Psycho House Read online

  Kirby McCauley

  just in case he has nothing to read

  1

  WHEN Terry and Mick got to the front door the moon went behind the clouds.

  "See?" Mick whispered. **Now you know why I said to bring flashlights."

  ''What are you whispering for?" Terry said. "There ain't nobody here." But Terry's flashlight switched on just as fast as Mick's.

  "Don't be too sure." Mick located the smallest key on the loop chain and inserted it in the lock, then hesitated.

  "Scared?" Terry said.

  "Not me." The key turned in the lock and the door opened. "Anybody coming?"

  Terry glanced toward the road. "All clear."

  Mick nodded. "Good. Let's go in and see what's shaking."

  The two slight-height, short-haired, blue-jeaned figures moved over the open threshold into the office. Here a pungent odor of fresh paint filled the darkness that their flashlights' beams did little to dispel. Blinking, Terry followed Mick to the reception desk, then halted

  abruptly at the sight of the shadowed shape looming up behind the counter. Only its back was visible.

  Now it was Mick who whispered. "See? What did I tell you? It's him!"

  Terry gulped. "Can't be."

  "No?" Mick reached out to press the silver nipple of the circular bell on the countertop.

  There was no sound—but now, slowly, the figure in the shadows turned, and they stared into the face of Norman Bates.

  "Welcome to the Bates Motel," he said. "Your room is ready."

  His eyes were glassy and his grin was fixed, but only the shrillness of his voice betrayed him.

  "Sheesh! How'd they do that?"

  "Easy. Ain't no real bell. It's 'lectronic. They got the dummy on a pivot like. You press the bell and it turns on some kinda tape recording."

  Terry jumped as the wax figure swung back to its former position. Concealing concern wasn't easy. "So that's ol' Norman! You really think he looked that way?"

  Mick shrugged. "They say Fatso Otto wants ever'thing to look, you know, like real."

  Terry inhaled, conscious of the paint odor. "Sure musta cost a bundle to build this place."

  Mick nodded. "My dad says Fatso Otto borryed it from the bank. Case anythin' goes wrong he ain't going down the tube."

  Terry ran the flashlight beam over the office walls, then glanced toward the window. "You're the one who's gonna go down the tube if your dad finds out you borryed his keys."

  "Don't worry. Now he's finished up all the painting he won't need to come back here. He just stuck 'em up on a hook in the garage—that's how I got hold of 'em last night and he never seen they was gone, so why should he notice now? All he does is sit there with his six-pack watchin' that scuzzy ballgame."

  "Where does he think you are now?" Terry asked.

  "Over at the lieberry, doing homework."

  "Bet I know what kinda homework you'd really like to be doing," Terry said.

  "Shut up! Lieberry closes at nine. We better get moving, you wanna see the rest of this joint."

  Turning, Mick led the way to the door on the far wall. It opened without the necessity of using a key. "That's funny," Terry said. "I thought the only way you'd get into the rooms was from outside."

  "There ain't any more rooms 'cepting this one, dummy! All the rest is just fake walls made so's it looks like it was the whole motel. Dad says Fatso Otto will maybe add on some rooms later if business is good."

  "You think people are gonna come and pay money just to see where ol' Norman did his thing?"

  Mick grinned. "We're here, ain't we?"

  "Yeah, on a freebie. But so far I don't see why anybody would want to buy tickets to look at a fake."

  "Would you like it better if the real Norman was around to come at you with a real knife?"

  "He's dead—ever'body knows that."

  "What about ghosts?"

  "What about cutting out all that crap? You can't scare me."

  Which was true. Terry wasn't scared, not even here, as they entered the bedroom beyond the open doorway. That's all it was, just a motel bedroom; nothing different about it except the paint smell. Staring at the bed through the flashlight beam Terry admitted it might be a little more scary if the real reason for coming here was that Mick wanted to Do It To Her.

  But sheesh, sooner or later somebody was gonna Do It To Her and it was nothing to worry about; Nila Putnam said she'd been Doing It with Harry for almost a year now and it was great right from the start. Of course who could believe Nila Putnam, she was such a liar, and

  super-ugly; a hunk like Harry wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole.

