Three Complete Novels (Psycho, Psycho II, and Psycho House)

  Sam rose, and she walked him to the door. “Anyway it’s over, and I’m going to try to forget it. Just forget everything that happened.”

  “Everything?” Sam murmured. He didn’t look at her.

  And that was the end of it.

  Or almost the end.

  — 17 —

  The real end came quietly.

  It came in the small, barred room where the voices had muttered and mingled for so long a time—the man’s voice, the woman’s voice, the child’s.

  The voices had exploded when triggered into fission, but now, almost miraculously, a fusion took place.

  So that there was only one voice. And that was right, because there was only one person in the room. There always had been one person and only one.

  She knew it now.

  She knew it, and she was glad.

  It was so much better to be this way; to be fully and completely aware of one’s self as one really was. To be serenely strong, serenely confident, serenely secure.

  She could look back upon the past as though it were all a bad dream, and that’s just what it had been: a bad dream, peopled with illusions.

  There had been a bad boy in the bad dream, a bad boy who had killed her lover and tried to poison her. Somewhere in the dream was the strangling and the wheezing and the clawing at the throat and the faces that turned blue. Somewhere in the dream was the graveyard at night and the digging and the panting and the splintering of the coffin lid, and then the moment of discovery, the moment of staring at what lay within. But what lay within wasn’t really dead. Not any more. The bad boy was dead, instead, and that was as it should be.

  There had been a bad man in the bad dream, too, and he was also a murderer. He had peeked through the wall and he drank, and he read filthy books and believed in all sorts of crazy nonsense. But worst of all, he was responsible for the deaths of two innocent people—a young girl with beautiful breasts and a man who wore a gray Stetson hat. She knew all about it, of course, and that’s why she could remember the details. Because she had been there at the time, watching. But all she did was watch.

  The bad man had really committed the murders and then he tried to blame it on her.

  Mother killed them. That’s what he said, but it was a lie.

  This book

  is for

  Stella Loeb Bloch

  with

  life-long love.

  — 1 —

  Norman Bates stared out of the library window, trying hard to avoid seeing the bars.

  Just ignore them, that was the trick. Ignorance is bliss. But there was no bliss, and tricks didn’t work here behind the bars of the State Hospital. Once it was the State Hospital for the Criminally Insane; now we live in a more enlightened age and they don’t call it that anymore. But there were still bars on the windows and he was still inside, looking out.

  Stones walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage. The poet Richard Lovelace said that, way back in the seventeenth century, a long time ago. And Norman had been sitting here a long time—not three hundred years, but it felt like centuries.

  Still, if he had to sit, the library was probably the best place, and serving as the librarian was an easy chore. Very few of the patients bothered with books and he had plenty of time to read on his own. That was how he’d encountered Richard Lovelace and all the others: sitting here undisturbed in the cool semi-darkness of the library, day after day. They’d even given him a desk of his own to show that they trusted him, knew he was responsible.

  Norman was grateful for that. But at times like this, with the sun shining and birds singing in the streets outside his window, he realized that Lovelace was a liar. The birds were free, but Norman was in a cage.

  He’d never told Dr. Claiborne because he didn’t want to upset him, but he couldn’t help feeling this way. It was so unjust, so unfair.

  Whatever had occurred to bring him here—whatever he was told had occurred, if it was true—happened a long time ago. Long ago in another country, and the wench was dead. He knew now that he was Norman Bates, not his mother. He wasn’t crazy anymore.

  Of course, no one was crazy nowadays. No one, whatever he may have done, was a maniac; just mentally disturbed. But who wouldn’t be disturbed, shut away in a cage with a bunch of lunatics? Claiborne didn’t call them that, but Norman knew a madman when he saw one, and through the years he’d seen many. Screwballs, they used to call them. But now television had the last word—wackos, weirdoes, freakos who’ve gone bananas. What was it the standup comics said on the talk shows about not playing with a full deck?

  Well this deck was full, even though the cards were stacked against him. And he wasn’t buying this humorous terminology they used to describe a serious illness. Strange how everyone tried to disguise truth with nonsense. Like the slang for death: kicking the bucket, wiped out, snuffed, wasted, blown away. The light touch to dispel the heavy fear.

  What’s in a name? Sticks and stones will break my bones, but names will never hurt me. Another quotation, but not from Richard Lovelace. Mother was the one who used to say that, when Norman was just a little boy. But Mother was dead now and he was still alive. Alive and in a cage. Knowing this, facing up to the truth, proved he was sane.

  If they’d only realized it, they’d have tried him for murder, found him guilty, sentenced him to a term in prison. Then he’d have been out in a few years, seven or eight at the most. Instead they said he was psychotic, but he wasn’t; they were the crazy ones, locking up a sick man for life and letting murderers run free.

  Norman stood up and walked over to the window. When he pressed close, his range of vision was no longer limited by the bars. Now he could look down on the grounds, sparkling in the bright sunshine of a Sunday afternoon in spring. The birdsongs were clearer now, soothing, more melodious. Sun and song in harmony, the music of the spheres.

