Psychos

by Neil Gaiman

  Listen! We can have a house in Indy and then this—this can be our getaway. He sniffled, and said, But I want to keep it. Besides you, this is the only thing I want. This house, right out here.

  We can talk about it later. You’re going to bleed to death if we don’t get you to the emergency room.

  I wanted you to love it, he said. I wanted you to love it because I love it. Is that too much to ask from your wife? I wanted to give you something special. I—

  It was awful, watching him try to explain. The spots of red in his cheeks were burning now, and the rims of his eyes were almost the same color. The corners of his mouth turned down in little curls.

  Don’t worry, she said. We’ll talk about it. Okay? Wayne? We’ll talk. We’ll take the blueprints with us to the emergency room. But you need stitches. Let’s go.

  I love you, he said.

  She stopped fussing around his hand. He was looking down at her, tilting his head.

  Jenny, just tell me you love me and none of it will matter.

  ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE She laughed in spite of herself, shaking her head. Of course, she said. Of course I do.

  Say it. I need to hear it.

  She kissed his cheek. Wayne, I love you with all my heart. You’re my husband. Now move your behind, okay?

  He kissed her, dipping his head. Jenny was bending away to pick up the blueprints, and his lips, wet, just grazed her cheek. She smiled at him and gathered their things; Wayne stood and watched her, moist-eyed.

  She finally took his good hand, and they walked back toward the car, and his kiss, dried slowly by the breeze, felt cool on her cheek. It lingered for a while, and—despite everything—she was glad for it.

  Then

  The boys were first audible only as distant shrieks between the trees.

  They were young enough that any time they raised their voices—and they were chasing each other, their only sounds loud calls, denials, laughter—they sounded as though they were in terror. When they appeared in the meadow—one charging out from a break in a dense thicket of thorny shrubs, the other close behind—they were almost indistinguishable from one another in their squeals, in their red jackets and caps. Late afternoon was shifting into dusky evening. Earlier they had hunted squirrels, unaware of how the sounds of their voices and the pops of their BB guns had traveled ahead of them, sending hundreds of beasts into their dens.

  In the center of the meadow the trailing boy caught up with the fleeing first; he pounced and they wrestled. Caps came off. One boy was blond, the other—the smaller one—mousy brown. Stop it, he called, from the bottom of the pile. Larry! Stop it! I mean it!

  Larry laughed, and said with a shudder, Wayne, you pussy.

  Don’t call me that!

  Don’t be one, pussy!

  They flailed and punched until they lay squirming and helpless with laughter. Later they pitched a tent in the center of the meadow. They had done this before. Near their tent was an old circle of charred stones, ringing a pile of damp ashes and cinders. Wayne wandered out of the meadow and gathered armfuls of deadwood while Larry secured the tent into the soft and unstable earth. They squatted down around the piled wood and worked at setting it alight. Darkness was coming; beneath the gray, overcast sky, light was diffuse anyway, and now it seemed that the shadows came not from above, but from below, pooling and deepening as though they welled up from underground springs. Larry was the first to look nervously into the shadowed trees, while Wayne threw matches into the wood. Wayne worked at the fire with his face twisted, mouth pursed. When the fire caught at last, the boys grinned at each other.

  I wouldn’t want to be out here when it’s dark, Larry said, experimentally.

  It’s dark now.

  No, I mean with no fire. Pitch dark.

  I have, Wayne said.

  No you haven’t.

  Sure I have. Sometimes I forget what time it is and get back to my bike late. Once it got totally dark. If I wasn’t on the path I would have got lost.

  Wayne poked at the fire with a long stick. His parents owned the woods, but their house was two miles away. Larry looked around him, impressed.

  Were you scared?

  Shit, yeah. Wayne giggled. It was dark. I’m not dumb.

  Larry looked at him for a while, then said, Sorry I called you a pussy.

  Wayne shrugged, and said, I should have shot that squirrel.

  They’d seen one in a tree, somehow oblivious to them. Wayne was the better shot, and they’d crouched together behind a nearby log. Wayne’s BB gun steadied in the crotch of a dead branch. He’d looked at the squirrel for a long time, before finally lifting his cheek from the gun. I can’t, he’d said.

