Robert Bloch's Psycho

by Chet Williamson

  “That is, as you say, putting it mildly,” Goldberg said. “So you suggest nothing be done at this point?”

  “Well, as far as we know, they haven’t done anything illegal and aren’t in any danger. If Gunn’s wife wants to file a missing persons report, she can. At least that’ll get other law enforcement to keep an eye out for the car. I’ll drop over to her place, tell her what we found, and suggest she do that. ’Course, under the circumstances, she might want to keep it quiet.”

  “I doubt that’s going to happen,” the doctor said. “So many of our staff live in Fairvale that the story will be widespread.”

  “You’re probably right. Well, let me know if you hear anything from either of them. I’ve got no doubt that they’ll show up eventually, a little embarrassed and worse for wear.”

  November 17, 1916

  The unease I feel grows every day. The gemstone in the crown of the Ollinger Sanitarium, my Spiritual Repulsion Therapy, has begun to show cracks. Cracks? Rather I should say fissures. It seems that for every patient who is aided by the therapy, there is another who is damaged by it, and, in some cases, destroyed.

  The therapy itself is not at fault, I have no doubt concerning that, oh no. I suspect it is the zeal with which some of the trusted nurses and attendants who play the roles attack their parts. There is a vast difference, I tell them time and again, between correction and abuse, and to always err on the side of the former. But, in the unbalanced minds of our patients, the dividing line is fine indeed. Should the portrayer of the correcting spirit become too filled with vengeful fury, the already attenuated mind of the patient snaps, and rather than achieving recognition of guilt and the resultant redemption, what we are left with is an altogether broken spirit, some of which have proven irreparable.

  To be specific, the case of one M.R., who was committed here by his family after beating his mother to death with a silver hand mirror after she had discovered him in her bedroom wearing her undergarments and performing self-abuse. After the usual legal arrangements were made, he became my patient, but proved to be fully uncommunicative. I urged him to discuss his transvestism (as the German Hirschfeld has named it) as a starting point, but he gave no response whatsoever. He was not mad, and I do believe that he understood every word I uttered, but he would only look at me, as if he held me beneath contempt.

  Nevertheless, I spoke to him of the wrong he had done, not so much in his sexual deviance as in his killing of his mother. Try as I might, even to the point of pleading, I could not persuade him to admit to the gravity and permanence of his actions, or to claim the responsibility for his mother’s death. After the more traditional treatments failed, I felt that only Spiritual Repulsion Therapy remained as a possibility to cure his illness.

  The usual preparations were made, the patient moved to one of the proper rooms, and that evening the sedative administered. Sometime after midnight, the ruse was undertaken. Along with one of the stronger attendants, one of the elect cadre who are privy to the full details of the therapy, I lingered in the dark passage as the nurse entered in full and faithful re-creation of the unfortunate mother of M.R. What occurred then was greatly surprising and alarming.

  At the first word (M.R.’s Christian name) uttered by the nurse, the patient, who should have been sedated to the point where such activity was impossible, leapt to his feet, strode across the small chamber, and with a fearful shriek fell upon the poor woman, fingers clawing and teeth biting at her face, bearing her to the floor. The attendant and I entered upon the instant, and pulled the patient off his victim, but he continued to scream and thrash about, trying to bite the attendant and myself with his ravening teeth.

  The attendant putting him in an unbreakable hold, at last M.R.’s struggles subsided, though he continued to scream, with tears pouring down his cheeks and his eyes rolling in his head. I was able to see to the nurse, and found that her face had been severely scratched and her cheek lacerated by the patient’s snapping teeth. I helped her out of the room through the way we had entered, thankful that she was still conscious, and the attendant followed, flinging the now prostrate body of M.R. onto his bed and exiting quickly, making sure the passage door was tightly shut (how could it have been otherwise?).

  The nurse recovered with only slight scarring. The story was that she was attacked by a patient, which was, after all, the truth. Those of us who are fully aware of my still as yet secret therapy did not disclose the exact circumstances of the nurse’s injury to the many others who are not privy to our confidences.

  The case of M.R. was the first of the negative results of Spiritual Repulsion Therapy. There have been many since; though, with the increased dosage of sedatives I felt necessary, there have been no repetitions of attacks on nurses or attendants. I have thus far not described the fate of M.R. after the failure of therapy, but I fear I must.

  The man has not regained what little sanity he had when he came here. On the contrary, he has become what an earlier, less enlightened age would call a raving lunatic. When he is awake, he screams until he grows hoarse. When asleep, he twitches incessantly in despairing dreams. I have had his sedation increased, and that has helped to calm him, but when it wears off the screaming returns.

  There are six other such patients now. And these failures do not augur well for the future of the facility. M.R.’s father, upon visiting him and seeing his condition, was livid with rage at the change in his son, and called me a mountebank, threatening to never again visit, to stop all monthly payments, and to slander my reputation were his son to remain in this condition. This, unfortunately, has been the reaction of most well-heeled relatives who find from one visit to the next that their loved ones have gone irretrievably mad.

