Psycho by Robert Bloch Read Free Book Online

she'd forgotten about the shower and gone to bed leaving it turned on. It seemed odd that she'd be able to sleep with the water running full force that way, but then he'd done it himself just now. Maybe fatigue was as intoxicating as alcohol.
    Anyway, there didn't seem to be anything wrong. The bathroom was in order. Norman scanned it once again, then noticed the floor.
    Water from the shower was trickling across the tiles. Not much, just a little, just enough for him to see it. A tiny rivulet of water, trailing across the white tiled floor.
    Or was it water? Water isn't pink . Water doesn't have tiny threads of red in it, tiny threads of red like veins.
    She must have slipped, she must have fallen and hurt herself , Norman decided. The panic was rising in him, but he knew what he must do. He grabbed up his keys from the desk and hurried out of the office. Quickly he found the right one for the adjoining unit and opened the door. The bedroom was empty, but the open suitcase still rested on the bed itself. She hadn't gone away. So he'd guessed correctly; there'd been an accident in the shower. He'd have to go in there.
    It wasn't until he actually entered the bathroom that he remembered something else, and then it was too late. The panic burst loose, but that didn't help him now. He still remembered.
    Mother had keys to the motel too .
    And then, as he ripped back the shower curtains and stared down at the hacked and twisted thing sprawled on the floor of the stall, he realized that Mother had used her keys.
     

 
FIVE
     
     
    Norman locked the door behind him and went up to the house. His clothes were a mess. Blood on them, of course, and water, and then he'd been sick all over the bathroom floor.
    But that wasn't important now. There were other things which must be cleaned up first.
    This time be was going to do something about it, once and for all. He was going to put Mother where she belonged. He had to.
    All the panic, all the fear, all the horror and nausea and revulsion, gave way to this overriding resolve. What had happened was tragic, dreadful beyond words, but it would never happen again. He felt like a new man—his own man.
    Norman hurried up the steps and tried the front door. It was unlocked. The light in the parlor was still burning, but it was empty. He gave a quick glance around, then mounted the stairs.
    The door to Mother's room stood open, and lamplight fanned forth into the hall. He stepped in, not bothering to knock. No need to pretend any more. She couldn't get away with this.
    She couldn't get away—
    But she had.
    The bedroom was empty.
    He could see the rumpled indentation where she had lain, see the covers flung back on the big four-poster; smell the faint, musty scent still in the room. The rocker rested in the corner, the ornaments stood on the dresser just as they were always arranged. Nothing had changed in Mother's room; nothing ever changed. But Mother was gone.
    He stepped over to the closet, ruffling the clothing on the hangers lining the long center pole. Here the acrid scent was very strong, so strong he almost choked, but there was another odor, too. It wasn't until his foot slipped that he looked down and realized where it was coming from. One of her dresses and a head-scarf were balled up on the floor, He stooped to retrieve them, then shivered in revulsion as he noted the dark, reddish stains of clotted blood.
    She'd come back here, then; come back, changed her clothes, and gone off once more.
    He couldn't call the police.
    That was the thing he had to remember. He mustn't call the police. Not even now, knowing what she had done. Because she wasn't really responsible. She was sick.
    Cold-blooded murder is one thing, but sickness is another. You aren't really a murderer when you're sick in the head. Anybody knows that. Only sometimes the courts didn't agree. He'd read of cases. Even if they did recognize what was wrong with her, they'd still put her away. Not in a rest home, but in