  What do you mean, you can’t?

  I can’t. That’s all.

  He handed the gun to Larry, and Larry took aim, too fast, and missed. It’s all right, Larry said now, at the fire. Squirrel tastes like shit.

  So does baloney, Wayne said, grim.

  ALL THROUGH THE HOUSE They pulled sandwiches from their packs. Both took the meat from between the bread, speared it with sticks, and held it over the fire until it charred and sizzled. Then they put it back into the sandwiches. Wayne took a bite first, then squealed and held a hand to his mouth. He spit a hot chunk of meat into his hand, then fumbled it into the fire.

  It’s hot, he said.

  Larry looked at him for a long time. Pussy, he said, and couldn’t hold in his laughter.

  Wayne ducked his eyes and felt inside his mouth with his fingers.

  Later, the fire dimmed. They sat sleepily beside it, talking in low voices. Wayne rubbed his stomach. Things unseen moved in the trees—mostly small animals, from the sound of it, but once or twice larger things.

  Deer, probably, Wayne said.

  What about wildcats?

  No wildcats live around here. I’ve seen foxes, though.

  Foxes aren’t that big.

  They spread out their sleeping bags inside the tent and opened the flap a bit so they could see the fire.

  This is my favorite place, Wayne said, when they zipped into the bags.

  The tent?

  No. The meadow. I’ve been thinking about it. I want to have a house here someday.

  A house?

  Yeah.

  What kind of house?

  I don’t know. Like mine, I guess, but out here. I could walk onto the porch at night and it would be just like this. But you wouldn’t have to pitch a tent. You know what? We could both have it. We’d each get half of the house to do whatever we want in. We wouldn’t have to go home before it gets dark, because we’d already be there.

  Larry smiled, but said, That’s dumb. We’ll both be married by then. You won’t want me in your house all the time. That’s not true.

  You won’t get married?

  No—I mean, yeah, I will. Sure. But you can always come over.

  It’s not like that, Larry said, laughing.

  How do you now?

  Because it isn’t. Jesus Christ, Wayne. Sometimes I wonder what planet you live on.

  You always make my ideas sound dumb.

  So don’t have dumb ideas.

  It isn’t a dumb idea to have my friends in my house.

  Larry sighed, and said, No, it isn’t. But marriage is different. You get married and then the girl you marry is your best friend. That’s what being in love is.

  My dad has best friends.

  Mine, too. But who does your dad spend more time with—them or your mom? Wayne thought for a minute. Oh.

  They looked out the tent flap at the fire.

  Wayne said, You’ll come over when you can, though, right?

  Sure, Larry said. You bet.

  They lay on their stomachs and Wayne talked about the house he wanted to build. It would have a tower. It would have a secret hallway built into the walls. It would have a pool table in the basement, better than the one at Vic’s Pizza King in town. It would have a garage big enough for three cars.

  Four, Larry s
aid. We’ll each have two. A sports car and a truck.

  Four, Wayne said, a four-car garage. And a pinball machine. I’ll have one in the living room, rigged so you don’t have to put money in it.

  After a while, Wayne heard Larry’s breathing soften. He looked out the tent flap at the orange coals of the fire. He was sleepy, but he didn’t want to sleep, not yet. He thought about his house and watched the fire fade.

  He wished for the house to be here in the meadow now. Larry could have half, and he could have the other. He imagined empty rooms, then rooms packed with toys. But that wasn’t the way it would be. They’d be grown-ups. He imagined a long mirror in the bedroom and tried to see himself in it: older, as a man. He’d have rifles, not BB guns. He tried to imagine things that a man would have, that a boy wouldn’t: bookshelves, closets full of suits and ties.

  Then he saw a woman at the kitchen table, wearing a blue dress. Her face kept changing—he couldn’t quite see it. But he knew she was pretty. He saw himself opening the kitchen door, swinging a briefcase which he put down at his feet, and he held out his arms, and the woman stood to welcome him, making a happy girlish sound, and held out her arms, too. Then she was close. He smelled her perfume, and she said—in a woman’s voice, warm and honeyed—Wayne, and he felt a leaping excitement, like he’d just been scared—but better, much better—and he laughed and squeezed her and said, into her soft neck and hair, his voice deep: I’m home.

