Tales of Terror (2 page)

H
ow 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 not 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.

“Where is this Amontillado?” Fortunato grumbled. “At the end of the earth?”

“Not quite,” I said. “But I told you this cellar is large. So many are buried here.”

“Ah, yes. Your family,” said Fortunato. His lips curled. “The noble Montresors. Tell me, what is your coat of arms? I forget.”

“A huge human foot of gold in a field of blue,” I said. “The foot is crushing a snake. While the snake’s fangs are biting the heel.”

“And the motto?” asked Fortunato.

“‘No one who angers me goes unpunished,’” I told him.

“Very good,” said Fortunato. He started to chuckle. But a fit of coughing cut his laughter off. I opened another bottle for him.

“Try this,” I said. “It is even better than the first.”

He drank eagerly, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Excellent,” he said. Then he made a strange gesture with his hand.

I looked at him, puzzled.

He made the sign again.

When he saw that I did not understand, he said, “It is a sign of the Masons. The secret society that I belong to. I wanted to see if you were one of us.”

I smiled. “But I am. This is my sign,” I said. From under my cloak I took a mason’s trowel.

It was Fortunato’s turn to look puzzled. Then he smiled. “Ah, a joke. You surprise me. You do have a little wit at least.”

He took another long swig. He threw the empty bottle against the wall. The broken glass fell among bones piled there.

“Not all your family had coffins,” he said.

“There were many Montresors,” I said. “Generations and generations of Montresors and their servants. And others as well.”

“Along with all this wonderful wine,” said Fortunato. He looked at the high wine racks. His eyes still shone. But now through a mist. A mist of drink. His
voice was blurred, too. “But where is the Amontillado?”

“Not far,” I assured him.

Fortunato’s walk was even more unsteady now. I gripped his arm to keep him from stumbling.

“Maybe we should go back,” I said again. “Feel how cold it is getting. Feel how damp the rock is. Luchesi can—”

“Forget Luchesi!” Fortunato bellowed. “The Amontillado!”

“Yes, the Amontillado,” I said.

The passageway sloped downward through one archway after another. The archways were lower and lower. The saltpeter was thicker, too. It hung like cobwebs everywhere. Bones were piled along the walls up to the curved ceiling.

“We’ve reached it,” I announced.

I pointed to the end of the passageway lined with skeletons. There was a low arch. There was a pile of bones in front of it. Beyond the arch a final room had been cut into the rock.

“At last the Amontillado,” Fortunato growled hoarsely.

“Yes, the Amontillado,” I said.

Fortunato broke into a staggering run. The bells on his cap jingled. He reached the archway before me. He stuck his torch into the room, but it no longer was flaming. His torch gave off only a feeble glow. He could not see where the room ended.

“Go in,” I said. I followed close behind.

“The Amontillado! Where is it?” Fortunato demanded. He had reached a bare rock wall. Puzzled, he stared at it.

He did not notice the iron rings in the
rock. Or the chain hanging from one of them. And the padlock on the other.

I did not give him time to notice.

Swiftly I passed the chain tight around his body. Then I fastened it with the padlock.

I pulled the key out of the lock and stepped back to the archway.

“Feel the rock, dear friend,” I said. “How damp it is. How cold. I beg you once more. Let us return. No? You won’t? Then I must leave you. But first I will do you one last favor. I will make sure no one disturbs you while you enjoy the Amontillado.”

“The Amontillado!” said Fortunato. He shook his drunken head dully. He still did not know what was happening.

“Yes, the Amontillado,” I said as I pushed aside a pile of bones.

Behind them was a heap of large building stones. There was cement as well. I used wine instead of water to mix the cement. Then I set to work with my trowel. I laid a row of stones across the entrance to the room.

I heard a signal that the wine was wearing off Fortunato. There was a low moaning cry. It was not the cry of a drunken man.

Then there was silence. Stubborn silence. Or perhaps hopeless silence.

I kept on working. I laid a row of stones on top of the first row. Then another. And another.

At that point I heard the chain loudly clanking. He must have been desperately trying to break it. Or tear it free from the wall.

I stopped to better enjoy the sounds. I sat down on a pile of bones to listen to the noise. It was like listening to music.

The clanking ended. I went back to work. I finished the fifth row. The sixth. The seventh. The wall was as high as my chest now.

I paused again. I thrust my torch over the wall. I could dimly see Fortunato’s chained figure.

Screams burst from his throat. Hideous screams. One after another.

I stiffened. I retreated. My hand went to the hilt of my sword. Then my other hand touched the rock side of the passageway. I felt how solid it was. How strong. I thought of the iron rings in the rock. The rings that Fortunato was trying to pull out. I relaxed.

I returned to my unfinished wall. I answered Fortunato’s screams with my own. My screams were louder and stronger. He was quiet by the time I stopped.

I laid the eighth row of stones. The ninth. The tenth. Almost all of the eleventh. The last row.

By now it was midnight. The wall reached the ceiling. There was a single gap left. I just had to put one large stone in place. Then cement it.

It was heavy. Panting, I lifted it. I moved it partway into the gap. Then I heard laughter. It made my hair stand on end.

It was followed by a sad voice. A voice that did not sound like Fortunato at all.

“Ha, ha, ha!” it croaked. “What a clever joke. You are a witty fellow. I am sorry for
ever thinking the opposite. We’ll have a good laugh about it back at Carnival. Over a good bottle of wine.”

“Yes,” I said. “Over the Amontillado.”

“He, he, he!” Fortunato cackled. “Right. Over the Amontillado. But it’s getting late. People will wonder where we are. My wife will start worrying. Let us be gone.”

“Yes,” I said. “Let us be gone.”

“For the love of God, Montresor!”
Fortunato shrieked.

“Yes,” I said. “For the love of God.”

I waited for him to say more. But there was nothing.

“Fortunato!” I called.

No answer.

“Fortunato!” I called again.

Still no answer.

I thrust my torch through the hole. It barely fit through the gap. I let it drop into the room.

I heard only the jingling of bells. The bells on Fortunato’s fool’s cap.