Psycho - Three Complete Novels

by Robert Bloch

  “That’s very flattering.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No one’s ever told me I was a man,” Norman said. “Not even my own mother. She thought I was weak, effeminate. And all the kids, calling me a sissy—the ballgames—” His voice choked.

  “Ballgames?” Sister Barbara was staring at him again. “Please, tell me. I want to know.”

  She does. She really does!

  Norman found his voice again. “I was a sickly child. Wore glasses for reading, right up until a few years ago. And I never was any good at sports. After school, on the playground we played baseball, the oldest boys were the captains. They took turns choosing up kids for their sides. I was always the last one chosen—” He broke off. “But you wouldn’t understand.”

  Sister Barbara’s eyes never left his face, but she wasn’t staring now. She nodded, her expression softening.

  “The same thing happened to me,” she said.

  “To you?”

  “Yes.” Her left hand strayed to her beads and now she glanced down at it, smiling. “You see? I’m what you call a southpaw. Girls play baseball too, you know. I was a good pitcher. They’d choose me first.”

  “But that’s the direct opposite of what happened to me.”

  “Opposite, but the same.” Sister Barbara sighed. “You were treated like a sissy. I was treated like a tomboy. Being first hurt me just as much as being last hurt you.”

  The air was close, sticky; shadows crept through the window, detaching from the dusk beyond to cluster around the circle of lamplight.

  “Maybe that was part of my problem,” Norman said. “You know what happened to me—the transvestite thing. You were lucky. At least you escaped loss of identity, loss of gender.”

  “Did I?” Sister Barbara let the rosary fall. “A nun is neuter. There is no gender. And no true identity. They even take away your given name.” She smiled. “I don’t regret that. But if you stop and think, you and I are very much the same underneath. We’re kindred spirits.”

  For a moment Norman almost believed her. He wanted to believe, wanted to accept their similarity. But in the pool of fluorescence on the floor he saw the shadow that separated—the shadow of the bars on the window.

  “One difference,” he said. “You came here because you wanted to. And when you wish, you’ll go of your own free will.”

  “There is no free will.” Sister Barbara shook her head. “Only God’s. He sent me here. I come and go only at His choosing. And you remain only to serve the same divine purpose.”

  She halted as a livid light lanced through the room. Norman sought its source in the sudden darkening beyond the window. Then thunder shook the bars.

  “Looks like we’re in for a storm.” Norman frowned glancing at Sister Barbara. “What’s the matter?”

  The answer to his question was all too evident. In the lamplight the nun’s face was deathly pale, and her eyes closed as she clutched at her rosary. There was no hint of spiritual security here, not even a trace of tomboyish bravado. The harsh, almost masculine features had melted to reveal the fear beneath.

  Norman rose quickly, striding to the window. Peering out, he caught a glimpse of sullen sky over the ground beyond. Now another streak of lightning razored across the parking area; for an instant it shimmered nimbuslike above the cars and the nuns’ van. He drew the drapes against the greenish glow, then turned away as, once more, thunder hurled its threat.

  “Better?” he said.

  “Thank you.” Sister Barbara’s hand fell away from the rosary.

  Something clicked. The beads. He stared at them.

  All that mumbo-jumbo about psychological insight, all that nonsense about God’s will, had vanished with a thunderclap. She was only a frightened woman, afraid of her own shadow.

  Shadows were all around them now. They huddled in the corners, crawled between the looming bookshelves that stretched to the distant doorway. Glancing past it now, Norman realized the corridor beyond was empty; the shadow there had vanished. He knew the reason, of course. Whenever a storm broke, there was trouble with the loonies. God must have sent Otis off to calm his charges upstairs.

  Norman turned back to Sister Barbara as the clicking sounded again. “You sure you’re all right?” he said.

  “Of course.” But the beads clicked beneath her fingers and the quaver echoed behind her voice. Afraid of thunder and lightning; just a defenseless female, after all.

  Suddenly, surprisingly, Norman felt a stirring in his loins. He fought it the only way he knew, with words that were bitter on his tongue.

