Whispers: An anthology of Fantasy and Horror

THE CLOSER OF THE WAY by Robert Bloch

To this day I don’t know how they got me to the asylum.

The events leading up to my committal constitute a mystery which defies the probe of memory, and so it shall remain.

Family and friends spoke, at the time, of a “nervous condition,” but that is undoubtedly a polite euphemism. They preferred to call the asylum a “private sanatorium” and my incarceration was referred to as “convalescence.”

But now that I have no family—and no friends—I can at least speak freely and frankly of my situation.

I was insane.

God, what hypocrites we’ve become! The higher the incidence of insanity in our society, the more the word itself has been tabooed. In a world gone mad it is no longer possible to speak freely of madmen; in this era of lunacy there are supposedly no lunatics; the craziness compounds because we refuse to admit that anyone is crazy.

“Mentally ill.” That’s the phrase which Dr. Connors used. “Paranoid schizophrenia” was another and more highly clinical description. Neither of which really conveys an accurate impression of the horror inherent in the reality—or the unreality.

Insanity is a long nightmare from which some never awaken. Others, like myself, eventually open their eyes to greet the dawn of a new day, rejoicing in renewed awareness. It’s a wonderful feeling to realize that the nightmare has ended. Makes you want to sing, as I did.

“Yes, we have no bananas—”

Dr. Connors eyed me dispassionately. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he said.

“That I’m all right again.” I smiled. “Bananas—the current slang for insanity. It’s a land of a joke.”

“I see.”

But Dr. Connors didn’t really see anything.

When I assured him that I was no longer disoriented, no longer hostile or afraid, he merely nodded. And when I told him I was ready to go home, he shook his head.

“There are some problems we must work through first,” he said.

“Work—that’s my only problem,” I told him. “I’ve got to get back to work! Do you realize what staying here has cost me?”

Dr. Connors shrugged. “Your work is one of the problems we’re going to be talking about. I think it may help us to find the cause of your difficulties.” He opened a desk drawer and took out a book. “I’ve been reading some of the things you’ve written, and there are a number of questions—”

“Okay,” I said. “If you want to play games, suppose you let me have the first guess. The book you have there, the one you’ve been reading—it’s Psycho, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t look so surprised. Everybody seems to start out by reading Psycho. And reading things into it. I’ve been through this sort of inquisition so many times that you don’t even need to ask the questions. We can both save valuable time if I just give you the answers.”

“I’m listening.”

“First of all, I don’t hate my mother. And she never dominated me. My family background was perfectly normal—I had no hangups as far as my parents or my sister are concerned. My mother was a social worker and teacher, a very intelligent woman who encouraged me to write. I loved her dearly, but there was no oedipal fixation involved.

“Secondly, I have never been conscious of any homosexual tendencies, never felt a desire to experiment in transvestism. Or taxidermy, for that matter. I know nothing about motel operation, or hiding cars and bodies in swamps.

“So you can see I’m not Norman Bates. And as for identifying with other characters in the book—I never embezzled any money from an employer, never ran away, never conducted a long-term clandestine liaison. For that matter, I’ve always preferred a tub bath instead of a shower.”

I smiled at Dr. Connors. “The idea for the book came to me after reading about an actual murder case. I didn’t use any of the real-life participants as characters, nor the real-life situation. What set me off was wondering how a man living in a small town all his life, under constant scrutiny of his neighbors, could manage to conceal his crimes of violence. What I did—call it the case entry, if you will—was to construct a psychological profile of such a man, just as you do in your work. Once I felt I understood the character and his motivations, the rest was simple.”

Dr. Connors nodded. “Thank you for your cooperation. You’ve anticipated and answered all of my questions except one.”

“And that is—?”

“Let me put it this way. I imagine you read up on quite a few murder cases as a matter of course; it would be the natural thing to do, in your line of work.”

“That’s true.”

“And some of them are pretty sensational, aren’t they? Mass murders, bizarre slayings, ritual killings, weird deaths occurring under strange circumstances?”

“Also true.”

“Some of them, I’m sure, are far more shocking and violent than the particular crime which, in your words, set you off?”

“Right.”

“Then my question is simply this. Why did this one murder intrigue you? Why did you choose it rather than another?”

“But I’ve already explained—it was wondering how the killer managed to conceal his activities and get away with it—how he was able to avoid suspicion, lead a double life.”

