Edgar Allan Poe Short Stories & PDF

Edgar Allan Poe is one of the most famous writers of horror, mystery, and gothic fiction. His stories are full of suspense, deep emotions, and unforgettable characters.

This collection presents Poe’s classic short stories in a way that is easier to understand for students of English as a Foreign Language (EFL). Each story has been rewritten in modern, simple English while keeping the original plot, atmosphere, and suspense. This adaptation will help learners improve their vocabulary, reading skills, and understanding of classic literature.

You can find Edgar Allan Poe’s short stories as a free PDF download. Whether you are a beginner or an advanced learner, these stories will challenge and entertain you while helping you improve your English.

The Tell-Tale Heart

I can’t tell you exactly when the idea first came to me, but once it was in my head, it haunted me day and night. Was I crazy? No! Just listen. You’ll see how carefully, how wisely I planned everything. I wasn’t mad. Madmen don’t plan as carefully as I did.

The old man had never wronged me. He had never insulted me or given me reason to hate him. I even liked him. But his eye—oh, that terrible eye! It looked like a vulture’s eye, pale blue with a cloudy film over it. Every time it landed on me, my blood turned to ice. I had to get rid of it forever. That eye, always watching, always judging—it had to go.

Now, this is where you’ll see my genius. Every night, for a whole week, I crept to his bedroom door. Slowly, ever so slowly, I pushed it open. Once I had enough space, I slipped my head inside and carefully lifted a lantern, just a crack, so a thin beam of light shone on his eye. But every night, his eye was closed. And since it was the eye that disturbed me—not the man—I couldn’t do it. Killing him when his eye was shut felt pointless.

On the eighth night, I was even more cautious than before. The room was pitch black, and he didn’t even hear me as I inched forward. But just as I was about to open the lantern, my finger slipped on the latch. The old man shot up in bed. “Who’s there?” he called out. I stayed frozen, silent. For an hour, neither of us moved. I could feel his fear in the dark, like a weight pressing against me.

Then, I opened the lantern ever so slightly, and the thin light landed directly on the dreaded eye. It was open—wide open—and my rage took over. My heart pounded louder and louder, but I knew it wasn’t my own heartbeat. It was his! The sound of his terror fueled mine. It grew faster, louder, unbearable. I knew the neighbors would hear it. I had to end it.

With a loud yell, I rushed into the room and dragged him to the floor. He didn’t stand a chance. I smothered him beneath the weight of my body and, after a moment, the sound of his heartbeat stopped. He was dead. His eye would never haunt me again.

I worked quickly, dismembering the body and hiding the pieces beneath the floorboards. Not a drop of blood was left behind—I had been careful. By the time I was done, it was almost morning. The house was silent, peaceful even, with no trace of what had happened.

Then, there was a knock at the door. Three policemen stood there, saying a neighbor had heard a scream. I smiled and welcomed them in, confident in my work. I even led them to the old man’s bedroom and invited them to sit. I chatted casually, sure they suspected nothing. I was so confident, so sure of myself, that I even placed my own chair directly over the hidden body beneath the floor.

But then I heard it. That sound. A soft, steady thumping. It started faintly, but it grew louder and louder. My chest tightened. I laughed to cover it, but it didn’t stop. The officers were still smiling, unaware, but I couldn’t take it. The sound was unbearable. It was his heart! It was still beating beneath the floor!

“Stop it!” I screamed. “I confess! I killed him! Tear up the floorboards! You’ll see!”

I collapsed, consumed by my guilt and madness. And there it was—his heart, still pounding, louder than ever.

 

The Black Cat

Since childhood, I’ve been known for my kindness and love for animals. My wife shared this love, and we filled our home with pets—birds, fish, a dog, a rabbit, and, most of all, a beautiful black cat named Pluto. He was intelligent, almost unnervingly so, and followed me everywhere. I adored him.

But over the years, I changed. I began drinking heavily. Alcohol turned me into someone I didn’t recognize—irritable, violent. I started lashing out at my wife and even my beloved pets. Only Pluto escaped my rage for a time. But one night, in a drunken haze, I grabbed him. He bit me, and in a fit of fury, I took a knife and cut out one of his eyes. The next morning, sober, I felt horror and remorse, but it was fleeting. Over time, my guilt faded, replaced by irritation. Pluto avoided me now, which somehow enraged me even more.

One day, in an unthinkable act of cruelty, I tied a rope around Pluto’s neck and hanged him from a tree. I cried as I did it, knowing I was committing a terrible sin, yet unable to stop myself. That night, my house caught fire, forcing my wife and me to flee. The next day, as I walked through the ruins, I saw something chilling—a strange imprint on the wall, the shape of a cat with a rope around its neck. I told myself it was just coincidence, an illusion created by the fire and smoke, but the image burned into my mind.

