Robert Bloch's Psycho

by Chet Williamson

  “Myron Gunn, yes? He won’t do anything of the sort. I’m in charge of your treatment, you know that, and I wouldn’t let that happen to you. Now, you’ve got to try and relax and let that go. I know it’s hard, that what you saw was very ugly, but that’s not going to happen to you, I promise.”

  Dr. Reed reached into his pocket and Norman tensed, but he pulled out a pill wrapped in paper and then picked up the tin water cup on Norman’s small table. “I’d like you to take this, Norman. It’ll calm you down. Both because it’s time for our talk today, and also because Robert will be visiting you tonight.”

  Norman gave a small gasp. In his alarm, he had forgotten that his brother was coming. Then he breathed out, took the pill, and swallowed it with the water.

  Dr. Reed spoke very quietly during their therapy session. He asked not only about Norman’s fears, but about what he liked here in the hospital, and whether anything made him think of home. When they were done, Norman felt better.

  He still didn’t eat very much of his dinner that night, and Nurse Marie frowned sympathetically when she took away the tray. Then he made himself read the book and waited for Robert to come.

  Finally, later in the evening, Dr. Reed knocked again, opened the door, and said, “Norman, Robert’s here,” and stepped back so that Robert could enter, and then closed the door behind them.

  “Hey, little brother,” Robert said.

  “Hey, big brother,” Norman replied.

  “Hear you had a bad day.”

  “Well … yeah, sort of.”

  “Doc told me about it. About this guy, what’s his name, Gunn?”

  “Myron Gunn.”

  “Yeah. Doc Reed didn’t tell me what time it happened, but let me take a guess. Maybe around … two-thirty this afternoon. What do you think?”

  Norman didn’t have a watch or a clock in his room, but he thought it would have been around then, since the attendants usually came to the social hall at two to get him for his exercise. “That’s right,” he said. “How did you know?”

  “Remember what I told you before? About us being psychically linked? You know what happened to me at two-thirty today?”

  “What?”

  “We were between lunch and dinner, just one or two customers were in the diner, and I was taking it a little easy. Sitting back in the kitchen reading the morning paper. What with people coming in all through the morning, I never have time to read it till after lunch. Anyway, I was reading the funnies, you know, the comic strips? And I’d gotten to ‘Dick Tracy’ when all of a sudden I went cold all over. I guess I kind of, I don’t know, blacked out for a minute, you know? And I saw this … this stone tunnel, like underground somewhere. And these stone walls are on either side of me, and it’s dark, but I hear somebody moaning.

  “And then this face comes up in front of me, and it’s ugly, and this face is grinning at me, but not a happy grin. It’s like the toothy grin of some monster that wants to rip me apart, and I know damn well that if I don’t do something, like turn and run, that this thing is really gonna get me. So I turn to run away, and the sudden jerk wakes me up. And there I am in the kitchen again, with my eyes on ‘Dick Tracy.’”

  Robert leaned in to Norman and put a hand on his shoulder. “I think I was here with you when that happened, brother. I think I was seeing—or maybe feeling—through you. I think you got so upset, your emotions were so strong, that I felt them, and saw something of what you were experiencing.” Robert gave a little laugh. “Sounds crazy, doesn’t it?”

  Norman didn’t know what to think. He remembered the dream he had had, about the tunnel and chamber filled with blood dripping from the ceiling, and he wondered if somehow he had seen through Robert’s eyes. But no, that was impossible. Robert wasn’t a killer, no matter how much he talked about it.

  Then, as though Robert was reading his mind, his brother said, “Have you had anything strange like that happen to you lately?”

  “I … I don’t think so. Some bad dreams, that’s all.”

  “Bad dreams? When was that?”

  “A while back…” Then he remembered. It was the night that Ronald Miller had disappeared.

  “What was it about?”

  “It was … about blood. A room filled with blood.”

  Robert looked more serious than usual. “Old memories?”

