The Tattletale Liver

The young woman knew I was contemptuous of her, and she had a weird obsession with my eyes. After she was in her cups, she invariably called me a vulture or asked if I were allowed to travel to the Mediterranean, what with my evil eye.

If she remembered her words the next day, she would apologize and tell me how she loved me and looked up to me, presumably to dissuade me from throwing her out, but usually her memory the next day was blacker than my cat, Madeline.

It always started at dinner. At this point, it was necessary for me to overpour my own glass when I opened the wine. Otherwise, the bottle would be empty by the time I went to pour my second glass. I’d also noticed the diminishment of the liquor cabinet. The gin and tequila disappeared first, then the rum. The whiskeys were largely untouched until there was nothing else left, save some vermouth, cordials, and cognacs.

For about a fortnight, she took to drunkenly opening my door in the middle of the night to shine a scalpel of light directly into my eyes. I detest having my sleep interrupted, and my eyes are extremely sensitive to light. It’s why I stay indoors during the sunlit hours.

I don’t like mirrors, never have. Around the time the late night invasions commenced, she also began bringing home treasures she found in antique shops and thrift stores. She usually picked up some vintage jewelry, occasionally a book or two, but the bulk of her finds were framed antique mirrors. I would find them throughout the house, replacing a piece of art here, reflecting the entire parlor back at itself over the mantelpiece. It was no small thing, and it was infuriating, nearly as infuriating as discovering my entire stock of amontillado depleted.

A mirror replaced the portrait of my beloved Annabel Lee, whose countenance I had spent countless hours gazing upon. It was unforgivable, and it put me in fear for the safety of my most prized possession, a bust of Lenore, who was no more. I kept it just inside my chamber door, beneath a crudely stuffed raven from one of the thrift stores.

It troubled me when the young woman thrust the cheap taxidermy into my arms. Led Zeppelin was playing on the phonograph, “The Battle of Evermore.” It felt ominous and made me strangely nervous.

Even my cat, Madeline, was unnerved by these changes to our house. The young woman kept ushering in changes, restless as a hop-frog. It occurred to me that she could be a gold bug. After all, I was rumored to be extremely wealthy despite the crumbling of the house. I had once hosted masqued balls, until the last one ended badly and my reputation became that of a recluse.

I knew I would have to take matters into my own hands when, over dinner and an inferior bottle of sherry (even the tawny port was but a remembrance by now), she began taunting me, insinuating that Annabel Lee now lived by the sea, had fled to rid herself of me. The thousand offenses I had allowed to wall me in were nothing compared to adding a direct insult. I devised a plan so that I would nevermore be harassed by her drunken deviance.

On a subsequent evening, one that began with myriad insincere flattery from the young woman, she inadvertently told on herself, revealed a bit of treachery by referring to the contents of my purloined letters, the loss of which I had lamented substantially. It was then that I realized I must act, and soon.

Madeline would assist me, this I knew. The young woman had become increasingly volatile, and at times appeared to have it in for my onyx-furred cat. As a result, Madeline’s wariness of her had increased until the affection they once had for each other had been eradicated completely.

One night, when she was uncharacteristically subdued despite having consumed a king’s ransom of cognac, I left the cellar door open. When she came to slice her sliver of light into my eyes, Madeline would bolt from my chamber. If the cellar door was open, she would flee down the stairs, and the young woman would follow.

Like clockwork, my chamber door eased open, and first, the light found Lenore. As it traveled across the room to sidle up over the quilt under which I reposed, it troubled Madeline, who left the room as if it were ablaze.

When the young woman followed, so did I, giving her a sound push down the cellar stairs, where she collapsed into a mangled heap. I pushed her into the corner and made quick work of building the new wall. Indeed, I finished my work without finding it necessary to mix a fresh batch of mortar.

The next day was exceedingly pleasant, and I relaxed back into my routines and considered going out to the shops to acquire more amontillado. The rest I could do without, but the amontillado soothed my soul when I sipped it while reading poetry by the fire.

First, the cursed mirrors must go, especially the one in the parlor. Upon removing it, I was simultaneously delighted and deeply ired to find that Annabel Lee had not been removed. Rather, she had been trapped between the wall and the damned mirror ever since the wretch brought it into my home.

The police came round later that day. I invited them into the parlor, apologizing that coffee was all I had fit to offer. They declined and began the interview. I knew I had nothing to fear, but as it persisted, I found myself wishing them gone.

They reconsidered and requested the previously offered coffee. They followed me to the kitchen when I took leave to prepare it.

It was while the coffee brewed that the thumps began, clearly coming from the cellar. For a brief moment, I panicked and feared that I had imprisoned my dear Madeline in the cellar with the young woman, but as the thought entered my mind, along came my cat, rubbing her midnight body against my leg.

But trouble had not finished with me yet, for the officers insisted on a tour of the lower chambers, despite my assurances that my fussy old furnace was making the ruckus.

It grew louder as we descended the stairs, then paused. Perhaps she heard our footfalls on the cellar stairs, for it was not until all and sundry occupied the buried room that she spoke from inside her prison, demanding a drink. Her tattletale liver would not be content to die without more poison.