Psycho-Paths Read online

  All them prisoners, all them trials. . .

  all them stories in the newspapers, all the movies

  with all the blood and spilling brains and arms cutoff,

  heads cut off, eyes poked out, trials and manhunts

  and headlines and cops—stands to reason

  there had to be some like me, right?

  We’re the ones you see in your dreams.

  We’re the ones that don’t have any faces.

  Why?

  Hell, that’s easy too.

  We’re the ones that never get caught.

  Seventeen masters of terror, their stories collected and edited by Robert Bloch, the Grand Master of them all, explore the dark side of the human mind, the true seat of horror. From the darkly comic “Them Bleaks” by Gahan Wilson to the twisted psychology of manipulation in “Dreaming in Black and White” by Susan Shwartz, each of these terrifying tales is a uniquely chilling face-to-face, confrontation with one of the infinitely various-and horrifyingly real-faces of. . .

  PSYCHO-PATHS

  Tor books by Robert Bloch

  American Gothic

  Fear and Trembling

  Firebug

  The Kidnapper

  The Jekyll Legacy (with Andre Norton)

  Lori

  Midnight Pleasures

  The Night of the Ripper

  Night-World

  Psycho

  Psycho II

  Psycho House

  Psycho-Paths (editor)

  PSYCHO-

  PATHS

  Edited by

  ROBERT BLOCH

  TOR HORROR

  A TOM DOHERTY ASSOCIATES BOOK

  NEW YORK

  Note: If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to real people or events is purely coincidental.

  PSYCHO-PATHS

  Copyright © 1991 by Robert Block and Martin Harry Greenberg

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form.

  Cover art by Bill Sienkiewicz

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, N.Y. 10010

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

  ISBN: 0-812-50340-6

  Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 90-49031

  First edition: March 1991

  First mass market printing: December 1993

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction by Robert Bloch. Copyright © 1991 by Robert Bloch.

  “Them Bleaks” by Gahan Wilson. Copyright © 1991 by Gahan Wilson.

  “Remains to Be Seen” by David Morrell. Copyright © 1991 by David Morrell.

  “No Love Lost” by J. N. Williamson. Copyright © 1991 by J. N. Williamson.

  “Confession of a Madman” by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro. Copyright © 1991 by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro.

  “Jesse” by Steve Rasnic Tem. Copyright © 1991 by Steve Rasnic Tem.

  “Enduring Art” by Robert E. Vardeman. Copyright © 1991 by Robert E. Vardeman.

  “A Determined Woman” by Billie Sue Mosiman. Copyright © 1991 by Billie Sue Mosiman.

  “Kessel’s Party” by Michael Berry. Copyright © 1991 by Michael Berry.

  “Him, Her, Them” by William F. Nolan. Copyright © 1991 by William F. Nolan.

  “Clutter” by Brad Linaweaver. Copyright © 1991 by Brad Linaweaver.

  “Dreaming in Black and White” by Susan Shwartz. Copyright © 1991 by Susan Shwartz.

  “The Secret Blade” by Edward D. Hoch. Copyright © 1991 by Edward D. Hoch.

  “Kin” by Charles L. Grant. Copyright © 1991 by Charles L. Grant.

  “Call Home” by Dennis Etchison. Copyright © 1991 by Dennis Etchison.

  “Waste” by Kathleen Buckley. Copyright © 1991 by Kathleen Buckley.

  “Red Devils” by Hugh B. Cave. Copyright © 1991 by Hugh B. Cave.

  “Pick Me Up” by David J. Schow. Copyright © 1991 by David J. Schow.

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Description

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Acknowledgments

  Introduction

  THEM BLEAKS

  Gahan Wilson

  REMAINS TO BE SEEN

  David Morrell

  NO LOVE LOST

  T. N. Williamson

  CONFESSION OF A MADMAN

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  JESSE

  Steve Rasnic Tem

  ENDURING ART

  Robert E. Vardeman

  A DETERMINED WOMAN

  Billie Sue Mosiman

  KESSEL’S PARTY

  Michael Berry

  HIM, HER, THEM

  William F. Nolan

  CLUTTER

  Brad Linaweaver

  DREAMING IN BLACK AND WHITE

  Susan Shwartz

  THE SECRET BLADE

  Edward D. Hoch

  KIN

  Charles L. Grant

  CALL HOME

  Dennis Etchison

  WASTE

  Kathleen Buckley

  RED DEVILS

  Hugh B. Cave

  PICK ME UP

  David J. Schow

  Introduction

  Let’s talk about obscenity.

  As all of us know, the vilest terms in the English language are the four-letter words. Words like fear, pain, dead.

  We all know what they mean, many of us think about them frequently, but we tend to pretend otherwise.

  Scornfully, we equate fear with cowardice. Only the weak and helpless are allowed to admit being afraid. In all others, such an admission is despised.

  To an even greater extent, such disdain is bestowed on admissions of pain. The male mode has been that of a stoic Sioux, although there is little actual evidence that ancient Greek philosophers or Plains Indian warriors were all that indifferent to the levels of their pain thresholds.