  “I … don’t know. I’m not sure … but probably, yes. All those bad things that I have so very little memory of.”

  “Old bad things?” Robert asked. “Or new?”

  “New? There’s nothing new like that…” Norman thought for a moment, remembering some of the things that Dr. Reed had talked to him about, how the things and people he was afraid of, like Ronald Miller and Myron Gunn, could creep into his subconscious mind and give him bad dreams. They could even depress him when he wasn’t even specifically thinking about them. They were still there all the time.

  “Did you ever think,” Robert said, “that just like I might have seen what was inside your head, you might sometimes see what’s in mine?”

  Norman looked at his brother’s face, and felt dizzy. Could the figure in the room of blood of which he’d dreamed actually have been Robert?

  “Who was in that room with you in your dream, Norman? Did you see anyone?”

  “I … yes. There was a man … but I couldn’t see his face.”

  Robert smiled. “Do you think it could have been me?”

  “I … don’t know. But why? How could it have been? I’m not afraid of you, you’re my brother. Why would I have nightmares about you?”

  “Who’s to say it was a nightmare?” Robert asked.

  Norman waited for him to say more, but he only sat there smiling. Finally Norman said, “I think we should talk about something else. Let’s talk about … your family. How’s Mindy?”

  Robert leaned back, and some of the tension went out of him. He told Norman about what Mindy had been doing, about her helping with a bake sale as part of the Rotary Women’s Auxiliary (Robert was treasurer of the local Rotary), and about how John and Susie were doing in school (John was having some trouble with math, so they’d hired a tutor, and Susie really liked a new boy in seventh grade whose family had just moved to the area). He also related some stories about certain characters in the diner that made Norman laugh.

  But as his brother talked on, Norman found himself thinking about what Robert had said about his dream possibly mirroring reality. Did Robert mean to suggest that he had actually killed someone? It seemed that way. But why? And who? Maybe, he thought as he had before, Robert was just trying to—what was the word that Dr. Reed had used?—bond with Norman by identifying with Norman’s past deeds. But that was stupid, wasn’t it? Since it was those very deeds that had brought him here, and that insured he would never again be a free man.

  Robert finished a story that Norman barely heard but chuckled at anyway. “You getting tired?” Robert asked.

  Norman shrugged. “Oh, maybe a little. It was kind of a stressful day.”

  “Right. With that Myron Gunn. Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you.”

  “It’s not just me I’m worried about,” Norman said. “He threatened Nurse Marie. She’s my friend. I’d hate to have anything bad happen to her.”

  Robert took Norman’s hand in his own. “Little brother, nothing bad is going to happen to her. Or to you. I’m going to make sure of that. Anyone tries to hurt you or your friends, well … let’s just say they’ll be sorry.”

  A knock came on the door, and Robert let go of Norman’s hand and stood up. “Time for me to go.”

  They said goodbye, the door opened, and Norman saw Dr. Reed in the hall as Robert walked out. The doctor smiled at Norman and closed and locked the door.

  It was quiet in Norman’s room. He didn’t even hear Robert and Dr. Reed’s footsteps as they went down the corridor. He lay back on his bed and closed his eyes. But as soon as he did, he became aware of something. It was like a mouse scuttling somewhere at the edges o
f his brain, and he realized that it was Mother.

  Norman …

  No. She wanted to come out again, but he wouldn’t let her. He had put her away, and she would stay there, deep down in the cellar of his brain. No one would open that door again to let her out. He pushed it shut and held it tightly until the echo of her voice faded away.

  9

  The next morning, Eleanor Lindstrom was sitting in her office smoking her third cigarette of the day and halfway through her first cup of coffee when there was a knock on her door. She knew who it was. She’d put a note in Marie Radcliffe’s box last night telling her to come see her as soon as she got in the next morning. Eleanor didn’t acknowledge the knock right away. Let the bitch stew a little, she thought.

  Finally she inhaled and exhaled her last drag, stubbed out her smoke, and said, “Come in.”

