Psycho

by Robert Bloch

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

You aren’t really a murderer when you’re sick in the head. Anybody knows that.

“It’s all right,” he said, wondering at the same time why there were no better words, why there never are any better words to answer fear and grief and loneliness.

But when he was by himself—not actually by himself, but off in a book—he was a mature individual. Mature enough to understand that he might even be the victim of a mild form of schizophrenia, most likely some form of borderline neurosis.

Murder was a terrible thing. Even if you’re not quite right in the head, you can realize that much. Mother must be suffering quite a bit.

“What kind of a hick town is this, anyway?” she murmured. “A bank is held up and the sheriff is in church. What’s he doing, praying that somebody will catch the robbers for him?”

The sun surrendered its splendor—why, it was like poetry; he was a poet; Norman smiled. He was many things. If they only knew——

We’re all not quite as sane as we pretend to be.”