Моника Шонесси - The Tell-Tail Heart

A light breeze blew, fanning my whiskers and stirring the curtains in the front window. Mr. Uppity had yet to close the sash. I hopped on the sill and examined the slender gap below the casing, an opening too small for my ample figure. What an embarrassing predicament to get stuck! Excuse me, sir, would you mind laying a boot to my backside and pushing me through? There's a good boy. Now come along to prison. Humph. I blew out my breath, wiggled a bit, and slipped through with unexpected ease, slumping into the parlor with a thump. I'd lost more weight than I'd thought.

I crouched behind the curtains and waited to see if the noise of my unfortunate landing would call someone from another floor. When it did not, I emerged and surveyed the room. The man had no furniture, well, none to speak of with any fondness, and what little he did have had been pushed against the walls, as if in anticipation of a dance assembly. I blinked at the busy striped wallpaper, dizzied by the pattern. Mr. Uppity already lived in a prison of his own making, complete with bars! Most men had no decorating sense. Thinking of our own home, the pieces that gave it a cozy feel had been supplied by Sissy. Pillows and doilies and the like. Yet Eddie was not without these sensibilities. He had many strong opinions on the placement of furniture and exercised them to Muddy's consternation. I lingered in the doorway and swiveled my ears, listening for human activity. I heard not a thing, not even the bump-bump of before. This emboldened me to enter the hallway.

The house smelled of rancid meat and dander enough that I wondered why the man hadn't opened all his windows. Perhaps he'd grown used to the scent or even liked it. Either way, I had no interest in the idiosyncrasies of a killer, save for those that would help me catch one.

My pulse intensified as I entered the kitchen. Beyond a scrap bucket full of cabbage leaves, I found nothing of interest, and yet, for some inexplicable reason, my heart began to beat faster still as I reentered the hallway. I followed it to what I guessed would be the drawing room or even the dining room. My assumption, however, proved wrong, and I discovered a bedchamber instead. I had never seen one on the first floor of a house so grand. Then again, I hadn't been inside any grand houses aside from Mr. Coffin's. Curiosity got the best of me one day, and I followed him home for tea.

I stood in the open doorway of Mr. Uppity's private abode. The shades had been pulled, casting the room in shadows that flitted between the bed and dresser in a most unsettling way. They weren't real. They couldn't be. I scolded my imagination and entered the room. The further I progressed toward its center, however, the faster my heart pounded until I thought it would leap from my chest, such was the ferocity of its tempo . Bump-bump, bump-bump . The constant drumming drove me mad as it shuddered along my bones, my skin, my muscles. I sat back to consider this strange turn in my health— bump-bump —and solved the conundrum. My chest cavity didn't contain the beat; the floorboards did. The sound lay beneath my haunches.

Bump-bump.

I shot forward and arched my back.

Fright pricked me with her pin-sharp claws. What the devil lived beneath the floorboards? Ignorance seemed like a reasonable state in which to remain. Yet I could not give in to my fear. Not only was my pride at stake, Philadelphia's citizens depended on my success. I listened once more.

Bump-bump.

My toes vibrated with the sound. At first, I thought it mice. But the pulse was too strong. It writhed beneath me with the strength of a full-grown man. I had to take a closer look. I reentered the kitchen and found the cellar entrance—a whiff of damp earth beneath the jamb told me as much. With the help of a close-by worktable, I pawed the knob and had it turning in no time.

The door swung open. I descended the steps.

Bump-bump. Bump-bump.

The rhythm grew louder as I entered the chilly subterrain. Clever as I may be, I hadn't mastered the working of a gas lamp or candle. So I crept through the dark, unsure of my route until my eyes adjusted. Even then, footing remained far from certain. The smell, however, did not. Decaying flesh had an unmistakable odor.

Bump-bump. Bump-bump. Bump-bump

I followed the noise to an area directly beneath the bedchamber. Owing to the quality of the home, workmen had finished the space with more lumber and white plaster. However, someone or something lived between the cellar ceiling and the first floor because a large, wet stain marred the patch overhead. Using a cannery shelf as a viewpoint, I located the entrance with little difficulty. Carved in the ceiling atop the stairs, the black mouth hung wide and round, waiting to be fed. I reached it by scaling the handrail and jumping to a sconce. The size of the opening gave me courage, for it appeared no bigger than my head. Whomever or whatever lay in wait could not be any larger than this, I reasoned. I said a little prayer, leaped into the unknown, and belly-crawled between the floors.

Bump…bump.

The thumping stopped. I paused. I crept forward. I paused. I sniffed. The odor of rotting meat mingled with that of another: rat urine. My whiskers shot forward.

Silence.

The rodents must have caught my scent, too, because they began to scramble in countless number. They scurried between the joists, knocking the bedchamber floor with their backs as they tried to flee. Bump-bump-bump-bump-bump. I'd never caught a creature this large before, and I could hardly count that chicken last summer. She was an old, fat pillow—mostly feathers. But I'd come too far to let a little thing like teeth stop me. Ahead I forged. I hadn't gone three steps when I broke through the mysterious wet patch I'd seen earlier. From this small hole grew a very large one that unraveled half the ceiling. I fell in a jumble of blood-soaked plaster and rats upon the cellar floor. Great Cat Above! Half the rodent population of Philadelphia had been living here.

And they'd been feasting on Mr. Uppity.

A Leg Up

Pieces of Mr. Uppity's body lay scattered in the rubble. An arm here, a leg there—still clothed, I might add. They could've belonged to another human if not for the head. That familiar item lay near my front paws, nose pointing north like a sundial. Covered by a milky veil, his eyes were no more useful than Caroline's, an irony that did not escape me. Yet even in death, the blue orbs still had the power to terrify. I let the rats slither into the corners, undisturbed, and contemplated this bizarre outcome. Even if Mr. Uppity had been the one to kill those women, someone else had killed him .

The front door opened and slammed shut.

I waited, hoping I wouldn't be discovered. A spry human with a bed sheet could've caught me here, given the cramped space and lack of escape choices. My gaze traveled to the ceiling. What luck! The floorboards of the bedchamber hadn't given way, increasing the odds of my deception. If need be, I would stay here all night and slip out in the morning. I'd just settled into my predicament when I recalled the basement door. I'd left it ajar.

Footsteps struck the wood overhead with irregularity. Thud, clack, thud, clack.

If escape was my first priority, evidence finished a close second. I couldn't leave without a piece of Mr. Uppity. Setting aside my disgust, I clawed loose the body part that would convince Eddie: an eye. If I made it out alive, I would show it to him, he would show it to the constable, and my killer would be caught. I grasped the item gently between my teeth and headed for the door.

Thud, clack, thud, clack. The villain stood in silhouette at the top of the stairs. A match strike. The hiss and crackle of a candlewick. I narrowed my eyes to protect them from the light.