“That’s interesting. The problem of concealment, avoiding suspicion.” Dr. Connors leaned forward. “Do you lead a double life?”

I stared at him for a long moment before answering. “Forgive me for saying so, but you’re out of your mind.”

“Perhaps. But being out of my mind doesn’t matter. It’s getting into your mind that’s important.”

He stood up. “That’s enough for now, I think. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

“More questions?”

“Hopefully, more answers.” He gave a little chuckle. “It appears I’m going to have to do some further reading tonight.”

“Well, good luck to you. And pleasant dreams.”

“That’s the title of one of your books, isn’t it—Pleasant Dreams?”

“I’ve written a lot of books,” I said. “And a lot of stories.”

“I know.” He walked me to the office door. “Oh, one final thought. Did it ever occur to you that all fiction writing is a form of lying? And that the only major difference between an author and a psychotic is that the former puts down his fantasies on paper? You might think that over.”

“I will,” I told him.

And I did, all that day and during the night which followed. In the end I arrived at one firm conclusion.

I disliked Dr. Connors intensely.

It was late in the afternoon next day before Miss Frobisher came to my room and said that Dr. Connors was ready to see me. The long wait hadn’t been easy on the nerves, and I’m sure she noticed how uptight I was. Miss Frobisher was a good nurse, I suppose, and treating patients like naughty children was just a part of her job. The fact that she was a little on the butch side probably contributed to her kindly authoritarianism, but I found her manner irritating.

“And how are we today?” she greeted me. “Are we ready for our therapy session?”

“Speaking for myself, I’ve no objection,” I said. “But I happen to be alone. If you insist on addressing me in the plural, perhaps you need therapy more than I do.”

Miss Frobisher laughed professionally (never show anger, never let them get to you, that’s the secret) and guided me down the hall.

“Doctor’s waiting for you in surgery,” she said.

“Don’t tell me I’m going to have a prefrontal lobotomy,” I murmured. “This I need like a hole in the head.”

Miss Frobisher laughed again. “Nothing of the sort! But the painters are doing his office and won’t be finished until sometime tomorrow. So if you don’t mind—”

“Fine with me.”

She led me into the elevator and we got off on the third floor. I’d never been up there before, and was a little surprised to discover that Dr. Connors had a very efficient and compact medical unit installed. I knew, of course, that he was a neurosurgeon as well as a practicing psychiatrist, but I found myself quite impressed by the completely equipped modern surgery which I glimpsed beyond the glass wall of the outer room where Dr. Connors waited for me.

I smiled at him as Miss Frobisher left. “We’ve got to stop meeting this way,” I said.

“Sit down.”

One look convinced me he wasn’t in the mood for fun and games. I seated myself and faced him across a small table on which rested a note-pad and a book.

“Aha!” I murmured, glancing at the book. “So you did read Pleasant Dreams.”

“All last evening.”

“I see you made some notes,” I told him. “Since when did you become a critic?”

“I’m not here to criticize, only to discuss.”

“Go ahead. We writers like to hear people talk about our work.”

“I was hoping you might do the talking.”

“What’s to say? It’s all in the book.”

“Is it?”

“Look,” I said, “is it really necessary to talk like a shrink?”

“Not if you’re willing to stop talking like a patient.” Dr. Connors smiled and glanced at the note-pad.

“But I am a patient,” I said. “According to you.”

“According to Pleasant Dreams you’re quite a number of things. For instance, a collaborator of Edgar Allan Poe’s.”

“ ‘The Light House.’ ” I nodded. “A Poe scholar back East found the unfinished story and suggested that I complete it.”

“Do you frequently get plots or ideas from other people?”

“None that I can use. Most of my stuff comes from my own background or interests. I wrote ‘The Dream-Makers’ because I was always a silent-movie fan, and ‘Mr. Steinway’ represents a similar preoccupation with music. I like to use locales I’ve visited or lived in. Milwaukee, in ‘The Cheaters,’ New Orleans in ‘The Sleeping Beauty,’ upstate Wisconsin in ‘Sweet Sixteen,’ ‘That Hellbound Train,’ and ‘Hungarian Rhapsody.’ ” I grinned at Dr. Connors. “But that’s the bottom line. I’ve never owned a pair of magic eyeglasses, slept with a skeleton, ridden a motorcycle, made a bargain with the Devil, or had an affair with a vampire.”

