Psycho

by Robert Bloch

Mothers sometimes are overly possessive, but not all children allow themselves to be possessed.

I think perhaps all of us go a little crazy at times.

Funny, Sam told himself, how we take it for granted that we know all there is to know about another person, just because we see them frequently or because of some strong emotional tie.

But if you ask me, it’s a waste of time. Norman Bates is no murderer.’ The word emerged, just like any other word, and died away. But its echo lingered. Sam heard it and Lila heard it. It stayed with them as they drove over to the courthouse annex with Sheriff Chambers. It stayed with them after the Sheriff drove away, out to the motel. He’d refused to take either of them along; told them to wait. So they waited in the office, just the two of them. The two of them – and the word.

Then they were on the sidewalk. The late afternoon sun cast slanting shadows. As they stood there the black tip of the Civil War veteran’s bayonet grazed Lila’s throat. ‘Want to come back to my place?’ Sam suggested. The girl shook her head. ‘The hotel?’ ‘No.’ ‘Where would you like to go, then?’ ‘I don’t know about you,’ Lila said. ‘But I’m going out to that motel.’ She raised her face defiantly, and the sharp shadow line slashed across her neck. For a moment, it looked as though somebody had just cut off Lila’s head . . .