Psycho

by Robert Bloch

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

“You hate people. Because, really, you’re afraid of them, aren’t you? Always have been, ever since you were a little tyke. Rather snuggle up in a chair under the lamp and read. You did it thirty years ago, and you’re still doing it now. Hiding away under the covers of a book.”

Well, I got over it, finally. And she didn’t. But who are you to say a person should be put away? 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.

It was like being two people, really—the child and the adult. Whenever he thought about Mother, he became a child again, with a child’s vocabulary, frames of reference, and emotional reactions. 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.

“Why, when he said he was going up to see Norman Bates’s mother. Norman Bates has no mother.”

Lila closed her mouth, but the scream continued. It was the insane scream of an hysterical woman, and it came from the throat of Norman Bates.

There was Norman, the little boy who needed his mother and hated anything or anyone who came between him and her. Then, Norma, the mother, who could not be allowed to die. The third aspect might be called Normal—the adult Norman Bates, who had to go through the daily routine of living, and conceal the existence of the other personalities from the world.

“Then the horror wasn’t in the house,” Lila murmured. “It was in his head.”

And right now, I can’t even hate Bates for what he did. He must have suffered more than any of us. In a way I can almost understand. We’re all not quite as sane as we pretend to be.”

To be the only one, and to know that you are real—that’s sanity, isn’t it?