  The door opened, and Radcliffe was standing there, the note in her hand. “You wanted to see me, Nurse Lindstrom?” She seemed nervous. That was good.

  “Yes. Close the door.” Eleanor didn’t invite her to sit down. Let her stand. “Now. I understand you had a run-in with some of the attendants yesterday. In a treatment room.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And I also understand that you were giving them orders—including orders to the head attendant, is that right?”

  “I … was rather forceful in expressing my feelings,” Radcliffe said. “I don’t recall if I actually gave any orders—I think not.”

  “But you were highly critical of them.”

  “They were performing a forced feeding with the door open, allowing another patient to witness it, and that is against procedure. And, I might add, the treatment given the patient being fed was harsh, with little attention given to his well-being.”

  Radcliffe’s face was red, and Eleanor smiled at her, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile. “The attendants were in charge of force-feeding, not you, and it’s essential that there be no antagonism between attendants and nurses. We all depend on each other in this hospital. If there was a breach of protocol, you should have reported it to me, as your immediate superior. That’s how it works here. Now, I’ve talked through this whole situation with the head attendant, and you were way out of line with what you said and did. I’m giving you a warning, which will go into your file. If there should be any repetition of such actions, you will be let go. Do you understand me?”

  Radcliffe looked as though she wanted to punch Eleanor. She was trembling, and grabbed her right hand with her left to stop Eleanor’s note from shaking like a leaf in the wind.

  “Do you?” Eleanor said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then I want you to write a note of apology to the head attendant, regretting your reaction and assuring him that you won’t behave like that again.”

  Radcliffe was quiet, but it appeared that she was seething inside. “All right. If that’s what you want,” she said.

  “Good. Bring it to me tomorrow and I’ll see that it’s delivered. That’s all.”

  Radcliffe left the office, closing the door behind her so gently that Eleanor almost wished she had slammed it shut instead. At any rate, that should take care of that stuck-up little bitch for a while.

  Eleanor picked up her coffee and sipped. She couldn’t wait to see Myron’s face when she handed him that apology. He had been nearly apoplectic the previous evening when he’d told her about Radcliffe’s intrusion. He’d had to be cool when his men were around, but he’d really let it rip when he was with Eleanor. They’d gone down to the empty laundry area again so he could vent, and it didn’t take long before she turned his anger into hard lovemaking, which was just what they had both known she would do.

  There was only one other person who knew about Eleanor’s feelings for Myron Gunn, and that was Tess Asher. Tess and she had come to the state hospital together and formed a friendship right away. Myron was just an attendant then, but Eleanor had made no bones about being attracted to him, married or not, and had confided such to Tess. She hadn’t slept with Myron until some years later, after she was divorced from that useless husband of hers. By that time, her ambition had taken her to the position of head nurse, and she had grown apart from Tess, but she always suspected that Tess knew of her lengthy and ongoing affair with Myron. She could tell from the way Tess looked at the two of them as they walked the halls together, and once, when Tess was on night shift, she had seen Eleanor and Myron coming up from a tryst in the cellar, Eleanor’s face still flushed, and Myron wearing his satisfied-more-than-usual after-sex smirk.

  Still, she’d never even mentioned it to Eleanor during the few conversations they had, which were now mostly business. Eleanor was grateful for that, and she’d never had the temptation to tell Tess or anyone else what was really going on between her and Myron. She knew he could be difficult, but she loved him just the same. If he got impatient with the patients—and hell, they were criminals, after all, weren’t they?—who could blame him for that? Christ, she got pissed off often enough herself at the loonies. You had to be a saint not to.

  Eleanor always wanted more from Myron, though. They’d played their little screwing-in-the-cellar game (and occasionally in an empty patient room, though that was riskier) for years, and neither of them was getting any younger. She knew that Myron had no relations with his wife, but his damned religion kept him from leaving her, and she couldn’t understand why. He wasn’t even a Catholic.