  When he’d first come here, there’d been no sunlight and no song—only the blackness and the shrieking. The blackness was inside him, a place where he could hide from reality, and the shrieking was the voice of demons searching him out to threaten and accuse. But Dr. Claiborne found a way to reach him in the darkness, and he’d exorcised the demons. His voice—the voice of sanity—had stilled the shrieking. It had taken a long time for Norman to come out of his hiding place and listen to the voice of reason, the voice that told him he was not his own mother, that he was—how did they say it?—his own person. A person who had done harm to others, but never knowingly. So there could be no guilt, no blame. To understand this was to be healed, accepting it was the cure.

  And cured he was. No restraint jacket, no padded cell, no sedation. As librarian he had access to the books he’d always loved, and television opened another window on the world, a window without bars. Life was comfortable here. And he was used to being a loner.

  But on days like this he found himself missing the contact with other people. Real flesh-and-blood people, not characters in books or images on a tube. Aside from Claiborne, doctors and nurses and orderlies were transient presences. And now that he’d completed his task, Dr. Claiborne spent most of his time with other patients.

  Norman couldn’t do that. Now that he was himself again, he couldn’t relate to the crazies. Their mumbling, grimacing, gesturing antics disturbed him, and he preferred solitude to their society. That was the one thing Claiborne couldn’t change, though he’d certainly tried hard enough. It was Dr. Claiborne who’d urged Norman to participate in the amateur theatrical program here, and for a while it was an interesting challenge. At least he’d felt safe onstage, with the footlights separating him from his audience. Up there he was in control, making them laugh or cry at will. The greatest thrill of all came when he took the lead in Charley’s Aunt—playing the role in drag, playing so well that they cheered and applauded his performance—but all the while knowing that it was just a performance, pretense, make-believe.

  That was what Dr. Claiborne said afterward, and only then did Norman realize
this had all been arranged, a deliberate test of his ability to function. You should be proud of yourself, Claiborne told him.

  But there was something Claiborne didn’t realize, something Norman didn’t tell him. The moment of fear that came toward the end, just before the hero’s disguise was discovered. The moment when, simpering and swishing and coquetting with tossing curls, Norman lost himself in the part. The moment when he was Charley’s Aunt—except that the fan in his hand was no longer a fan but a knife. And Charley’s Aunt became a real live woman, an older woman, like Mother.

  The moment of fear—or the moment of truth?

  Norman didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. He just wanted to give up amateur theatricals for good.

  Now, staring out through the window, he noted that the sunshine was fading rapidly into an overcast; thunderheads hovered on the horizon, and the trees bordering the parking lot shivered in the chill of rising wind. Warbling gave way to the discord of fluttering wings as the birds rose from bobbing branches to swoop and scatter against the darkening sky.

  It wasn’t the coming of the clouds that disturbed them. They left because the cars were arriving, pulling into the parking spaces on the lot below. And their occupants emerged, moving toward the entrance of the hospital, just as they did during visiting hours every Sunday afternoon.

  Oh, Mommy, look at the funny man!

  Now, Junior, you mustn’t say such things! Remember what I told you—don’t feed the crazies.

  Norman shook his head. It wasn’t right to be thinking like that. These visitors were friends, family, coming here because they cared.

  But not for him.

  Years ago the reporters had come, but Dr. Claiborne hadn’t let him see them, not even after he’d snapped out of it. And now nobody came.

  Most of the people he’d known were dead. Mother, the Crane girl, and that detective, Arbogast. He was alone now, and all he could do was watch the strangers arrive. A few men, a few children, but mostly women. Wives, sweethearts, sisters, mothers, bringing their gifts and their love.

  Norman scowled down at them. These people meant nothing to him, brought nothing to him. All they did was scare away the birds. And that was cruel, because he’d always liked having birds around, even the ones he’d stuffed and mounted years ago when he was interested in taxidermy. It wasn’t just a hobby with him; he’d had a real feeling for them. Saint Francis of Assisi.

  Odd. What made him think of that?

  Glancing down again, he encountered the answer. The big birds below, moving away from the van in the parking lot, close to the outer gates. Squinting, he could even make out the lettering on the side of the van: Sacred Order of the Little Sisters of Charity.

  Now the birds were almost directly beneath him. Two big black-and-white penguins, waddling up the walk toward the entrance. Suppose they’d come all the way from the South Pole just to see him.

  But that was a crazy idea.

  And Norman wasn’t crazy anymore.

  — 2 —

  The penguins entered the hospital and approached the lobby reception desk. The short, bespectacled one leading the way was Sister Cupertine and the tall, younger one was Sister Barbara.

  Sister Barbara didn’t think of herself as a penguin. Right now she didn’t think of herself at all. Her thoughts were centered on the people here, these poor unfortunate people.

  That’s what they were, she must remember: not inmates, but basically people very much like herself. This had been one of the things they’d stressed in psychology class, and it certainly was a fundamental precept in religious training. There but for the grace of God go I. And if the grace of God had brought her here to them, then she must bear His word and His comfort.

  But Sister Barbara had to admit that at the moment she wasn’t entirely comfortable. After all, she was new to the Order and she’d never been on a mission of charity before, let alone one that would take her to an asylum.