  Three so far have discontinued payments, and when I asked if they wished to have their wards transferred to another facility, I have received such responses as, “Do what you like—I wash my hands of him and you,” “I find her malady brought on by the sanitarium’s maltreatment, and wish to hear of nothing other than her return to sanity,” and, simplest of all, “I do not give a d——.”

  I can only believe that these original supporters of my work wanted a place to lodge their criminal children rather than have them go to prison. Now that these patients’ lives have become equivalent to those sufferers at Bedlam, they withdraw their support and their interest, writing off their former loved ones for good and all, telling themselves that they tried to do their best for their son, daughter, uncle, father, husband, wife, so they need feel no guilt and may go on with their lives.

  But what to do with these “errors,” these sacrifices made on the altar of mental health? Their shrieks disturb the other patients day and night, and it becomes dangerous to enter their rooms. Therefore I have decided that, once their patrons have deserted them and visits cease, they should all be placed together in a less luxurious ward, where they may be overseen by a minimal staff, and where their ravings will disturb only each other.

  There is a quite large room, as yet unused, in the cellar. Beds may be placed in there, perhaps in small individual cage-like cells, which would eliminate the need for constant restraints. It will be best to keep this area from visitors, though it is not likely these particular patients will receive visits. Should that occur, they can be brought up and placed in one of the regular patient rooms during the visit.

  I regret this deeply, but I see no opportunity for improvement in these poor creatures. In fact, I fear for the very future of the sanitarium itself. The consortium of businessmen who have financed the facility are receiving complaints, some from within their own ranks, and the inspectors from the state board come more frequently. As of yet, the facility has received their approval after each visit, but none of the inspectors, indeed, no one except for a portion of my staff and myself, even know of the existence of my Spiritual Repulsion Therapy.

  I only pray that those with the knowledge remain steadfast and silent, so that I may continue in what I still consider to be my life’s gr
eat work, and the gift to mankind that Providence has intended me to make.

  * * *

  No one told Norman Bates about the disappearance of Myron Gunn and Nurse Lindstrom. He learned of it through a conversation he overheard after lunch in the social hall. The two men who had previously discussed ghosts and somehow saw bugs in the ceiling tiles were talking.

  “I say they run away together,” said the one, his eyes on the ceiling as before. “They was sweet on each other.”

  “That’s true enough,” said the other. “I seen Santa give Myron Gunn the eye over and over, and he looked back at her sometimes and I almost seen him smilin’ once. But that don’t mean they run away.”

  “Well, neither one of them’s here. You think they’re hidin’?”

  “Nope. You know damn well what happened to ’em. Same thing as happened to Ronald Miller.”

  Just for a moment, the man looked away from the ceiling at his friend. “You’re not tellin’ me…”

  “Yep. The ghosts got ’em. They’re gone. Ain’t never gonna find ’em.”

  Norman felt a sudden chill. Myron Gunn and Nurse Lindstrom were missing. And last night he had dreamed …

  “Well,” said the other man, looking back at the ceiling, “whether they got ’em or they run away, I don’t care neither way. They was both mean sons a bitches.”

  The other man said, “I just hope they don’t turn into ghosts themselves now. Can you imagine Myron Gunn as a ghost? Can’t think of anybody I’d rather have haunt me less’n him.”

  “That’d be one goddamn mean ghost,” the ceiling man agreed, then pointed upward. “That’s a good one!”

  “Nah,” said his friend. “I don’t like the blue ones.”

  The longer Norman sat and thought about Myron Gunn and Nurse Lindstrom, the sicker he felt. He hoped he wouldn’t throw up again. He stood up, walked to the window, looked out at the trees in the distance, and thought some more.

  First Ronald Miller, whom they still hadn’t found. And now Myron Gunn and Nurse Lindstrom. Every one of them had posed a danger to Norman. Though the nurse had never actually threatened him, he knew she was a friend, and apparently a lover, of Myron Gunn’s, and would be on his side in whatever he did.

  And now all three of these people were missing.

  Anyone who tries to hurt you or your friends, well … let’s just say they’ll be sorry.

  Robert’s words came back to him clearly. And:

  Who’s to say it was a nightmare?

  Norman felt that if he kept these secrets inside of him, his heart would burst. There was only one person he could talk to about this, one person he could really talk to at all, and that was Dr. Reed. He would try and stay calm until four o’clock, which was the time scheduled for today’s therapy. He picked up a magazine and tried to concentrate on it, but it was no use.

  It seemed an eternity until four. His walk took forever, but finally he was back in his room, and the minutes dragged on until Dr. Reed knocked, then opened his door. He asked the doctor if he could talk about something that was concerning him rather than start his therapy right away.

  Dr. Reed replied, “Of course, Norman. Therapy is really just talking about what concerns you. Now, what is it?” Dr. Reed settled into the chair, smiling at Norman.

  Norman told him everything then—how he had learned of the disappearance of Myron Gunn and Nurse Lindstrom, how he’d had dreams about seeing them the night before, and Robert’s reassurances to him that no one would harm him. “I just can’t help but wonder, Doctor, if … if Robert could somehow be responsible for…”

  “For the three disappearances?” Dr. Reed finished. “Norman, I can understand how you might connect these individual occurrences, especially since you’ve been emotionally involved with two of these three. But let’s look at this logically. First, your dreams have an explanation. We’ve already talked about the man in the red room, remember? The violence that was a part of your life doesn’t just go away. It remains in your subconscious. And where do dreams come from?”