  She kept hoping he’d change his mind, finally have had enough of living with a stick, and tell her he wanted them to be together all the time. Just in case, she romantically had a packed bag in the trunk of her car, with a sexy negligee and enough clothes to last several days if and when Myron ever told her that he wanted to be with her. Then they could hop in a car and go somewhere for a weekend or a whole week, as a start to their lives as a real couple.

  It was foolish, she knew, but it gave her hope. They could be happy together, if Myron would just realize it.

  * * *

  Several nights later, a strong storm had come up across the land from the Gulf. The cold air, driven by the winds, was bone-chilling, but just below the edge of forming ice or snow. Huge raindrops fell out of the dark swirling skies onto the windshield of a car at the back of the parking lot for the State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. The car was black, and was dark inside as well.

  A man was seated behind the wheel. He wasn’t smoking, not wanting to risk drawing attention to himself by the flash of a match or the burning glow of a cigarette, if it could have been glimpsed at all through the maelstrom outside.

  Such caution was probably unnecessary, anyway, since the few people he had seen leave the facility were holding umbrellas in front of them and keeping their heads down so as not to receive a face full of icy raindrops. Not once did any of them even glance in his direction.

  Still, he was able to see them, at least when they opened their car doors and the dome lights illuminated their bodies and sometimes their faces. The man was watching for the person he thought of as his quarry, but he hadn’t seen him yet. He wondered if he would. He had to get a sense of his prey’s schedule, and he suspected that it wasn’t a regular one, that under certain circumstances he would stay longer, leave earlier, perhaps even stay all night.

  It wasn’t easy to take the quarry. One didn’t just waltz in and do it. That was how one got caught. And the man didn’t want to get caught. He hadn’t before, and he didn’t intend to now.

  What he intended to do was to take his man and make him pay for what he had done. Pay with his life.

  The winds increased. The rain fell more heavily, drumming on the steel roof of the black car. The man leaned toward the windshield, turned the ignition key, and flicked on the wipers. Someone was coming into the parking lot with an umbrella over him … wait … over him and a woman huddled close to him. He took her to a car and held the umbrella over her as she got into the driver’s side, then waved goodbye as her car started and she drove away.
/>
  As the man with the umbrella started toward his own vehicle, the man in the black car recognized him. It was Dr. Felix Reed. Not his quarry. He turned off the wipers and leaned back on the seat, waiting for the next person to leave.

  At this point, the man in the car wasn’t sure where he would take his quarry, but once he had a better sense of the man’s schedule, he would make the decision. Perhaps it would simply be best to do it as he had done it the last time. That had been efficient. And satisfying. It had been deeply satisfying. Vengeance always was. And vengeance was what he would take. Not for himself directly, but for those who shared his blood.

  * * *

  The storm continued through the night and into the next day, filled with buffeting winds and drenching rain. There were periods when it lessened in ferocity, but by early the following evening it had returned in its full strength. Thunder and lightning had been added to the mix as well, and the patients had been restless all day. A number of nurses and attendants had been asked to stay late and earn overtime, adding to the usually reduced night shift.

  Naturally Eleanor Lindstrom and Myron Gunn were working late, overseeing their charges both professional (the nurses and attendants) and medical (the patients). Both had their hands full. With every new crash of thunder, certain rooms produced cries, bangings, and hammerings, and nurses armed with pills and hypos filled with sedatives were escorted by burly attendants into those rooms to administer medicinal calm, voluntarily received or not.

  Most of the disturbed patients were talking about ghosts. It was as if the thunder and lightning had made them recall all the other tropes of horror films they might have seen when they were free, as well as ghostly tales they’d heard in their youth and there in the confines of the state hospital. The facility was rich in spectral lore and history.

  The majority of patients bore the storm as anyone else would, but that still left dozens of terrified men in need of calming, and it took some time. Myron Gunn seemed to be everywhere at once, lending authority and muscle wherever they were needed. He was none too gentle with the patients, actually sitting on some of the recalcitrant ones who refused to submit to an injection.