  “Just remember what you told me. If God sent you here, then He also sent the storm.”

  Sister Barbara looked up, the rosary beads dangling, jangling. “You mustn’t say such things. Don’t you believe in God’s will?”

  Thunder roared again outside the walls, hammering at Norman’s skull, beating at his brain. Then the lightning flash flared up behind the drapes, illuminating all. God’s will. He had prayed and his prayers had been answered.

  “Yes,” said Norman. “I believe.”

  The nun rose. “I’d better go now. Sister Cupertine may be worried.”

  “Nothing to worry about,” Norman said. But he was speaking to himself. There’d been rain that night long ago when it all started. And now it was coming again. Rain from heaven. God’s will be done.

  Thunder rumbled, and then the rushing rain thudded against the outer wall of the shadowy room. But Norman didn’t hear it.

  All he could hear was the jangling of Sister Barbara’s beads as he followed her into the shadows between the shelves.

  — 4 —

  Sister Cupertine didn’t get an opportunity to visit the new patient in 418. She was still in Tucker’s room when the storm broke, and by the time she left him the rain was already drumming down.

  She made her way as quickly as possible through the confusion of the corridor, jostled by excited patients as they returned to the open wards, escorted by friends and family. Orderlies and floor nurses hurried past, responding to the outcries emanating from locked rooms at the end of the hall. When she reached the fourth-floor elevator door, a crowd was already waiting before it, anxious and impatient.

  Then the elevator arrived and the visitors crowded in, Sister Cupertine started forward, but by now the car was filled with passengers. The door closed with a clang, leaving her standing with half a dozen other stragglers.

  There had been no attempt to make room for her in the elevator, and none of the others left behind paid Sister Cupertine the slightest attention. No respect anymore, not the slightest. Holy Mary, forgive them—what is the world coming to these days?

  Sister Cupertine’s lips pursed as she recited the rosary of indignities she had suffered here. Old Mr. Tucker had been in one of his contrary moods, rejecting her offer to pray with him and meeting her reprimand with foul language. In a way, of course, that was to be expected from someone in his condition. But there had been no excuse for Sister Barbara’s behavior; her refusal to come upstairs was outright insubordination. It might be necessary to have a few words about her conduct with Mother Superior when they returned to the convent.

  Thunder boomed as the elevator returned again. This time Sister Cupertine was among the first to enter. But the move did nothing to speed her progress; the descent was interrupted on the third floor and again on the second as more passengers shoehorned their way into the car. Little Sister Cupertine was squeezed uncomfortably in the metal corset of the elevator’s left rear corner. And when the door slid back at the lobby level, she was forced to wait until the other occupants moved out. Underneath the habit she felt the trickling and tickling of perspiration; her glasses had steamed over in the body heat of the crowded cubicle.

  Removing them, she wiped the lenses on her sleeve, and was almost knocked off her feet by a couple blundering past in their rush toward the outer exit. Sliding the bows back beneath the cowl and over her ears, she surveyed the lobby. By this tim
e only a few others remained in the reception area, but Sister Barbara was nowhere to be seen.

  Sister Cupertine peered up at the wall clock behind the reception desk. Five-ten. Already pitch dark outside, with the rain coming down in buckets. Holy Mother of God, they’d be soaked just getting to the van. Where was the girl?

  She moved to the desk and the receptionist looked up.

  “Can I help you?”

  Sister Cupertine managed a smile. “I’m looking for—”

  Thunder crashed over her question and part of the little receptionist’s answer.

  “—saw her going out just a minute ago.”

  “She left? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Sister.” The girl seemed concerned. “Is there something wrong?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Sister Cupertine turned away, starting toward the exit. Peccavi. A white lie, to be sure; it was none of the girl’s affair and there was no sense in upsetting her. But something was very much wrong when such an outright act of disobedience occurred. Mother Superior would definitely hear about this whole affair before the evening was over.

