Norman Bates Heard The Noise And A

Henderson Sighed. There Was A Time, He Reflected, When The Coming Of This Night Meant Something. A Dark Europe, Groaning In Superstitious Fear, Dedicated This Eve To The Grinning Unknown. A Million Doors Had Once Been Barred Against The Evil Visitants, A Million Prayers Mumbled, A Million Candles Lit. There Was Something Majestic About The Idea, Henderson Reflected.

We're All Not Quite As Sane As We Pretend To Be.

Then She Did See It There - Just A Face, Peering Through The Curtains, Hanging In Midair Like A Mask. A Head-scarf Concealed The Hair And The Glassy Eyes Stared Inhumanly, But It Wasn’t A Mask, It Couldn’t Be. The Skin Had Been Powdered Dead-white And Two Hectic Spots Of Rouge Centered On The Cheekbones. It Wasn’t A Mask. It Was The Face Of A Crazy Old Woman. Mary Started To Scream, And Then The Curtains Parted Further And A Hand Appeared, Holding A Butcher’s Knife. It Was The Knife That, A Moment Later, Cut Off Her Scream. And Her Head.

Magic--that's Just A Label, You Know. Completely Meaningless. It Wasn't So Very Long Ago That People Were Saying That Electricity Was Magic.

Everything In This Business Makes Sense, Because It Serves A Real Purpose, Fills A Need That's A Part Of Living. Even A Single Nail, Like This One, Fulfills A Function. Drive It Into A Crucial Place And You Can Depend On It To Do A Job, Keep On Doing It For A Hundred Years To Come. Long After We're Dead And Gone, Both Of Us.