No Gein: An Alternate Horror Part Ten

Part Ten: Deranged

George was glad Robert Bloch spoke on the panel, because he might not have recognized him otherwise. With his usual gregariousness he approached the man in person for the first time. “Robert Bloch!” he said at the VIP after show party. “I’m the one you’ve been writing too.” 

“Of course you are.” Robert said, raising his glass to him.

“So, what did you think of my story?”

“It was terrible.” the acclaimed author said in an instant.

George instantly froze in his tracks, for once in his life he was at a total loss for words.

Robert burst into laughter an acquantence of his patted him on the shoulder saying, “You were always great at encouragement Bloch! Is that how Lovecraft talked to you?”

“Oh, what Lovecraft said to me was even worse!” Bloch laughingly replied.

“Yeah, I’ll bet!” The man laughed loud along with Robert before going to get himself a drink.

Seeing the young fan was still standing there, Robert said, “Let’s try this again.” Reaching out his hand, he introduced himself. “I’m Robert Bloch, what can I do ya for?”

“George Kohler.” the young fan replied with a strong handshake.

“Ok, that name rings a bell.” Bloch now recalled as his hand was released from the exuberant fan’s grip. “You sent me a story, what was it called?”

“Well, I started it as a screenplay when I was in film school, but after I left film school, I decided to write it out as a novel and…”

Bloch’s eyes rolled as he asked, “And the name of this soon to be classic of American literature?”

“My story I wrote was called Deranged.” George said proudly.

Bloch registered recognition as he recalled the gruesome tale. “Ah yes,” noticing the Zodiac Killer shirt Robert remarked “I should have known it was you when I saw your shirt.”

“Yeah, I forgot my Zodiac mask at home. Totally sucks.”

Bloch’s voice trailed off as he replied. “Hmm, that’s such a shame.” 

“Yeah, it blows donkey balls.” 

“I wouldn’t know,” Bloch laughed, “I’m more of a sheep man myself.”

George was loving the author’s humor. After letting out another good laugh he asked, “Anyway what did you think of my story?”

“Well, it was pretty gruesome, I’ll give you that.”

“Yeah, cool!” he nodded.

“Uh, well let’s get a drink and sit down.”

Sitting at a nearby table, George reached into his bag for what he wanted to give to the author. He’d forgotten he’d just purchased two of Bloch’s books. Pulling those out, he asked the author to sign them.

“I’d be happy to.” Robert opened American Gothic and beginning his inscription while saying, “That Holmes, he was an incredible evil man.”

“Yeah, that torture chamber was nuts!” Geroge smiled with glee.

Now signing the second book Robert began, “About your story, well it was quite graphic in the details, I didn’t understand what the motivation was. What would drive a man so do such unspeakable things?”

“I don’t know, he’s just nuts.” George said matter of fact like.

Handing the books back to his fan, Bloch then asked. “Ok, well let’s look at it this way, what inspired you to write your story?”

“Well, when I was a kid, I had this aunt who had this really crazy story.”

The author keyed in on George’s use of the past tense, “You ‘had’ an aunt?”

“Yeah, my aunt was in and out of mental institutions, eventually she killed herself.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Robert said in sympathy.

“Yeah, anyway one time when she was a kid, she stole her dad’s car and ran off. Story goes she ran out of gas and got stuck near this old farmhouse. My aunt got out of the car and went into the house to get help. When my aunt went inside, she said there were bodies everywhere!” George grew very animated and excited as he told this part of the story. “Heads were hanging on the wall and all this gruesome shit! That’s what I put in my story. Then she said something chased her out of the house with a gun.”

“Some THING?” The author stressed the word ‘thing.’

“That’s what my aunt always said. It had long hair like a chic, but it squealed like an animal. It chased her right out of there. Later the cops found her and brought her home. That’s how the story goes at least.”

“That sounds awful. Did the police ever investigate?”

“Nah,” George said dismissively. “My aunt was always messed up on drugs. She was kind of a hippy, always going on about something. One time it would be UFO’s, another time it would be Atlantis, you know the type.”

Robert nodded. “I guess I do.”

“Yeah, but that one story she always stuck with though.” George stated. “She told that story a lot and it never changed. Would have made one hell of a movie!”

“I see.” Robert was disturbed by both the story and the teller’s gleefullness in relating the horror’s allegedly suffered by a family member. Evidently this poor girl suffered from mental illness all her life. Yet, there remained a slim possibility that at least part of her story was true. “Did this supposedly happen arond here.

“No, I’m from Wisconsin originally. Ever hear of a town called Amherst?” 

“Oh, I see.” Robert answered. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

“Well, that’s one of the reasons I wanted to talk to you.” Before putting his books away, George pulled out a manilla folder from his bag. “I know you’re from Milwaukee.” he said as he slid the folder across the table. “This is the basic information about what happened. If you ever had a chance, I thought you could look into it.”

“Well, I live in Los Angeles now.” Bloch said. “I’m sure you’re aware they don’t film much television or film in the great state of Wisconsin.”

“Oh right.” In a rare moment, George’s voice deflated with enthusiasm. Given he’d been sending letters to Bloch’s Los Angeles address, it didn’t occur to him that the author might not be spending much time in the plain states. 

“Well, you took this time to put this together, let’s see what we have.” He opened the folder to look at a few sheets of paper with notes written on them.

“I don’t have much to go on.” George hesitantly cautioned.

“Plainfield Wisconsin,” Bloch looked at the pages. “Never heard of that place either. Fall of 1957,” he continued to read, there was a brief description of what his aunt reported, along with the description of George’s grandfather’s car and a few other notes, including Sally’s suicide and George’s home address.

“Well, I do visit the old homestead on occasion.” Robert said, closing the folder. “Next time I do I can give it a look.”

“That would be awesome!” George said. They spent the short time they had remaining talking about writing and the business.

Back in Bethlehem, things happened so fast. Henry struck up a conversation with Franki after her set. Seeing that he was now pre-occupied, his daughter Helen went home. Next thing Henry knew, he went home too, with Franki by his side. Now he was holding her in his arms while they lay in his bed. She was fast asleep, her songbird voice now silent, but he remained awake. Looking up into the darkness, he reflected on how so much of his life was spent trying to fix what was. For once, on this date, Henry enjoyed his evening. Perhaps, per the song lyric of his new companion, he learned to “let life go.”

From the window of his hotel, George looked down on the city and it’s people that he’d seen so many times now. Sitting back down on his bed, he looked through the books and other items he’d purchased that day. Moments like these used to feel like Christmas morning in Bethlehem, but the thrills of convention bounty were starting to fade. Placing his convention bag on the night stand, he laid down on his side, his body taking up most of the space in the bed. He continued staring out the window, still able to hear the hustle and bustle of the Big Apple below. Watching the lights from the steel and concrete buildings around him, George wondered.

Robert Bloch awoke in that same hotel, his brow covered in sweat. He had that dream again. He hated that dream, hadn’t had it in a while actually, but tonight it came back. It probably came back due to talking to that would be author he spoke to tonight. “What a character,” he’d thought to himself before turning in earlier that evening. He wasn’t thinking about that now though, now he was only thinking about one word. That same word that awful dream always ended with, that same word that brought tears to his eyes.

“Mother.”

Thank you all for your support of this story thus far. There will be seven more chapters of ghoulish mayhem and alternate history which will be spaced out from now till Halloween.  On a less macabe note please remain safe and take care of yourselves. Just think, we’re almost done with this horrific year!