  If only it was over! There would still be the ordeal of the long drive back through this awful storm. Sister Cupertine paused for a moment and stared through the glass door panel, contemplating the seething, wind-driven downpour beyond. Swiftly moving headlight beams crisscrossed the darkness as departing cars sped off in the night. Now a slash of lightning momentarily illuminated the outline of the van, still standing near the gate of the parking lot: Thank heaven for small favors! And thank heaven, too, for the protection of her habit.

  She opened the door and moved out, water sloshing against her heavy shoes and rain pelting her coif. Midway across the lot, the heavy drops clouded her lenses and blurred her vision almost completely.

  As she wrenched the glasses off to wipe them clear, her ankle twisted and she felt a stab of pain. Stumbling, she cried out, then recovered her balance as the sensation mercifully ebbed. Only then did she realize the glasses had slipped from her fingers.

  Sister Cupertine glanced down helplessly, trying to locate them in the watery expanse of blackness below. No use—they were gone. Thank goodness she had a second pair to replace them back at the convent. Best to stop fretting and get out of this rain.

  Now, as she started blindly forward, the wind rose to a howl, tearing at her water-soaked sleeves and flapping skirts.

  Suddenly a light burst through the blur, and the snarl of a starting motor echoed over the wind’s wail.

  Glancing up, she saw that the van ahead was moving. What on earth—did Sister Barbara mean to leave without her?

  “Wait!” She floundered toward the light source. “Wait for me!”

  Sister Cupertine gasped as she reached the side of the vehicle, groping for the door handle as the van slowed to a halt. The door swung forward and she clambered up into the passenger seat.

  The motor roared and the van wheeled out to the gateway. Before it turned onto the road, Sister Cupertine was already launched into a tirade she knew she would later regret.

  “Where were you, Sister? Why didn’t you wait in the lobby? Haven’t you any consideration? If you had to come out alone, the least you might have done was pull up to the entrance and pick me up there.”

  “I’m sorry—”

  Her companion’s reply was punctuated by the growling thunder. Not that it mattered, because Sister Cupertine wasn’t finished yet.

  “Look at me—soaking wet! And I dropped my glasses back there in the parking lot. Really, it’s—oh, look out!”

  The van skidded across the highway toward a gaping ditch, and Sister Barbara swung the wheel just in time to avoid disaster.

  “Please, watch where you’re going—”

  Sister Cupertine broke off, abruptly aware that this was not the time to voice further complaints. Distraction would be dangerous, driving in this downpour.

  She fell silent, peering ahead as the windshield wipers wheezed rhythmically to reveal the blurred expanse of the road beyond. Sister Barbara glanced at her but said nothing; it was impossible to read her reaction in the darkness. After a moment she turned away, concentrating on keeping the van steady on the slick pavement. Rain rattled against the roof.

  Sister Cupertine stared forward, dimly discerning a clump of trees, branches bowing in the wind. Directly past them was a side road leading down through a wooded area. Now the van slowed, turning left into the deeper darkness there.

  “Wrong way!” she called above the sound of the storm, but Sister Barbara drove on and the van moved through a tunnel of twisted trees. Sister Cupertine tugged at her sleeve. “Didn’t you hear me? You made a wrong turn!”

  This time Sister Barbara nodded and pulled to a halt on the shoulder of the narrow roadway, her right hand reaching out to switch off the ignition. Then she leaned forward and her left hand descended to the floor of the van, between her feet.

  For a moment it seemed to Sister Cupertine that the blurred, bending figure beside her resembled some sort of bird—a bird of prey. But only for a moment.

  Then the figure straightened and turned, just as the lightning came.

  In its glare, Sister Cupertine saw the contorted face beneath the coif, and the upraised hand holding the gleaming tire iron as it swung forward.

  She never heard the thunder.

  — 5 —

  Pumping. Pumping. Plenty of room in the back of the van. Room to strip away the concealment of cloth, to spread the lifeless legs. Maybe the other one—Sister Barbara—had shaved the spot, but this one was unshaven. It was the other one he’d really wanted, from the moment he’d followed her back into the stacks, only there wasn’t time. Not even time enough to look; it all had to be done so quickly. This one was old, but now he did have time, and if he closed his eyes he couldn’t see the face.

