No Gein II: A Second Helping Chapter Seven

Posted: October 13, 2021 in No Gein II: A Second Helping, No Gein Stories
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No Gein II: A Second Helping 

Chapter Seven: Psycho II

Hollywood, California. September 2003

George was very impressed by Lloyd, the set designer he hired to work on his new movie. Norman Bates’s house looked exactly as it did from the first Psycho, from the creaky wooden steps to the outdated antique furniture. Even the cobwebs and dust were present. A ring from his cellphone brought George back to modernity. Flipping his phone open he gave his usual snarky greeting “House of pain, you kill em, we grill em.” 

“Not in the mood for you goofing off George.” It was Marty, the producer. Psycho II was getting a lot of heat, which was making the brass nervous. The slasher genre was revived due to 98’s Psycho, and George’s recent Texas Chainsaw massacred the box office like no horror film had before, resulting in scores of other obscure cult hits getting greenlit for remakes. With that success came the seemingly once a decade national hand wringing about the dangers of violence in the mass media and its effects on our poor innocent youth, which gave Enterprise Studios a lot of unwanted attention.

“Are you sitting down?” His producer asked frantically.

“I am now Marty.” George sat down on an ancient looking sofa and was genuinely shocked at how comfortable it was. “Damn this seat is sweet. I gotta get one of these for my place!”

“This is no joke George,” Mary insisted. “I got really bad news.” 

“OK shoot.”

Marty then just blurted it out. “Roy is dead.”

“Are you shitting me?” George almost jumped out of his seat hearing this. Roy was the main screenwriter on Psycho II, who had also taken some of the heat for his Texas Chainsaw screenplay. Both he and George had been receiving death threats.

“I’m not joking, they found his body this morning. I’m down at the police station making a statement. They want to talk to you too.”

“Ok I’ll leave the set right now.” George said as he stood up and started walking.

“Wait, Jesus George you’re on the set?”

“Yeah, why?” George said as he stopped dead in his tracks.

“I ordered it closed down.” Marty revealed. “Someone was snooping around there last night.” 

“Who was it?”

“Don’t know, Talbot chased him off, but it’s too much of a coincidence. I ordered the whole area to be closed off. How did you get in there?”

“I didn’t see Talbot at the gate this morning,” George explained, “so I let myself in.” 

“Well get the hell out of there and come down here now!”

“Alright chill-ax I will.” George said before hanging up.

It was then that George heard the noise upstairs. “Hello,” George said, looking up the steps to the second floor of the ‘house. There was no answer. He then called out the for the security chief, “Talbot, is that you?” but there was still no answer.

As George walked up the creaky steps, he heard no other sound. He thought maybe he just heard the wind. Getting to the top of the steps, he noticed the scent, that unmistakable smell that in this environment meant nothing but trouble. The wood still creaked as he went into the bedroom of Norman Bates. It was a simple, spartan like room. He admired the bookshelves on the wall. In the original Robert Bloch novel that was published about ten years back, Norman was a student of the occult, and the prop designer did a great job making the mock editions of old spooky books. Per George’s request, there was even a book that had Necronomicon scrawled on the spine. George knew Bloch would have liked that. He wished his old friend could have seen the prop Necronomicon; which was a nod to Bloch’s mentor H.P. Lovecraft, who frequently referenced the accursed book in his various weird tales about the Elder Gods and other unspeakable horrors. 

One of the horrors filmmakers wrestled with was the occasional parent group threatening boycotts and other shenanigans. Now, in the 21rst century, there was a new threat to filmmakers, not from people who hated them, but from those who loved them. George knew all too well the excesses of fandom. In his younger days he made a few regrettable online comments towards authors and directors. Now that he was on the other end of the business, he in turn received death threats about the next Psycho movie. Initially, he’d long dismissed this chatter, remembering his old days as an angry nerd, but now it was serious, someone was really dead. 

It was then he spotted a manilla folder resting on the bookshelf. He wondered why this was there, he definitely didn’t want this oversight showing up on film. Upon closer look, the envelope had his name written on it in red ink; at least it looked like red ink at first. As he picked it up to take a closer look, it appeared his name had been written in blood. George’s hands trembled as he opened the folder, and what he found inside was even more disturbing. George now knew he officially had a stalker. Here were photos of himself at the beach with his girlfriend. What worried him even more was a picture of his sister Helen along with her husband Chuck.

George angrily threw the folder down and stormed into the next room. This was the bedroom of Norman’s mother, Norma Bates. There was a deep indenture in the bed as if someone had laid there an unnaturally long time. That smell was so strong here. When he saw the metal shine from under the bed he shuddered. He reached down into the blackness under the bed and his hand felt cold steel. He knelt down and pulled out a can of kerosene. As soon as his knee hit the wooden floor, he could smell the fumes on the bed sheets. Someone planned to burn the entire set down.

“Who’s in here?” George now said more angrily. “You’re fucking with my movie, I’m gonna kill you!” Then there was the sound of a door creaking. He turned to see it was the door mother’s large walk-in closet. George shuddered as he could see a slender arm, dead still, laying on the closet floor. He rushed over to the closet, fearing the truth he already knew in his gut. Pushing the door open all the way he found the body of Talbot laying in a pool of blood. It looked like someone bashed his head with a blunt object like a tire iron.

George never saw the figure come behind him, he never saw that old dress flowing in the air as it entered the bedroom, or the hand within it that raised the blade in the air through the dress’s frilled sleeves. He yelled out as best as he could as the knife came down on his back. In his mind George could hear the violin music shrieking from the first film as the knife penetrated him again and again, leaving fountains of blood spraying as it went. George collapsed to the ground. As he looked across the room where the dead employee lay, his lips uttered their final words. 

Comments
  1. Phil says:

    I hope there’s a shovel to the head in the near future!

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