  And let's face it, Mick wouldn't touch Terry, either, because Mick was a girl too. Even though she didn't look any more like Michelle than Terry looked like Theresa. Not in jeans and sweatshirts, anyway. Maybe she'd let her hair grow out over the summer so's it would look better when it came time to start busing over to Montrose High School in the fall.

  ''What're you standing there for?" Mick said. "Move it."

  Terry's flashlight beam paralleled Mick's as they came through the doorway of the bathroom and up to the shower stall.

  "Are you ready for this?" Mick said. There was something funny about the way she sounded and Terry realized what it was: a combination of whispering and echo. Voices always have echoes in the bathroom, that she could understand, but why was Mick whispering?

  Unless she was getting scared. But hadn't she kept telling her there was nothing to be scared about? 01' Norman really was dead, and there was nobody here but the two of them.

  Then Mick ripped the shower curtain back and there were three.

  The naked woman in the shower stall peered up at them, wide-eyed and fearful, her hands raised, open-palmed and pressing outward to ward off the slash of an invisible knife.

  There was no blood, but even with her eyes closed Terry could see it; there was no sound, but she could heair the silent screams.

  She turned away to face Mick before opening her eyes and forcing a grin. "Hey, that's some statue!"

  "Ain't no such thing. That's a dummy, dummy—my dad said Fatso Otto had it made special back east someplace. Sent 'em a picture of that bimbo who got killed and my dad says it looks just like her."

  "How'd he know—he ever ball her or somethin'?" Terry giggled.

  ''Don't be funny!" It was obvious from the way she said it that Mick wasn't mistaking Terry for another Whoopi Goldberg. "My dad was only a kid when this all happened here."

  Terry nodded, but she didn't like the here part. Because even if this was a fake bathroom and the frightened figure in the shower stall was merely wax, there had been a real Norman, a real knife, a real murder, and here was just too gross. Here at night, in the dark, listening to the sound of the door opening in the other room.

  ''What's that noise?" Terry grabbed Mick's arm.

  "I don't hear anything."

  Terry's grip tightened. "Shut up and listen!"

  For a moment they stood in silence, then Mick pulled her arm free, then turned. "Nobody out there," she murmured.

  "Where you going?"

  "Where you think?" Mick started back into the bedroom. "You coming, or are you chicken?"

  Terry knew the answer to that one; she was chicken, but she moved up to join her companion anyway. No matter who or what might be creeping around out there in the office, she felt safer with Mick than she did with that wax lady in the shower stall—that naked lady waiting for the bare blade to come down.

  As Mick reached out to open the bedroom door, Terry tapped her on the shoulder. Her whisper came quickly and urgently. "Wait—turn off your flashlight first. What if he sees us?"

  "Nobody out there!" Mick sounded disgusted, but Terry noticed that she did kee
p her voice down and she did switch off her flashlight before easing the bedroom door open.

  It moved forward, fanning the warm, fume-filled darkness of the office. Somewhere in the far reaches of the room the figure of Norman Bates still stood behind

  the shadowed counter of the reception desk. Still stood and stood still, for there was no sound of movement, no stir of shape or shadow.

  Together the girls inched their way from the bedroom to the office door. It too was opened slowly and cautiously; only when it swung wide to reveal the deserted roadway beyond did it seem safe to switch their flashlights on again.

  The night air was warm too, but it bore no hint of the acrid paint odors and Terry took a deep breath as Mick led her along the walk bordering the office, then stepped off onto the path arching upward against the hillside where the dark house loomed.

  ''Hey."

  Mick halted, glancing back as Terry spoke. "Now what?"

  "Do we hafta go up there?"

  "No, chicken. If you like, I'll take you right home and put you back in the coop." There was disgust on Mick's face as well as in her voice. "Wasn't for you we wouldn't be here in the first place. When I tole you about sneaking in here last night you wanted to see it so bad you almost peed your pants."

