by Robert Bloch
Editor: The Crowood Press Ltd
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She was a fugitive, lost in a stormThat was when she saw the sign: motel – vacationThe sign was off, the motel was dark.She turned off the engine, and sat at the thought, alone and afraidShe had no one thereThe stolen money would not help her, and neither could Sam, because she had taken the wrong turn; she was on a strange roadThere was nothing she could do now, she had made her grave, and she would have to lie on itShe frozeWhere did it come fromThe tombHe was in bed, no big deal.She shivered in the cold of the car, surrounded by shadowsThen, without a sound, a dark form emerged from the darkness and the open car doorPsycho is not a tale for nauseous stomach or on sensitive heartsIt is filled with a terrible suspense and the climax, instead of being a relief, will strike the reader at the bone-the ginning of force
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