  Intruder

  BY JOHN BODEN

  Don’t you just hate it when people touch your stuff? Especially when they don’t wash their hands first, and then you have to wash your hands, and all the things they touched, including the scissors you just stabbed them in the neck with repeatedly ‘cause they WOULDN’T STOP TOUCHING YOUR STUFF?

  This sneaky, screwy, sardonic little creeper-in-the-night, by Shock Totem coeditor and Peter Gabriel enthusiast John Boden, would be the flat-out funniest story in the book were it not for the handful of true squirmy moments that remind you you’re still deep in horror country.

  The clouds are like thumbprint smudges on dark glass. I pull my zipper tighter, put the hood up and stay close to the buildings that edge the alley. I like that the places I choose are within walking distance. I like the fact that I know these people, some mere passing acquaintances, others close neighbors and friends. Almost like it’s my neighborhood and I do as I like.

  I’m counting my steps by twos, up to nearly three-hundred, when I see the garage that I marked earlier that day. All the damn houses in this development look the same. Cookie-cuttery eyesores straight outta 80’s Spielberg. Once the sun disappears it’s too easy to become disoriented, so I marked it with a small dab of mud. A tiny dot above the center window in the garage door. Dot marks the spot. I lick my gloved thumb and wipe the mud from the white aluminum, then duck around the building to the waiting path. I’m at twenty-four steps by the time I reach the gate.

  The metal is chilled by the autumn night. I feel it through my gloves. I pull the latch back and step inside the yard. I am up to ten when I stop in my tracks. Did I latch the gate? I walk backward, counting backward by twos until I am reacquainted with numero two-O. The gate is latched. Dammit. I start again. I make it nearly to the side porch before the nagging begins again. The gate is not latched. Sure it is, I already checked it. Did I? I’m positive. My forehead is sweating and I’m starting the shake a little. Fuck me. I step off the deck and walk back through the yard, counting and cursing simultaneously. I had latched the gate. You down with OCD? Yeah, you know me! I line up her trash cans in a perfect row before I go back toward the house.

  I carefully unscrew the bulb from the porch light. I can pick the lock easily enough without illumination. I had memorized all of the Time Life Home Repair books by the time I was six. I’m an unsung master at wiring and locks, plumbing and heating, windows and doors. I can also tell you the model name and number of your ceiling fan, faucets and microwave at a glance.

  I slip inside. The house is immaculate, not enough for someone like me, but far from what a normal person would consider a mess. I adjust the light on my headband and turn it on. My gaze follows the soft beam as I take in the kitchen. Three tall chairs, a butcher block table. On the table is a large purse, a handful of change, sixty-seven cents, actually. Keys, a cell phone and a pack of cinnamon gum. I turn to make my way through the house and stop dead. On the counter beside the sink is a plate with a partially eaten sandwich on it, a soiled fork and an empty glass with lipstick on its edge. I feel nausea begin to boil in my stomach. Repulsed, I close my eyes and begin to count. By threes. I throw the partial sandwich away and turn the water on, barely above a trickle, to wash the items. I make no sound placing them in the strainer or when drying my hands. I put the lid down on the trash bin on my way out of the room.

  The living room is large and tidy. All the times I stood out front and talked while I delivered the mail, I never would have guessed the home was this spacious. The room holds a sofa, a couch, two bookshelves, a chair and two end tables. On one of the tables, there is a stack of catalogs and periodical propaganda, which is stacked incorrectly, all the spines to one side. This makes the pile slide in an untidy manner. I sigh through my nose and fix them, intermittently alternating the spines to keep the pile level and neat. That completed, I refold the throw blankets and arrange the pillows by size on the sofa. I align all the rugs symmetrically with the walls. I straighten all of the papers on the desk. I organize her CDs and DVDs, put her books into their proper order on the shelves. I straighten the lampshades and all the pictures on the walls, precisely. All without making a sound. I sit down and give my roaring nerves a brief rest. In my head, I recite William Burroughs’ “Thanksgiving Prayer.” It is exactly 1:13 a.m. I approach the stairs. I start counting.