“Granted,” Dr. Connors squinted at his notes. “So far we’ve talked about things you like—now, let’s get on to what you dislike.”

“That’s easy,” I told him. “Formal dinner parties inspired ‘The Proper Spirit.’ And I suppose ‘The Hungry House’ represents an aversion to mirrors. In fact, if you really want to probe, it means I’ve always been self-consciously displeased with my own looks. Is that candid enough for you, Doc?”

“Not quite.” He stared at me. “Why don’t you want to discuss the real problems?”

“Such as?”

“Your attitude toward children.”

“I’ve got nothing against children.”

“That’s not what your stories say.” He tapped the note-pad with his pen. “In ‘Sweets to the Sweet,’ a little girl is a witch. ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice’ deals with a mentally retarded youth whose delusions lead to murder. ‘Catnip’ is a thoroughly vindictive portrait of adolescence. ‘Sweet Sixteen’ is an indictment of an entire generation—you were writing about Satanist motorcycle gangs almost a decade before others picked up the notion for films. Even in a comparatively gentle story like ‘That Hellbound Train,’ your protagonist starts life as a runaway, a drifter who steals hubcaps and gets stoned on canned heat. And in ‘Enoch,’ your central character is a psychotic teenager who becomes a mass murderer.”

“Kids aren’t my hangup,” I said. “Don’t forget, I write horror stories. And in a youth-oriented society, people are more apt to be shocked by having children depicted as monsters. The trick lies in violating the taboos we hold sacred—that’s what I did to the mother image in Psycho.”

“Trick,” said Dr. Connors softly. “Lies.”

I grinned again. “So now we’re playing word games, right? In that case, let’s just call it a Freudian slip.”

He shrugged. “That reminds me of another element in your work—not just in this collection, but in literally dozens of your stories. The hostility toward psychiatrists.”

“I don’t hate psychiatrists.”

“Your characters seem to. There are disparaging references to psychotherapists in ‘The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,’ ‘I Kiss Your Shadow,’ and other titles in the book. And in ‘Enoch,’ your Dr. Silversmith is a caricature, a gross libel of the profession.”

“But that’s just another way of shocking people,” I said. “Psychiatrists have become the high priests in a society that worships science. Showing them as incompetent or powerless to prevail against the forces of evil is an effective gimmick.”

Dr. Connors stared at me. “Effective gimmicks—that’s what you look for. Meaning things that induce fear in the reader. Your entire career has been spent in finding ways to shock people, horrify them.”

“It’s a living.”

“Which you yourself chose. Nobody spends a lifetime frightening those he loves. Why do you hate people?”

“I don’t.”

“Think about it. Think about it seriously. I intend to.” He glanced at his watch. “Until tomorrow, then.”

“Sorry if it sounds like I’m stonewalling,” I said, “but I really don’t hate people.”

Which was true. I didn’t hate my readers, or kids, or shrinks per se.

But I was beginning to hate Dr. Connors.

It was a bad night. I didn’t get any sleep, because I was too busy planning my own defense. Perhaps that sounds a trifle melodramatic, but there really was no other word for it. I had to defend myself when Dr. Connors attacked me by using my own words, my own work. It was unfair, unjust, unspeakable—only an idiot would equate make-believe with reality. Actors who played villains weren’t monsters in real life: Boris Karloff and Christopher Lee were two of the nicest persons I’ve ever known. My own literary mentor, H. P. Lovecraft, was a kind and gentle man. If Dr. Connors thought otherwise, he was only displaying his own ignorance.

Or his own cleverness.

He was searching for something; something which escaped me. Something connected with my own condition, no doubt, something blocked and obscured by an amnesic reaction. If I could only recall what happened—

But that wasn’t important now. The important thing was to be prepared for tomorrow’s attack. Attack through my own books.

Which title would he select?

I tried to anticipate his choice in my own mind. American Gothic, Night-World, Firebug, The Dead Beat, The Kidnaper, The Will To Kill, The Scarf—all were possible selections. But all of these novels possessed a common theme: the ease with which a psychopath could operate within our supposedly sane society. Surely such a premise is a legitimate subject for examination. And if Dr. Connors planned to play devil’s advocate and ask why I was so preoccupied with psychopaths, I’d tell him the truth. I’m afraid of them, Doctor. Aren’t we all?