  As for being dead, forget it. That’s right—try, and try hard. It isn’t easy in this world of natural and unnatural disasters.

  But while many of us refuse to contemplate these obscene words as they relate to ourselves, we have in many instances learned how to heroically bear the sufferings and misfortunes of others.

  In truth, we have always borne this burden gladly. Even eagerly, as literature and drama attests. There is little need to expatiate upon the fact that fairy tales deal fancifully with the very perils from which adults attempt to shield children in reality. So do today’s animated cartoons.

  Reality often hurts. That’s a lesson many of us learn the hard way and most of us would prefer to forget. Hence, our lifelong reliance upon escape into make-believe. What we view, read, or hear is largely fantasy. Even factual content is determined by editing in print or in film. Graphic art, sculpture, or any other form of representation is also “edited” by the process of selection; an arbitrary choice on the part of its creator which is not necessarily consonant with perceptual reality.

  Of course, we all know that artists are crazy, right? The real reason those weirdos write, paint, sculpt, compose, choreograph, or make obscene phone calls collect is because they can’t cope the way the rest of us do. Granted, we rely on these freakos to provide us with entertainment, but most of the time we live in the real world and know the difference between fantasy and reality.
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br />   Sure we do. Once we forsake imaginary playmates for dolls that can talk and walk, then forsake the dolls for real companions in the “Bang! You’re dead!” routines, we begin to approach adulthood and face hard facts.

  Adults are capable of dealing with such realities as our dignified and democratically determined political conventions, our demographically selected “World Champion,” winners of the World Series, and the choice of Miss America, Mrs. America, and the Ten Best of anything. Genuine grown-ups can also accept the down-to-earth concert dress and activities of rock groups, the boyish dedication to true sportsmanship of football teams, the necessity to wear a special costume in order to take part in a wedding ceremony, the urgent need to identify automobile models with names that suggest a macho quality and christen perfumes to evoke an erotic image. Adults drive freeways that are not free, try to take their sick leaves when they are well, mortgage their futures to live in ranch houses which aren’t located within hundreds of miles of the nearest ranch. And if by chance they ever tire of the superpleasures of standing in line at a supermarket checkout counter to hand over a piece of plastic instead of the money they haven’t got (and which, by the way, is not backed up by gold, silver, or any equivalent), they can lose themselves in the objectivities of gaming and gambling. Plus, of course, alcohol, prescription drugs, recreational drugs, designer drugs, and just plain good old-fashioned crack.

  So much for reality.

  Fantasy is another matter. Academics have traced its roots from legend to mythology, superstition to theology, from tales told around tribal campfires to the printed page and the modern miracles of theatrical technology. Over the last two centuries its preoccupation with the ghosts, devils, demons, vampires, werewolves, and myriad monsters of the past gradually gave way to science fiction’s fairy tales of the future.

  Despite science fiction’s inroads, works of supernatural fantasy and horror never entirely vanished from the literary landscape. Towering against that landscape a century and a half ago, Edgar Allan Poe altered it to suit his needs. If he wanted to utilize its castles or the picturesque pageantry of masques and revels, he transported his settings to the past. Tales with more modern backgrounds often made significant use of the latest scientific or pseudoscientific discoveries. In both instances his purpose was to lend verisimilitude. After all, what proof have we that a story handed down over the centuries isn’t true? And if stories of today’s world deal with today’s advances in science, what more validation do you need?

  A tum-of-the-century master of horror, Arthur Machen, didn’t alter the supernatural landscape; his method of avoidance was to burrow under it.

  More precisely, he burrowed under the British Isles and carved out a subterranean realm wherein lurked a race of dwarfish troglodytes. These were the original inhabitants of the land who sought refuge underground after the Celtic and Roman invasions, but still survived below. Their magic too survived, as did their rituals, and both retained the power to menace chance trespassers upon their domain or wanderers who might roam above it upon the dark and lonely hills. Those who later settled in the Isles knew and feared the stunted creatures, whispered of thievish habits and worse; of infants stolen from cradles and changelings left in their place. But aloud they alluded to the evildoers guardedly, creating a mythology in which these monsters were rechristened as gnomes, elves, fairies, sprites. Ignoring the true nature of their threat to kith, kin and kine, the denizens of darkness were praised for their “good deeds” and the “gifts and treasures” they bestowed upon mere mortals who sought their aid. In actuality the mere and miserable mortals were the ones who took pains to leave gifts of food, drink and material offerings in appropriate spots, hoping to appease the other horrid hungers of the prehuman race which ruled below.

  Machen did not make extensive use of this concept, and it was not his only contribution to the lasting literature of the fantastic. But unquestionably his pseudoanthropological hypothesis proved popular with many of the writers who followed him. As with Poe, his influence is still felt today.

  Early science fiction writers traveled through time, spanned space and sought out horror in the stars. Poe found his horrors upon the face of earth, past and present. Machen’s dreads dwelt in the depth beneath.