Weeks passed. My guilt lingered, yet I drowned it in alcohol. Then, one night at a tavern, I saw a cat—black, like Pluto, but with a white patch on its chest. It followed me home. My wife adored it, and at first, I did too. But as time passed, dread crept in. This cat, too, had only one eye. And the white patch on its chest began to change, forming a shape that sickened me—a noose.

The cat followed me everywhere, never leaving me alone. Its presence became unbearable. My paranoia grew. My anger simmered. One day, while descending into the cellar with my wife, the cat nearly tripped me. Enraged, I grabbed an axe. My wife, horrified, tried to stop me. In my fury, I turned the axe on her instead. She crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

I had to hide the body. The cellar walls were thick; I pried open the bricks and placed her inside, sealing her behind fresh mortar. I worked carefully, erasing all evidence. The cat? It had vanished. I felt relief. Days passed, and no one suspected a thing.

Then, the police arrived. Calmly, I led them through the house, showing no sign of fear. In the cellar, I even knocked on the very wall where she lay, boasting about the sturdiness of my home. But the moment my hand struck the bricks, a sound erupted from within—a wailing, inhuman scream. The officers froze. With trembling hands, they tore down the wall.

And there she was. My wife’s body, rotting. And sitting atop her corpse, its mouth open in that hideous cry, was the black cat. I had walled it in with her.

Now, as I await my execution, I understand my fate. That cat—Pluto or its vengeful spirit—had doomed me. I sealed my own damnation with my own hands.

 

The Fall of the House of Usher

It was a dark and overcast autumn afternoon when I approached the House of Usher. The sight of the decaying mansion sent a chill down my spine. Its windows were like empty eyes, its walls crumbling, its surroundings eerily silent. The air was heavy, thick with an unshakable gloom.

I had come because of a letter from my childhood friend, Roderick Usher. He wrote of a strange illness—an overwhelming anxiety that left him trapped in his own mind. I couldn’t ignore his plea. As I entered, I was greeted by Usher himself—a man drastically changed. His face was pale, his eyes wild with fear, his body thin and trembling. He spoke in hushed, hurried tones, claiming that the house itself was alive, feeding on his dread.

Usher’s twin sister, Madeline, was also unwell. She suffered from a mysterious condition that left her weak, barely able to move. I saw her only once, drifting like a ghost through the mansion. Days later, Usher told me she had died. Together, we placed her in the family tomb beneath the house. But something felt wrong. Her face, though still, seemed too full of life. Her lips held a hint of color. A terrible thought crept into my mind, but I pushed it away.

Over the next few nights, Usher’s state worsened. He hardly slept. He heard things—whispers, soft movements from deep within the house. The storm outside raged, mirroring the chaos within Usher’s mind. Finally, one night, he knocked on my door, wild-eyed. “She’s alive!” he gasped. “I buried her alive!”

At that moment, a horrifying sound echoed through the mansion—a heavy, dragging noise, followed by a weak but determined knock. We turned as the great doors burst open, and there stood Madeline, wrapped in the burial shroud, her eyes blazing with a mixture of agony and rage. With her last breath, she fell onto her brother. He let out one final, chilling cry before collapsing, lifeless, beneath her.

As I fled the house in terror, the storm reached its peak. A great fissure split the mansion down the center, and with a deafening roar, the House of Usher crumbled into the dark, murky waters below. The ancient family line, and the cursed house, were no more.

 

The Masque of the Red Death

Prince Prospero thought he could escape death. When the Red Death plague ravaged his kingdom, he gathered a thousand of his wealthy friends and retreated to his lavish, fortified abbey. The outside world suffered, but inside, they lived in luxury.

After months in seclusion, Prospero hosted a grand masquerade ball, filling his palace with dazzling lights, music, and laughter. Each of the seven rooms had its own vivid color—blue, purple, green, orange, white, violet. But the last room, the black chamber, was different. Its walls and windows were deep black, and within it stood a massive clock. Every hour, its chimes echoed so loudly that the guests fell silent, unnerved until the sound faded. Then, laughter and revelry resumed.

As the night deepened, a masked figure appeared. Unlike the others, this guest was draped in a blood-stained robe, his mask resembling a corpse—a mockery of the Red Death itself. Prospero, furious at the intrusion, demanded the figure be seized. But as the guests stepped forward, they hesitated, overcome with a strange dread.

Prospero, enraged, grabbed a dagger and chased the masked figure through the rooms, finally reaching the black chamber. But as he struck, he fell lifeless to the floor. The guests, horrified, tore away the intruder’s mask—only to find nothing beneath. One by one, they collapsed, the plague overtaking them.

And so, the Red Death claimed them all. The clock stopped. The fires died. Darkness and decay swallowed the abbey, leaving nothing but silence.

⇓Edgar Allan Poe Short Stories PDF – download⇓