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--In this short story, writer Sophia Taghizadeh crafts an alternate ending to “The Tell-Tale Heart,” Edgar Allan Poe’s masterpiece about insanity, murder, and guilt.
The coldness of the steel chair engulfed my legs, and rose to my stomach and fingers. My hands touched the light beige file in front of me. My colleagues told me that this case is unusually disturbing. I didn’t believe them, as I have heard of worse cases in my 15 years as an interrogator.
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I started to scan the front of the file. It had the usual paperclip with the picture of the suspect attached. I looked at their photo. They looked somewhat dazed, as though they didn’t know what they were doing at a police station at 3 a.m. That is generally what we see during this time of night. But something about them is…different. Their eyes. I stared into them as if they were words, inked in red as “Day Off” written on my schedule by my boss. Why are their eyes so intriguing? What are they hiding?
My thoughts were immediately brushed off as there was a knock on the door. “Come in,” I said. The door slowly opened, as if time was moving in slow motion. The first thing I saw was the suspect’s eyes. They stared directly into my deep brown irises. Shivers crawled down my spine like a spider crawling on their prey. I forced myself to look down at the grey floor. That didn’t help much, as I felt their eyes piercing through all my features, even my flaws.
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The police officer who handled the defendant pushed them onto the steel chair across from me. I checked to see if the officer kept the handcuffs on this being. They are on them. Thank God. The deputy looked at me and then walked out of the small, dull room and closed the door behind them. I took a deep breath and slowly, but surely, looked at them. Their eyes. Their eyes looked worse in person, as the bloodshot red veins branched like ivy around their scleras. Stop. Look at the case file. I turned my attention back to the matter at hand. I opened the file and was met with 20 pages of paper, all filled with black words. I started a conversation while I looked at the papers. Their voice was strange. It was breathy and hoarse. It sounded as if they were distraught and confused. And somewhat crazy. I began to ask them what they first remembered.
“An eye!” they exclaimed.
An…eye? My mind immediately went back to my past overthinking of the suspect’s eye. “What eye?” I asked.
“The old man! That vulture eye!” They cried out.
I was puzzled. So I asked them to tell me the whole story.
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After two hours of talking to them, I was exhausted. The police officer came back to retrieve them. Right after the door closed, I spontaneously laid my head on the freezing table. That was the most excruciating interrogation I’ve ever had. The details, the gore, the abnormality. I should’ve believed my friends, because they were right. This was very disturbing. I couldn’t wrap my head around everything that monster spat out of its mouth. And their eyes…they were staring blankly at me the entire time. I had to write down their timeline of events without any eye contact, each detail making the story even more depressing and dreary. I forced my head up and readjusted my eyes to the dim lighting in the room. Like a sloth, I got out of the chair I’d been sitting on for hours. My legs screamed with pain, and I wanted to close my eyes. I pushed myself to get to the door and leave the room where my whole career changed in a matter of hours.
It was two days after the monstrous events had happened. I had so many questions for the person, so I decided to go to their solitary confinement cell. I got there quickly, as I was filled with anticipation about what else they had to say.
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Once I got to the door of the cell, I took a deep breath. A very deep breath. I knocked on the door gently, not to disturb the other cellmates. I waited for a reply. Nothing. What? I was confused because I knew this human being was as vigilant as a cat, especially with those eyes. I knocked again. Nothing.
In desperation, I asked one of the officers to give me a key to get in. They accepted my plea, trusting that I wouldn’t let any prisoners out. I came back to the door with the key. I pushed the key into the keyhole and moved my wrist. Click. The door was unlocked within a flash. I slowly grabbed the door handle and turned it, my anticipation growing. I pushed the door forward, the cell interior in full view. I put my hand on my mouth. They were gone. Pools of blood covered the white floor, and red handprints were on the walls. I stared at the body in complete shock. Everything was frightening, but one part of their body stood out. Their eyes. They were staring right at me. My eyes began to burn. I screamed for the police officers. I need to quit this job.
Author Bio:
Sophia Taghizadeh lives and writes in the Cleveland area.
For Highbrow Magazine