  "Sheesh, you think I'm scared or somethin'?" Terry made a production out of lifting her left wrist and squinting at her watch. "If I don't get home when I said, Mom'll have a hemmrage."

  Now it was Mick's turn to glance at her own watch and top Terry's production by adding a scowl as she replied. "We still got plenty of time. It'll only take like ten, fifteen minutes to look around. Unless you're too chicken—"

  That did it. "Who's chicken?" Terry said. "Let's go, turkey."

  So it was like the old song Aunt Marcella used to sing—"Over the river and through the woods to grandmother's house we go." Only there wasn't any river or woods, just the walk leading up to the porch stairs of the

  house on the top of the hillside. Not grandmother's house, but Mother's. Norman's, really, because his mother was dead. And he was dead too. It was the house that was alive—this new house.

  Terry felt better when she reminded herself of that. If there was such a thing as ghosts they'd be in the old house, but this place was brand-new, just like the motel. Fatso Otto built it at the same time and for the same reason, to make money off tourists. Which he sure as hell wouldn't do in a place that had ghosts hanging out in it.

  So there was nothing to be scared of and besides she was getting like a free preview, right?

  It all sounded good inside Terry's head, but the sound of the porch steps' protest beneath their feet was almost a screech, and the grating of the key turning in the lock of the front door sent a harsh echo across the hillside.

  Of course there was no one there on the hill to hear except the two of them, no one listening in the deep, dark hallway of the house as they entered.

  Flashlight beams chased shadows from the corners. Too had nohody invented a gismo that can light up your mind the way a flashlight can light up a hallway. Terry snuffed out the thought, wishing it could be that easy to snuff out what else she was thinking about the dark and the shadows here.

  But it wasn't, even with the fresh paint smell rising all around to remind her that this wasn't the real house, the murder house, the place where that detective died and Norman's mother lived even though she was dead too. Or was she?

  Terry gulped. She'd damn well better be, or eJse. But else wasn't a word Terry wanted to think about, any more than she'd wanted to think about here.

  The neat thing to do right now was just take like a real fast look-around to show that smartass Mick she

  wasn't chicken, then hightail it for home before Mom busted her behind for her.

  Mick was already focusing her flashlight beam at the stairway just ahead on the right side of the hall. ''Let's go upstairs first," she whispered.

  Whispering again. Terry didn't like the sound of it, any more than she had when she was the one who whispered in the motel. Whispering means you're scared, and if Mick was scared now, maybe there was a reason. And if the reason was upstairs—

  Again it was time for a fast either-or. Either go upstairs with Mick or stay down in that dark, spooky hallway all alone.

  Terry tilted her flashlight upward, toward the bobbing blue-jeaned butt of her guide. The stairs creaked, she reminded herself, only because they were new.

  The thing is, they didn't look new, and neither did anything up above. Whoever built this place must of done it from photographs, just like they used to make those wax dummies. Or maybe they just guessed at how it must of looked in the olden days and bought up a lot of junk to furnish it with. Like here in the bathroom where Mick was beaming over a kind of bathtub she'd never seen before, one with legs on it. And the toilet was something else, it had an overhead tank and a pull chain. That she remembered seeing once before someplace, maybe in a book about pioneer days.

  But she was grateful for one thing—there was no shower stall in this bathroom.

  Maybe ol' Norman didn't believe in taking showers. Or maybe showers hadn't even been invented way back then. Terry was a little fuzzy when it came to the details of American history; sometimes she couldn't even remember the date when Elvis died.

  The idea of thinking about that right now in a place like this took her by surprise; she turned to share her reaction with Mick and had another surprise.

  Mick was gone.

  "Hey!" she yelled.

  And echoing along the dark and empty hall corridor a dozen voices yelled back.

  The echoes were still dying down as she hurried out into the hallway. *'Mick—where are you?"

  "In here."

