by ROBERT BLOCH
She was a fugitive, lost in a storm. That was when she saw the sign: motel - vacancy. The sign was unlit, the motel dark. She switched off the engine, and sat thinking, alone and frightened.
She had nobody. The stolen money wouldn't help her, and Sam couldn't either, because she had taken the wrong turning; she was on a strange road.
There was nothing she could do now - she had made her grave and she'd have to lie in it.
She froze. Where had that come from? Grave. It was bed, not grave. She shivered in the cold car, surrounded by shadows.
Then, without a sound, a dark shape emerged from the blackness and the car door opened.
Psycho is not a tale for queasy stomachs or faint hearts.
It is filled with horrifying suspense and the climax, instead of being a relief, will hit the reader with bone-shattering force.
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