Tales of Terror Read online

  Contents

  The Masque of the Red Death

  The Cask of Amontillado

  The Tell-Tale Heart

  The Pit and the Pendulum

  A terrible sickness spread over the land. It was called the Red Death. Red is the color of blood. Blood oozing through every pore of the skin. That was the sign of the sickness and the seal of death.

  All who caught it died within a half hour. But first they felt horrible pain and grew dizzy. Then they were stained red with their own blood.

  With the Red Death came fear. No one was safe from the Death. And no one was safe from the fear.

  No one, that is, except one man.

  The great Prince Prospero ruled the land. He was the strongest of the strong. The bravest of the brave. The richest of the rich. The Red Death was mighty, but not as mighty as Prince Prospero. Fear might rule others, but not a ruler like him.

  Let the Red Death rage everywhere. Let it turn farms into graveyards. Let it litter city streets with corpses. Let it slay workers at work, children in school. It could not touch Prince Prospero or those he chose to save.

  Prince Prospero had many castles. But one was his favorite by far. He himself had drawn its plans. He had made sure the builders followed them. The castle was perfect down to the last detail. It was like a mirror of the prince’s mind. It reflected everything he desired.

  The prince now went to this castle. With him came the flower of his royal court. The boldest knights. The most beautiful ladies. Musicians, ballet dancers, jugglers, and clowns to amuse them. And servants to care for their every want and need.

  All told, a thousand people came with Prospero. The castle was more than large enough for them. And easily able to feed them. Storerooms held food for years of feasting. Trees in the gardens bore fruit for every season. A spring brought fresh water from deep in the earth. Vast cellars were filled with the finest wines.

  A wall around the castle stood above all. The highest, thickest wall that could be built.

  Only one door led through this wall. A door of solid iron. The door was locked as soon as the prince and his followers entered. But he was not satisfied with even this. He ordered it sealed shut. Sealed with molten metal. It hardened in an hour. The door was airtight.

  No one could enter the castle now. No matter how desperate to escape the Red Death. And no one could leave. Not even anyone insane enough to risk it.

  The people inside the castle had no choice. They could only enjoy themselves all day and night.

  The people outside had no choice either. They could only wait for the Red Death to strike at any time.

  All those lucky people inside the castle hailed the prince. He had won out over the Red Death. Here in his castle they would live until the Red Death died out. Then the whole land would be theirs. Theirs alone.

  But Prince Prospero could not rest long on his victory. In a few months he faced a new enemy. An enemy within his castle and within his very being. An enemy he had to overcome.

  Boredom.

  It grew stronger with every passing day. Every week. Every month.

  Boredom attacked the prince. It attacked his followers. The most delicious food tasted stale. The rarest wines seemed sour. Clowns drew groans. Jugglers drew yawns.

  Finally, Prince Prospero gathered his followers before him.

  “I invite you to a party,” he said. “A celebration. We have been in the castle six months now. Six months of safety. Six months of pleasure. The best six months of our lives. So I want to make this the best party ever.”

  The party would be a masque, the prince told them. A masked ball—with everyone in costumes. Anyone could come as anything. And could do anything. At this party anything went. The wilder the better.

  And there would be a special treat. The masque would be in Prospero’s private rooms. Only trusted servants had seen them before. Now everyone would enjoy them.

  There was no boredom in the castle that week. Brains and fingers worked overtime to create strange costumes. Tongues wagged about what Prospero’s private rooms were like. The great prince had designed them himself. They had to be very original.

  The prince’s followers were not disappointed.

  The night of the party they poured into the prince’s rooms. Eagerly they explored them.

  All the doors between the rooms were open, but each room was a separate surprise. The prince had not laid out his rooms in a straight line. Each room was at a sharp angle to the one before it. A guest could see only one room at a time. With no hint of what came next.

  The first room was all blue. The vivid blue of an autumn sky. The furniture was blue. The walls and ceiling were blue. A blue carpet covered the floor. And tall blue windows faced each other on two sides.

  The only light in the room came from outside the windows. There, fires blazed in metal stands. The blue windows turned the firelight blue. That blue light bathed the blue of the room.

  The second room was all purple. The purple of kings, bathed in purple light.

  The next one, the green of great lawns.

  Next, the orange of flames.

  After that, the blinding white of snow.

  Then came the violet of a dazzling sunset.

  But nothing prepared a guest for the seventh room. No one could escape its shock.

  The room was black. The deepest black. The black of a bottomless hole.

  Except for the windows.

  They were blood-red. Blood-red light came through them and cast hideous shadows.

  Guests shrank from that light. Quickly they left. Few stayed long enough to see the clock in the room. A towering black clock. But all heard it. It chimed ominously every hour.

  That sound went through every room. It cut through the music. Through the talk. Through the laughter. It was like a sudden chill.

  But when the sound died, the party fever rose again. The party went on, even wilder than before. It was as if everyone had forgotten the clock would chime again. The frightening feeling would return.

  The prince walked among his guests. He was pleased. He had told them to enjoy themselves, and they were obeying his command.

  He smiled to see them dancing. Laughing. Drinking. Their voices grew louder and louder. Their feet more and more clumsy.