  The sound of Mick's voice and the beam of her flashlight guided Terry into the surprisingly small room across the hall. Here Mick's flashlight had taken control, playing across the walls and furnishings. Terry followed the progress of the beam, and from what it revealed she quickly realized that they must be standing in Norman Bates' bedroom. Had to be, because there was an old-fashioned bureau instead of a vanity, and a plain cot for a bed with no spread. It sure as hell didn't look like one of those fancy layouts at the Holiday Inn.

  It didn't really look like a man's bedroom either; this was the kind of place you'd fix up for a kid to sleep in. But once upon a time Norman Bates had been a kid.

  Terry wondered about that. What was ol' Norman like before he grew up and turned into a creep?

  Looking around the room gave her part of the answer. There was no jock stuff here, no balls, bats, helmets or even a baseball cap, and there weren't any pennants hanging on the walls over the two bookshelves in the far corner. The shelves were almost filled; he must have done a lot of reading. That didn't prove he was a freak, Terry reminded herself—lotsa people used to read books in the days before TV was invented. So this still didn't tell her very much about what Norman Bates was really like.

  It was Mick's flashlight that gave the best answer as it fanned across the wall opposite the closet door and halted on a picture.

  "Here he is!" Mick said.

  And there he was, the smiling little boy in overalls, sitting on a pony, captured on film and confined by frame. Not that Terry thought of him that way. Staring at

  the faded photo all that crossed her mind was a question. How could such a neat little kid grow up to be a monster?

  There was no sense asking Mick; she wouldn't understand a thing like that. Besides, Mick was doing one of her disappearing acts again, and if Terry hadn't turned around just in time she wouldn't even have noticed her edging back out into the hallway.

  ''What's with you?" she said. "Always sneaking off on me. You gotta use the John or somethin'?"

  ''Won't catch me using any John around here," Mick told her. She started down the hall, moving to a dark door that opened easily with a push instead of a key.

  Mick swept the flashlight beam forward in a gesture of invitation. "Mother's bedroom," she said.
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  The paint smell was definitely out of place here. That's the way Terry felt in this room—out of place. Talk about ancient history. Mother's bedroom was a real Golden Oldie, just crammed full of stuff, kinda junk you'd find like in a museum. But there was nothing here that interested her except the big bed, and that turned out to be a disappointment too because it was empty.

  She frowned at Mick through the flashlight's glow. "Thought you said you're gonna show me Mother."

  "That's right," Mick nodded.

  "Well, where is she?"

  "Hold your water, will ya?" Mick started toward the doorway. Then, stepping out into the hallway, she halted so suddenly that Terry almost bumped into her from behind. "Wait!" she murmured. "I think I hear somethin'."

  They stood unmoving for a moment, two small figures frozen in shadowed silence. But that's all it was; shadows rising around them and silence settling down below.

  No sounds. Nothing to be afraid of. The creaking noise came directly from their own Reeboks as they came down the corridor and descended the stairs. Mick

  paused as they reached the lower landing. "You wanna see the first floor?" she asked.

  **Is Mother here?"

  Mick shook her head. "No, but she's waitin' for us."

  "Where?"

  "In the cellar."

  So that's where they went, Mick an eager leader and Terry a reluctant rear guard. She kept telling herself that she wasn't chicken but that was a lie. She was worse than chicken, she was a pigeon too, falling for Mick's hype about how exciting it all was. Maybe Mick got turned on because she put something over on her old man but as far as Terry was concerned forget it. Banging around in the dark and sniffing up all that stink from the paint fumes was no big deal. Okay, that moving statue in the motel office was a pretty cutesy idea and the one in the shower stall that didn't move was kinda scary. But if that's all there was to see then ol' Fatso Otto wasn't likely to end up on Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous just from selling tickets. He'd have to come up with more than that. Or come down with it, there in the cellar.

  Trouble was when they got there the cellar was only a basement; a bare-walled, painted-over basement. It didn't even have one of those big furnaces they used to shovel coal into in the olden days; must have a built-in heating system upstairs instead if they figured on keeping open in wintertime. Not that Terry gave a diddly-damn one way or the other; that was Fatso Otto's problem, not hers. Her problem was that she was beginning to feel she had to go to the John and what was she doing futzing around down here in the first place?