right?

  I led the police to the bedroom. I was careful not to let them see the triumph in my eyes.

  I took a seat as the police searched the room. I sat there watching them like a king on a throne. Even better, to add spice to this moment, my chair was directly over the remains of the old man.

  The police finished their work. They found nothing wrong. Yet they seemed in no hurry to go.

  A slight chill went through me. It was time for them to go. Why did they linger here?

  It was cold out, I reasoned. They might be waiting for me to offer them coffee or something stronger. Or perhaps they simply were lazy and wanted a long break from work. There had to be many reasons why they stayed and chatted about crime in the neighborhood and the importance of staying alert.

  Well, let them stay as long as they wanted. They would not see a trace of worry or weakness in me. I listened to them and agreed with them without a hint of nerves.

  But as they stayed and stayed, and talked and talked, my head began to ache. Still I kept smiling and nodding at their chatter. Even when a faint ringing started in my head, I gave nothing away. If anything, I smiled and nodded even more. I made my own voice rise above the ringing as I joined in their talk. Talk of sports, of politics, of families, of the weather. Talk that would drive the sanest of men mad.

  And all the while, the sound in my head grew louder.

  I could no longer sit stil
l. I had to move to clear my mind.

  I rose to my feet, still talking. I punched my fist into my palm to show how strongly I felt about what I was saying. But what was I saying? I hardly knew. The sound was drowning all else out.

  I realized then that the sound was not in my mind. It came from outside. And I could no longer mistake it for ringing.

  It was the sound a ticking watch might make.

  I knew that sound. It was muffled now—the sound of a watch wrapped in cotton. But it would grow louder. It would grow clearer. You would not mistake it for a watch ticking. You would know it was a heart beating. Beating, beating, beating.

  I raised my voice even more, but it was too late. Already that beating was louder than my voice. Louder than anything short of a scream.

  The police showed no sign of being disturbed. In fact, they were smiling as they talked.

  I could not follow what they were saying. All I could hear was the beating. But their smiles told me more than words could. They were smiles of silent laughter. The police were laughing at me. Laughing at me for pretending nothing was wrong. Laughing at me as they let me go on and on. Laughing at me as if I were a clown. I was not playing them for fools. They were playing with me. Playing with me the way a cat plays with a mouse.

  Of course they heard the beating. They had to hear it. By now it was deafening. The walls seemed to shake with it. My head was splitting. But those mocking smiles were worse. They were like knives cutting into me. Cutting me to pieces.

  I could stand it no longer. The beating was too loud. The smiles were too cruel.

  I had to stop this torture.

  I had to stop it before it drove me mad.

  “You monsters!” I screamed. “You fiends! You win! I confess! Tear up these planks! Look under them! You will find it there! You will find that hideously beating heart!”

  “You are condemned to death!”

  I heard no more. Not how I was to die. Nor when. Nor where.

  I already knew why I was to die. I was an agent of France. The new France. The France of the Revolution. The France of Napoleon. The France that wanted to free all Europe from the chains of the past.