  Her bedroom door is open just a crack. The air smells of her soap and shampoo and skin. I outen the light on my head and peer into the cavernous room. The faint moonlight that has managed to escape its cloudy bonds splashes the walls in an eerie glow. I’ve always found the woman lying on the bed beautiful, but tonight, she is breathtaking. She sleeps soundly, her little snores like bees buzzing, filling the room. Her skin is as smooth as china and nearly as white. Paper doll white. Her black hair spreads out around her like a spray of blood. I resist the urge to punch her sleeping face as hard as I can. I fight the impulse to lean down and kiss her. To bite and swallow her cheeks. I stand and stare.

  Thirty-seven seconds later, I smile and go to my next destination.

  The bathroom is at the end of the hall. I close the door and slowly open the sink cabinet. I find certain items and set them atop the Formica counter, next to the brushes and combs. I pull down my pants and groom my pubic hair with her combs and brushes. I clench my hands into tight fists, four times. I squeeze my eyes tight with each clench and exhale deeply. I open them and get to work. I dull all of her razors with soap. I pour bathroom cleaner into her shampoo and conditioner. I put astringent into her mouthwash. I use her deodorant on my taint. I sit on her toilet and stick her toothbrush up my asshole and color the rim with her lipstick. Pull my pants up. I go through her medicine cabinet and note the contents. I can tell by her meds that she’s hopelessly crazy. Before I go, I put a pinhole in her diaphragm and re-hang her toilet paper the correct way, with the end facing out.

  I navigate the staircase in total darkness. Counting every step. Fourteen from the bathroom to her bedroom door, another ten from that doorway to the landing. Eighteen from the landing down the stairs to the living room. I unplug her phone and everything else in the room. Two-four-six-eight-ten-twelve-fourteen-Kitchen-Ho!

  I bend the tines on all of her forks. Put salt in her sugar bowl and fill her salt shaker with sugar. I open the fridge and start in on the contents. I pour out her pitcher of ice water and refill it with white vinegar. I stick straight pins into her apples and pears. I use one of the needles to puncture her eggs and empty them of yolk and white. I loosen the lids to all of the jars a
nd bottles in the kitchen. Syrups, sauces, spices, jellies and jams. All of them. Leaving them just tight enough to allow her to pick them up before.

  My problem is that I’m always thinking. Dredging up years’ worth of trivia about rock musicians, movies, sports and history. I hear song lyrics while I’m talking myself out of stabbing the counter girl at the coffee shop in the face. I recite biblical psalms while watching pornography. I run through the contents of manuals and books while I walk my route each day. I can smile and shake your hand, stuff letters in your hungry mail slot, all while ranking serial killers by geographical location and body count or alphabetically. There is always too much noise and interference. A dull static, peppered with errant voices. Swatches of songs and movie dialogue. An enormous mural of fresh paint in a rain storm, it’s a runny garish mess. Did I mention this is all the time? While counting or twitching or planning or sleeping. Shitting or pissing or working or fucking or whatever. My mind never stops. Even now, I’m working out next week’s schedule in my head. Crazy. I used to try to make sense of the droning rhetoric in my skull. Now I just seize random commands that fly by and file them away so I may act on them later and I’m a happier camper for it. I think.

  I hear a creak above me and stop—stone still. A minute crawls by, then another and another. Nothing. I exhale and step toward the door. My foot bumps something and I look down to find a pile of shoes beside the door frame. Flip flops, a pair of boots, ratty sneakers and a pair of black shoes. I sigh and breathe out through my nostrils loudly. Disdainfully. She’s a pig. I bend and align the footwear, heel to wall, straight and paired. I fill with warmth as I stand. I take a piece of gum from her pack upon the table and slip out and into the night, stealthy as shadow.

  From porch to gate, I count by fours on the exit route. I’m near the end of the alley when I stop and sigh. I didn’t latch the gate. I try to resist the need to turn and go back and make sure. The pressure that is always in my chest increases like there’s an exploding landmine trapped inside. My eyes begin to water and sweat oozes from all pores. “Sonofabitch,” I snarl and creep back down the alley to find the gate latched. Keeping to the shrouded side of the alley, I make my way home.