  “The subconscious.”

  “Correct. Your recent confrontation with Myron Gunn, and your fear of him and Nurse Lindstrom, is in both your sleeping and waking mind. It could easily be that your wish not to be dominated by them could result in a dream where they feel the same emotions of fear and anxiety that you do.”

  Norman nodded. “I guess that makes sense.” He frowned. “But what about Robert saying that he’d protect me from anyone who tried to hurt me?”

  “It’s only natural for your brother to want to reassure you, even if he might not be able to do anything physically to keep you from harm.”

  “But he … suggested that my nightmares … might not be dreams.”

  “He may have been joking. Or it just might have been an observation of some kind regarding this psychic link you said you two talked about. If that link exists, which we have no valid proof of, you … could have been seeing something your brother was thinking rather than doing.”

  “But maybe … he did do it,” Norman said softly.

  “Let’s turn to logic again, Norman. Ronald Miller first. Now, for your brother to get Ronald Miller out of here—or, let’s say for the sake of argument, do something to him—he would have to get back into the facility, and that’s not going to happen. He has no credentials, and I always have to accompany him in and out of the building. Once he leaves, there’s no coming back.

  “But even if he were able to get back in, in the case of Ronald Miller he would have had to get the key to Miller’s cell and take him out bodily through locked gates and past attendants and the outside guards. Because Miller—or his body—wasn’t found in the facility.

  “As for Myron Gunn and Nurse Lindstrom, Robert would have had to do the same thing, only with two people, either removing them from the building or doing something to them here and then getting out. Myron’s car is gone, so he would have had to take that too. It’s just physically impossible that an outsider could have done any such thing. Does that make sense to you?”

  Norman nodded again. He felt a little better. “I guess so,” he said. “It’s just that the combination of different things … I put them together. In my imagination.”

  “And that’s all it is, Norman. Your imagination. And there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s part of our human makeup to look for patterns, and, if none exists, we sometimes create them. We see clouds that look like horses, or faces in the bark of a tree. That’s what you’ve done. It doesn’t mean the horse or the face is really there.” Dr. Reed sat back and crossed his arms. “Would you feel more comfortable not seeing Robert for a while? I could offer him a reason that wouldn’t offend him if you would want visits to resume after a time.”

  “No, no,” Norman said. “It’s just … I enjoy his visits, they’re great, and it’s not his fault I get these ideas in my head, he just … well, I think he wants me to feel comfortable with him, to feel that he understands what I … what I went through. Am going through.”

  “I’m sure he does. But if you feel disturbed by some things that Robert says, don’t hesitate to tell him so. Ask him to change the subject. I’m sure he will.” Dr. Reed smiled at Norman. “Now. Since we’ve got that out of the way, shall we continue with our session? Lie back and relax…”

  * * *

  After his session with Dr. Reed, it was time for dinner. Nurse Marie came in, Ben behind her, and he was happy to see them both. He hoped that Myron, if he had indeed run away with Nurse Lindstrom, would stay away. He didn’t like the way Myron talked to Nurse Marie, and had been worried about her when she’d stayed in that room where the man was being force-fed.

  She seemed to be fine, though, and greeted Norman warmly. He grinned at her, and she looked at him oddly, but still smiling. “You look happy today,” she said. “I wonder if it’s because you heard some news.”

  “Yes,” Norman whispered, then said, “Myron.”

  Nurse Marie raised her eyebrows in surprise. N
orman assumed it was a response to his relative volubility. Other than please and thank you, he’d never said more to her. “That’s right,” she said. “And…?”

  “Nurse … Lindstrom.”

  Nurse Marie turned and smiled at Ben, who smiled back. Then she looked back at Norman as she took the cover from his tray of food. “They may be back eventually,” she said.

  The food smelled good to Norman. It was beef stew, which he liked. The good spirits he felt sustained his talkativeness. “Maybe not,” he said with a smile. And then, in spite of what Dr. Reed had told him, he pictured the faces of the two that he had seen in his dream.

  “Maybe not,” he whispered, but now he wasn’t smiling.

  He was, he thought later, more right than he could imagine.

  11

  A week passed, and Myron Gunn and Nurse Lindstrom still hadn’t reappeared at their homes or the hospital. Marybelle Gunn had filed a missing person’s report, and the highway patrol was on the lookout for Myron’s DeSoto, but the car hadn’t been sighted.

  Nurse Wyndham and Ray Wiseman retained their temporary positions as head nurse and head attendant, and the state hospital went on with its business as before. In fact, it proceeded even more efficiently, since neither Wyndham nor Wiseman had the sadistic bent that their predecessors had. They were strict and stern, a necessity when dealing with criminal madmen, but they seemed to feel no pleasure in enforcing discipline. It was part of the job.

  Rumors abounded among the patients:

  One of the more violent residents had murdered and chopped up both Gunn and Lindstrom, and the affair had been hushed up and a cover story established, though no one could explain why …