  It had been Sister Cupertine who suggested their journey together, and for an obvious reason; she needed someone to drive her. Sister Cupertine had been coming here once a month for years with Sister Loretta, but Sister Loretta was ill now with influenza. Such a tiny woman, and so frail—God grant her a speedy recovery.

  Sister Barbara fingered her rosary, giving thanks for her own stamina. A big, healthy girl like you, Mama always said. A big, healthy girl like you shouldn’t have any trouble finding a decent husband after I’m gone. But Mama had been too kind. The big, healthy girl was just a klutz, lacking the face and figure or even the basic femininity necessary to attract any man, be his intentions decent or indecent. So, after Mama passed away, she was left alone until the call came. Then, suddenly, the way opened; she answered the call, made her novitiate, found her vocation. Thank God for that.

  And thank God for Sister Cupertine now, greeting the little receptionist at the desk with such confidence, introducing her while they waited for the superintendent to come out of his office down the hall. Presently she saw him as he emerged from the corridor beyond, wearing a light topcoat and carrying an overnight bag in his left hand.

  Dr. Steiner was a short, bald-headed man who cultivated a fringe of bushy sideburns to compensate for his cranial alopecia, and a bulging paunch to distract attention from his lack of height. But who was Sister Barbara to pass judgment on him or guess at his motivations? She wasn’t a psych major anymore; she’d dropped out of school in her last year, when Mama died, and now all those head-games must be put aside forever.

  Actually, Dr. Steiner proved to be quite pleasant. And as a professional, he had obviously recognized her shyness and was doing his best to put her at her ease.

  But it was the second man, the other doctor who followed Steiner out of his office to join them, who really succeeded in that task. The moment Sister Barbara saw him, she consciously relaxed.

  “You know Dr. Claiborne, don’t you?” Steiner was addressing Sister Cupertine, who nodded her acknowledgment.

  “And this is Sister Barbara.” Steiner turned to her, gesturing toward the tall, curly-haired younger man. “Sister, I’d like you to meet Dr. Claiborne, my associate.”

  The tall man extended his hand. His grip was warm and so was his smile.

  “Dr. Claiborne is something you don’t encounter very often,” Steiner said. “A genuine non-Jewish psychiatrist.”

  Claiborne grinned. “You’re forgetting Jung,” he said.

  “I’m forgetting a lot of things.” Steiner glanced at the clock on the wall behind the reception desk, his expression sobering. “I should be halfway to the airport by now.”

  He turned, shifting the overnight bag to his right hand. “You’re going to have to excuse me,” he said. “I’ve got a meeting scheduled with the state board first thing in the morning, and the four-thirty flight is the only one out of here until tomorrow noon. So, with your permission, I’ll leave you with Dr. Claiborne here. As of now, he’s in charge.”

  “Of course.” Sister Cupertine bobbed her head quickly. “You go right ahead.”

  Glancing at the younger man, Steiner started toward the entranceway. Dr. Claiborne went with him, and for a moment the two halted before the door. Steiner spoke rapidly to his companion in low tones, then nodded and made his exit.

  Dr. Claiborne turned and walked back to the sisters. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said.

  “Don’t apologize.” Sister Cupertine’s voice was cordial, but Sister Barbara noted the sudden furrowing of the forehead behind the masking frames of her thick glasses. “Perhaps we’d better postpone our visit until next time. You must have enough to look after here without worrying about us.”

  “No problem.” Dr. Claiborne reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small notepad. “Here’s the list of those patients you asked for on the phone.” Tearing off the top sheet, he extended it to the older woman.

  The furrow vanished as she studied the names scrawled upon the white rectangle. “Tucker, Hoffman, and Shaw I know,” she said. ?
??But who’s Zander?”

  “A recent arrival. Tentative diagnosis, involutional melancholia.”

  “Whatever that means.” There was a slight edge to Sister Cupertine’s voice now as the furrow returned, and before she quite realized it, Sister Barbara found herself speaking.

  “Severe depression,” she said. “Guilt feelings, anxiety, somatic preoccupations—”

  Conscious of Dr. Claiborne’s sudden stare, she faltered. Her companion gave him an apologetic smile. “Sister Barbara studied psychology in college.”

  “And did quite well at it, I’d say.”

  Sister Barbara found herself blushing. “Not really—it’s just that I’ve always been interested in what happens to people—so many problems—”

  “But so few solutions.” Claiborne nodded. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Sister Cupertine’s mouth tightened, and the younger woman wished she had kept her own mouth tight instead. It had been wrong to upstage her that way.

  She wondered if Dr. Claiborne could read body language. No matter, because Sister Cupertine was verbalizing now.

  “And that’s why I’m here,” she said. “Maybe I don’t know very much about psychology, but sometimes I think that a few kind words can do more good than all this fancy talk.”

  “Exactly.” Dr. Claiborne’s smile stroked her furrow away. “I appreciate that, and I know our patients appreciate it even more. Sometimes a visitor from outside can do more for their morale in a few hours than we’re able to accomplish in months of analysis. That’s why I’d like you to see Mr. Zander after you look in on your regulars today. As far as we can learn he has no living relatives. I can get you a copy of his case history if you like.”