  The feeling was what mattered. Pumping. Pumping life into the dead. The Mother Superior position.

  Mother?

  That was incest. But he knew Sister Cupertine wasn’t his mother. Or was she? With his eyes closed, he couldn’t see the face. Pumping. Harder, faster now. Mother, Oh God, God, God—

  Norman rolled to one side, sat up. Sweaty, still panting, but it was over now, thank God. God sent the nuns to deliver him from evil. The Bride of Christ was his bride now. Or had been. It was all ancient history—the Norman Conquest.

  He giggled softly in the darkness as he fumbled the unfamiliar contours of his habit back into place. A perfect disguise. He’d fooled Sister Cupertine, he’d fooled them all, walking out this way. But then he’d had experience in the role. All the world’s a stage … and one man in his time plays many parts. He’d played the woman and now he’d played the man. Mother had always called him a sissy; maybe she thought he couldn’t get it up. Well, she knows better now, don’t you, Mother? Mother of God—

  His giggle was lost in the sound of thunder, jerking him back into full awareness of the moment. And when lightning flickered again, Norman couldn’t escape the sight of the grotesquely sprawling figure beside him. Averting his eyes, he quickly pulled the black skirt down over the naked obscenity of thighs and legs.

  No need for that anymore. The thing to do was to get rid of it as soon as possible. But how?

  He peered forward over the seat at the rain-streaked windshield. There was a narrow ditch running along between the road and the trees. He could conceal the body there, under a pile of brush, but not for long. Someone was bound to come this way and see. Unless he could dig a grave—

  Norman turned, waiting until another lightning flash gave him a glimpse of what was contained in the back of the van. That was where he’d found the tire iron. But he didn’t see a shovel; it was foolish to think they would carry one there. And he certainly couldn’t dig in that muck with his bare hands.

  With a start, Norman realized he was trembling, and not just from the cold. There had to be another way; Oh God, there had to—

  He eased forward toward the
cab of the van, and as he did so, something clattered beside him. Reaching down, his hand closed around a metal container. Its contents made a sloshing sound as he raised the heavy can to eye level and squinted at the label. But even before he did so, his nose told him what he needed to know.

  Gasoline. A gallon can, carried in case of emergency.

  Well, it would solve this one. Burn the body, burn the van too. Cover all traces.

  The perfect solution. Seek and ye shall find. Norman’s hand groped out across the floorboards, searching for a matchbook.

  Suddenly he was trembling again. Because he found no matchbook. No matchbox. No matches anywhere. Why should there be? Under ordinary circumstances, matches were as unnecessary as a shovel. Unless, of course, they kept some in the glove compartment—

  He clambered back into the driver’s seat and yanked at the little rectangular cover on the dash. It fell forward, revealing the contents of the shelf behind. His hand took groping inventory: an empty box of facial tissues, a road map, a small screwdriver, the car registration framed in a plastic folder, a phalliform flashlight. But no matches.

  No matches. You’ve met your match.

  Numbed, Norman sat there listening to the voices stammering, clamoring, yammering.

  The stammering voice was his own. Help me—please, somebody, help me!

  The clamoring was an echo of Dr. Claiborne’s voice. Relax. Just remember, I can’t do it all for you. In the long run you’ve got to learn to help yourself.

  The yammering wasn’t a voice at all, just the sound of rain on the roof of the van overhead.

  And Dr. Claiborne was right. In the long run he had to help himself. But he couldn’t run for long, not in this storm. He’d have to stay in the van. The one way he could help himself now was to stop trembling. What he had to do would need steady nerves, steady hands.

  He remembered seeing a blanket in the rear, covering the spare tire in the right-hand corner. Norman turned and forced his way back into the dark recess as he edged past the thing lying there—the Mother-thing, the Sister-thing—staring silently up from the shadows. Strange how he couldn’t bear the thought of touching it or even seeing it again.