  But it remained for H. P. Lovecraft to create a new cosmology encompassing the horrors of time, space, dimensions and all that is above, upon or within earth itself. For Lovecraft, horror was everywhere, omnipresent in what we, in our ignorance, call life, death, consciousness and dreams.

  Not all of Lovecraft’s work dealt directly with his cosmological concept. Its range extended from fantasy to science fiction, yet with few exceptions the emphasis was upon horror, supernatural or mundane.

  Some of the tales emerging from this diversified output have attained widespread recognition, but the immensity and enormity of his cosmogenesis exerted a lasting impact upon readers and writers alike. His so-called Cthulhu Mythos postulated the existence of entities evolving and existing from time immemorial throughout the known and unknown reaches of the universe. These huge, almost indescribable monstrosities were served by alien beings, some of which were equally fearsome. All shared the same hunger for control of the cosmos, and their interstellar warfare eventually resulted in a waning of power. Though eternal, many existed in states of comatose slumber on distant planets.

  Several still remained here on earth far beneath the surface of land or sea. Memories of their mastery and magic survived, preserved by secret cults throughout the world. And their human followers made contact with other servitors from the stars. Matings with mankind produced hideous mutations,- men and monsters mingling in dedication to the resurrection and/or return of the beings they worshiped. In Lovecraft’s world, Lovecraft’s universe, paranoia reigned supreme.

  Most writers’ early work is influenced by other writers, predecessors or contemporaries, both in style and content.

  Poe’s madmen, Machen’s prehuman presences, Lovecraft’s Elder Gods and Great Old Ones—all had their effect upon me, first as a reader and then as an auctorial aspirant. Perhaps I’m more conscious of that effect than most, for while I never had any contact with Arthur Machen, it was H. P. Lovecraft who suggested I try writing horror fiction, then encouraged me in my teenage efforts. And it was some years later that I, in effect, collaborated with Edgar Allan Poe by completing his final, unfinished tale, The Light-House.

  By then, however, I had developed a hit-or-miss style of my own. And my notions of what constituted the content of fantasy, horror and science fiction had drastically changed.

  Speaking at the then-equivalent World Science Fiction Convention in 1948, I suggested that the time had come to forsake literary voyages through outer space in favor of exploring “inner space”—the mysterious realm of the human mind.

  In so doing, I was far from the originator of such a concept. Many members of the literary establishment had employed it in a variety of ways. James Joyce offered stream-of-consciousness stylization, Dostoevsky examined the workings of the mind in what then amounted to clinical detail, and the characters of Shakespeare, Jonson and Marlowe did a lot of thinking out loud.

  But with few exceptions science fiction had not followed the example of Robert Louis Stevenson’s 1886 masterwork, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

  Having turned much of my own efforts to the more mundane fields of mystery and suspense fiction, I was increasingly aware of a similar neglect therein. Though the plots of such genre novels often revolved around the machinations of what were then called “madmen,” we seldom were given a glimpse of the world through their eyes.

  Nor did we hear their voices. It was the eloquence of the detective which most frequently found favor, or the admiring accounts of a narrator obviously prejudiced in his or her favor. Reading the words of Dr. Watson was all very well, but speaking for myself, I would dearly have loved to see how the same story might flow from the pen of Professor Moriarty.

  Incompetent to
assume the persona of “The Napoleon of Crime,” at times I elected to enter into the minds of less masterly criminals, including a number who suffered from various forms of mental illness. It became increasingly apparent to me that if even something like Lovecraft’s concept of cosmic dread actually existed, there was no necessity to track down terrors from beyond the stars; horror might just happen to live next door. It can whisper to you over the phone, it can knock on your door, it can crawl into your bed.

  Properly presented amidst commonplace but convincing everyday surroundings, real horrors can be far more frightening than the fantastic. The credible is always a greater menace than the incredible, merely because we know it can happen and—even worse—it can happen to us.

  That’s one of the secrets shared in common by every writer whose work appears in this anthology. I reveal it only because it is the sole secret which I myself can understand. Other secrets, the deeper and darker ones pertaining to their sources of inspiration, their ability to create destruction, their talent for terror—well, there are some things man is not meant to know.

  But I do know this; our deepest fears lie buried in our imaginations, and our best summoned forth by whispers rather than screams. Nothing exceeds like excess.

  Many years ago, when considering the future of film, I asked an obvious question—“What’s going to come out of those people who think that Night of the Living Dead isn’t enough?”

  Time has offered answers, and what has come out of those people is plain to see onscreen in all its gory glory. Blood splatters, brains burst, bodies burn, blow to bits, are ripped apart, even turned inside out. Rivers of red spurt from the stumps of amputated limbs, eyes torn from their sockets dangle loosely in exaggerated presbyopia. And the cannibalism, of course, continues. Entrails trail while the eat goes on. People have become munchies for monsters.

  But the people are—as befits their cardboard characterizations—quite tasteless, and the monsters have false teeth.