When recalling the events of that night, you must remember, though you may fancy me mad, I didn't hate the old man. He wasn't the problem
It was that eye. That eye made me furious. Oh, I didn't want to gain anything, I just wanted the eye gone
I went into that room every night for a week, but it wasn't until the eighth night when I decided to strike, until he was dead under the bed he had slept in, dismembered him and hid the arts under the floorboards, I had concealed everything. There was no chance of getting cought
The police arrived, I explained all of my fake reasons, and of course, they bought it, I got chairs and positioned mine over the body itself.
That's when I heard It, knowing they heard it too, I was terrified of the booming heartbeat, I could tell that they had figured me out, I was filled with anxiety.
Anything was better than this agony, and I had to admit my crime