  Above all, he was amused by their costumes. He had urged his guests to set no limits on their imagination. They had obeyed. He saw gods and devils, clowns and animals. He saw kings and beggars, policemen and thieves. The divine and the horrible. He saw everything men and women could dream of being.

  Then the party paused again. The black clock was chiming. Twelve times. Midnight had come.

  The last chime died away. Music and laughter rose. The prince looked across the blue room. There he saw the strangest costume of all, and his smile faded.

  The person wearing the costume stood alone. The costume filled other guests with disgust and horror.

  The figure was tall and thin. Its costume was a shroud. A corpse’s shroud that hung from head to feet. Its mask was just as gruesome. A chalk-white mask that was a perfect copy of a corpse’s face. But even this was not the worst of it. The mask was spotted with bright dots of red.

  This guest had come as a victim of the Red Death.

  The prince’s face grew pale with shock. And with a swift, sudden touch of fear.

  Then it grew red with rage.

  He would not let this hideous joke spoil his perfect party.

  “Who dares insult us?” he roared to his followers. “Seize him. Unmask him. So we can know who he is before we hang him at sunrise.”

  Prince Prospero’s commanding voice rang through all the rooms. His followers moved to seize the strange figure.

  But the figure did not retreat. Instead it adv
anced with a slow, solemn step. Straight toward the prince.

  The prince’s followers parted before it. They gave the figure a clear path. A stab of fear went through them. The same icy fear that had touched the prince himself.

  Frozen, they watched the figure pass by the prince. Within a yard of him.

  Prince Prospero was frozen, too. He watched the figure leave the blue room.

  Then again a wave of hot anger flooded through the prince. Anger at this man who mocked his power. And anger at his own moment of weakness.

  His followers might bow to fear. That was why they were followers. But he could not surrender to it. That was why they bowed to him.

  Raging, the prince rushed into the purple room. But the figure had left. It had gone on to the next room.

  In the green room the story was the same. And in the orange. The white. The violet. The figure kept its lead.

  Prince Prospero was not worried. The figure was in the black room now. From that room there was no escape. Not from the prince. And not from the dagger in his hand.

  The prince raised his dagger high. His eyes gleamed. The gleam of a hunter closing in on his prey. He entered the black room and saw he had his prey trapped.

  The shrouded figure was at the far end of the room. Its back was toward the prince. Prince Prospero rushed toward it.

  Then the figure turned.

  The prince was four feet away.

  He got no farther.

  A sharp cry came from his mouth.

  The dagger dropped from his hand. It fell on the black carpet.

  Then the prince fell. Fell to lie beside his dagger.

  His body lay facedown on the black carpet. It lay there still as a corpse. Bathed in the red light.

  His followers saw all this through the open doorway. Their love and loyalty overcame fear. They poured into the room, ready to tear the motionless shrouded figure apart.

  But all they found was an empty shroud that had crumpled to the floor. Beside it lay the chalk-white mask. Right in front of the towering black clock. The clock that had now stopped.

  Then they turned the prince over and saw his face bathed in the blood-red light. But it was no trick of light they saw. It was blood as red as the light.

  Now they knew who had come to their party.

  Now they knew who had come uninvited, like a thief in the night.

  Now they knew who was among them, touching them all.

  One by one they fell to the floor. Writhing. Howling in pain. In the black room. The violet. The white. The orange. The green. The purple. The blue. And in every room their blood stained the carpets.

  One by one the flames outside the windows went out. In the black room. The violet. The white. The orange. The green. The purple. The blue.

  Until darkness ruled the castle.

  Darkness—and the Red Death.

  How I hated Fortunato! For more reasons than I can tell.

  He had tricked me out of money. Forced me to sell land. Stolen the girl I loved. Laughed in my face. Insulted me. And far worse, insulted my noble family. Imagine a pig like him insulting the noble Montresors!

  That was the last straw. That I could never forgive.

  How I longed to do the simple thing. Plunge a dagger into him or run him through with my sword.

  But “the simple thing” would not do. The law would take my life in return. Fortunato had to pay for all he had done. But pay with his life alone, not mine.

  One thing more. It was not enough to make Fortunato pay. He had to know he was paying. He could not die still looking down his nose at me. Still thinking he was better than a Montresor. No! Never!

  Settling the score with Fortunato would not be easy. I needed time. Time to think. To plan. To find the right moment. The right place. The right way.

  At last I made my plans. I was careful not to put him on guard. I smiled when he teased me about losing my fortune and love. I laughed at his jokes about my family while I waited for the right time to come.

  Fortunato and I lived in a town in the north of Italy. Lent—the forty days before Easter—is a time of fasting and prayer. A dull, dreary time. Is it any wonder that before Lent begins, the people here have a festival? Some call it Mardi Gras. Others, Carnival.

  It is a week of madness and gaiety. People dress up in costumes. Have parades. Give parties. Dance. Sing. And drink.

  Above all, they drink. Our part of Italy is fond of wine and boasts of drinking the very best.

  In our town no one liked wine more than Fortunato or claimed to know wine so well. Indeed I must admit that he was an expert. A true expert.