That was it. Just tell the truth. The truth shall make ye free—

I had plenty of time to consider the matter, because Miss Frobisher didn’t come for me until after dinner the following evening.

Dr. Connors, she said, had been called away on personal business during the afternoon. But he’d returned now and was waiting for me again in the anteroom to the surgery unit.

“Sorry about that,” he told me, as Miss Frobisher departed. “The painters finished my office, but I haven’t had time to get things straightened out yet. So if you don’t mind—”

“Not at all.”

Dr. Connors was seated at the table, note-pad resting on top of a book. I glanced at the book as I spoke, trying to see the title. Which one had he chosen?

There was no need to play guessing games. He was already lifting the pad, exposing the volume beneath.

It was The Opener of the Way.

He nodded at me. “As you can see, I’ve done my homework. You expected that, didn’t you?”

“Yes. But not your choice. Why this, instead of a novel?”

“Because it’s your first book, your first published story collection. And because of the title.”

“If you read it, you know that ‘The Opener of the Way’ is one of the stories.”

“But that’s not why you selected that title, is it? You were making a statement of intention—this book was opening the way to your writing career.”

“Very perceptive. What else did you notice?”

“That certain constant elements in your work go back almost to the beginning. Mass murders, for example, in ‘Waxworks,’ ‘House of the Hatchet,’ ‘Yours Truly, Jack the Ripper.’ The invasion or desecration of the human body—‘Beetles,’ ‘The Dark Demon,’ ‘The Shambler from the Stars,’ ‘The Fiddler’s Fee,’ and ‘The Opener’ itself. Plus the theme of possession by evil forces or an alter ego, in ‘The Cloak,’ ‘The Mannikin,’ ‘The Dark Demon,’ ‘The Eyes of the Mummy.’ You must admit, it all seems to add up.”

“To what?”

“To the recurrent image of a man possessed by a demon, mutilating his victims in a series of multiple murders.”

I shrugged. “As I told you, it’s a living. And as you told me, all fiction is a form of lying. These particular lies happen to be the ones I live by. They worked for me when I started writing, and they still work for me today.”

“But you don’t lie all the time, do you?” Dr. Connors opened the book. “What about the introduction you wrote for this collection? You start out by asking the very same question I’ve been asking you. Where do you get the ideas for your stories?”

“I’ve already told you that.”

Dr. Connors flipped a page. “You give a different answer here. You say that a fantasy author is cast in the dual role of Jekyll and Hyde.”

“Just a figure of speech.”

“Is it?” He glanced down at the text. “Let me read you your own words. ‘Dr. Jekyll attempts to deny the very existence of Mr. Hyde. But . . . Mr. Hyde exists. I know, for he is a part of me. He has been my literary mentor now for more than a decade.’ And now, the last paragraph of your introduction. And when anyone inquires as to where I get the ideas for my stories, I can only shrug and answer, From my collaborator—Mr. Hyde.’ That’s an exact quote.”

I stared at him. Yesterday I’d told myself that I was beginning to hate this man. Today—

“Something wrong?”

“Only with your conclusions.”

“Not mine. Yours.”

“Cut the double-talk. Are you saying I’m a multiple personality?”

“You’re saying it, in your introduction here. And in your work. That’s double-talk with a vengeance.”

“I’m not interested in vengeance.” I shook my head. “And I don’t hate people.”

“So says Dr. Jekyll. But Mr. Hyde tells a different story. Over and over and over again.”

“It’s just a story.”

“Are you sure?” Dr. Connors shook his head. “Then why are you here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know, or don’t remember?”

“Both.”

“Exactly. In multiple-personality disorders, there’s always this element of amnesia, of disassociation. My job is to help you recall. I was hoping that analyzing your work would lead you to find clues to reality. Once you face the truth—”

“What is the truth?”

“There are many truths. Consider them. You’re in a private sanatorium—and you wouldn’t be here unless there was a reason. You’re under tight security—and that should suggest the reason is a serious one. You can’t remember what happened prior to your arrival; surely this implies a personality split protected by an amnesic reaction.”

I took a deep breath. “What you’re saying is that I flipped out and killed somebody?”

“No.” Dr. Connors smiled. “Consider the facts. If you’d killed somebody, you’d be downtown, at the county jail.”

“But I did flip, didn’t I?”

“Yes.” He smiled again. “Before we continue, perhaps I’d better remind you of another truth. I’m here because I’m interested in your welfare. I’m not your enemy.”

Locking me up. Playing cat-and-mouse games with me. Prying into my stories, my secrets. And then, expecting me to believe he wasn’t my enemy? Maybe I was crazy, but I wasn’t stupid.

“Of course not.” I returned his smile. “Shall we get on with it?”

Dr. Connors consulted his note-pad. “There’s another thread weaving itself through your fiction. Not just the fantasies but the mystery-suspense stories I’ve read—so many of them deal with variations on a single dénouement.”

What’s that?”

“Decapitation.”

“Is that so unusual? It’s a common enough device for shocking the reader. Even the Queen in Alice in Wonderland kept saying—”

“Let’s stick to your own work, and what you say. About the collector of heads in ‘Man with a Hobby,’ and the collector of skulls in ‘The Skull of the Marquis de Sade.’ And that other collector called Enoch. What motivated you to write ‘The Cure,’ ‘The Head-Hunter,’ or ‘See How They Run’? There’s a head lopped off in Psycho, and the final scene in Night-World speaks for itself. Heads roll in ‘The Hound of Pedro’ and ‘That Old College Try.’ ” Dr. Connors picked up the book. “You did it here, in ‘Waxworks.’ And in your very first published story, ‘The Feast in the Abbey.’ ”

“And a damned good thing,” I said. “That’s what made an impression on the readers. Not just the idea of cannibalism. But when the narrator finds out what he’s been eating—when he lifts the lid of the small silver platter and sees the head of his brother—”

“Quite effective, I agree.” Dr. Connors looked up at me. “I notice you wrote in the first person.”

“That’s part of the impact.”

“But where did the idea come from? A newspaper story? Something you heard or read about?”

“I don’t remember. After all, that was so long ago—”

“Odd, isn’t it, that this should be one of your earliest efforts? And that you continued the same theme over the years?” He kept staring at me. “You’ve told me the source of so many of your stories. Surely there’s a point of origin for this one and those which follow the pattern.”

“I told you, I can’t recall!”

“Nothing in your personal background?”

“I’m not a cannibal, if that’s what you’re hinting. I do have a younger sister, but no brother, so I could hardly cut off his head—”

It was hard to speak quietly because I hated him so. And it was hard to hear him now, because of the way my heart was pounding, pounding, pounding—

“Look,” said Dr. Connors. “I’m going to tell you something that will help you to remember. It may shock you, but sometimes shock therapy is the most effective method.”

“Go ahead,” I said. Ahead. Head. It was the head of my brother—

Dr. Connors was watching my face, but I’m positive he couldn’t hear the voice inside my head. My head. His head. Their heads.

I forced myself to look at him, forced myself to smile. “Don’t tell me I cut off somebody’s head,” I said.

“No. But you tried.”

“That’s a lie!” I stood up, and I wasn’t smiling now. “That’s a lie!”

“You mean you can’t remember. But you did, and they stopped you just in time. It’s all there in the record.”

“But why—why?”

“Because the person you attempted to kill apparently reminded you of someone else. Someone long ago.” Dr. Connors leaned forward, speaking very softly, so that I had to strain to hear him.

I did hear him, though—I must have—because the hate kept building, building as he spoke.

Only I still can’t recall what he said. It was about something that happened when I was very young. Something I did to someone and Mama found out about it and the doctor came and then they sent me away for a long time and when I came home again I forgot all about everything. I was just a kid, I didn’t know, I didn’t mean it, I hated him, but I forgot and nobody ever talked about it, nobody ever even knew about it. Except now, Dr. Connors knew—he’d gone away today and looked up the information and now he was telling me about it and he’d tell everybody and I hated him because I still couldn’t remember.

But I do remember what I did when he told me. It was all luck, really—being in that room next to the surgery, and then later finding the backstairs exit and getting over the wall.

It was even luck that there was one of those silver things with a lid on top, right next to the knife cabinet in the surgery.

I keep thinking of that now—thinking of how Miss Frobisher must have come back, and what she saw when she lifted up the lid . . .

It was the head of my psychiatrist.