  That was why his eyes lit up at my story, as I knew they would.

  His eyes were already bright with wine. It was the last night of Carnival. Fortunato wore the costume of a jester. Red tights on his thin legs. Clothes of many colors on his fat body. And a cap with jingling bells on his head.

  “My dear Fortunato,” I said, putting my hand warmly on his shoulder. “How well you look! And how lucky for me to run into you in this crowd. You’re the one man who can help me.”

  “How so?” he asked. But he was already looking around him. He was eager to get rid of me. And to go on to the next party.

  My hand stayed on his shoulder. “No one else has your taste in wine. You see, I have just bought a truly fine wine. Fresh Amontillado. A cask of it at a very low price. So low that I was afraid of letting it get away. But now I’m afraid I was tricked.”

  I had Fortunato’s attention now.

  “Amontillado!” He chuckled. “You can’t get fresh Amontillado this time of year!”

  “That is why I have my doubts,” I said.

  “Amontillado!” he repeated. His laughter brought tears to his eyes.

  “And I must satisfy those doubts,” I went on. “I was on my way to see Luchesi when I ran into you. I wanted him to taste the wine. And to tell me if it really is Amontillado.”

  “Luchesi!” Fortunato sneered. “He could not tell Amontillado from tea.”

  “Yet some fools say his taste is as good as yours,” I said. I knew I had hit the right note.

  “Surely even you are not that big a fool,” Fortunato said. At that moment he started coughing. He had a cold.

  I waited for his coughing to stop.

  “I would have gone to you,” I told him. “But I knew how busy you are at Carnival. You are so popular. So much in demand. That is why I decided to ask Luchesi. He would never turn down free wine. Especially if it really might be Amontillado.”

  Fortunato grabbed me by the arm. “Come, let us go,” he said.

  “Where?” I asked.

  “To your so-called Amontillado,” Fortunato said.

  “I can’t take you away from all your friends,” I protested.

  “But you are my friend, too, aren’t you?” Fortunato said.

  “Of course I am,” I declared. “Among your best, I hope.”

  “Then it is my duty as a friend to help you,” Fortunato said.

  “No, I can’t let you do it,” I said firmly.

  “Why not?” Fortunato demanded.

  “The Amontillado is in my wine cellar,” I said. “It is cold and damp down there. You have a cold already. This would make it worse.”

  “Nonsense,” Fortunato said. His voice was harsh and strong. The voice of a man who always got his way. “This cold is nothing. Besides, I will find wine to warm my blood. Your cellar is famous.”

  “My family has stored wine there for centuries,” I agreed. “Wine to delight even an expert like you.”

  Fortunato and I crossed the town square. It was packed with people dancing and drinking. I was wearing a black cape with a hood. I had lowered a black silk mask over my face. Nobody noticed me.

  Now and then someone called out to Fortunato. But he did not stop. He had gleaming eyes only for my house. My family home. The mansion of the Montresors.

  It was deserted. I had told my servants I would be out all night. I then ordered them no
t to leave the house for Carnival. I was sure they would do the opposite as soon as my back was turned. And they had.

  Fortunato looked around as we went through the house. At the paintings. The suits of armor. The antiques. The Oriental rugs. Perhaps he was scheming how to take it from me. Knowing Fortunato, he probably was.

  I took two flaming torches from their holders. One for Fortunato and one for me. We went down the winding stone steps to the cellar. I warned him to be careful.

  When we reached the bottom of the steps, Fortunato’s eyes widened.

  “Your wine cellar is large,” he said.

  “This is more than a wine cellar,” I told him. “It also serves as my family burial place. As you can see.”

  Fortunato nodded uneasily. My “cellar” was a wide underground passageway. It was cut through solid rock. Along the sides were wine racks. But there were also shelves cut into the sides. Shelves that held coffins—and skeletons. The bones of the Montresors.

  “What is that ugly white stuff over everything?” asked Fortunato. He pointed at the white crust on the rock. On the coffins. Even on the wine bottles. It looked like salt.

  “It is saltpeter,” I explained. “The dampness makes it seep from the rock. The cold makes it harden. I warned you how cold and damp it is down here.”

  At that moment Fortunato began to cough. His whole body shook.

  “My dear friend, let us go back,” I said. “Forget the Amontillado. Your health is precious. You are rich, loved, and admired. A man to be missed. Let Luchesi catch a chill down here.”

  Fortunato forced himself to stop coughing.

  “Nonsense!” he snapped. “A little cough will not kill me.”

  “No,” I agreed. “A cough will not kill you. Here, take a drink of this to wet your throat.”

  I opened a bottle of rare Medoc wine. Fortunato took a deep drink. The bells on his cap jingled.

  “I drink to the dead that rest around us,” said Fortunato.

  “And I drink to your long life,” I said.

  Fortunato’s wine-stained tongue licked his fat lips. He was no longer shivering. But his walk was weaving as we went down the passageway.

  The passageway led to another. And another. The crust of saltpeter grew thicker. The air grew colder. Damper. More stale. So that our torches burned ever more dimly. Still we went on.