Mari

You didn’t even look up. “I don’t want to see anyone.”

She hesitated. “I…think you’ll want to see this one.”

You shook your head stubbornly, burying your face deeper into your arms. If it wasn’t your father or your mother—you didn’t want to see anyone, you wanted to be left alone. And yet, you heard the door creak open behind her anyway. Quiet steps. Then silence. When you finally glanced up, a man was already kneeling before you.

He wasn’t what you expected.

Not some unfamiliar suit. Not some awkward stranger with a cold handshake. No. His eyes were kind. He pulled a white handkerchief from his pocket, soft and neatly folded, and gently dabbed the tears from your cheeks.

“Ssh, child,” he hushed you softly, voice calm and steady like a lullaby. “No tears now. I will keep you safe. I promise you. No harm will come to you again.”

Your breath hitched. Everyone had just told you to be brave. Or strong. Or sorry. But he offered you a smile and told you that he would protect you.

You sniffled. “W-Who…who are you?”

The man gave a small smile, a sad one, and reached out his hand to you. He was trembling a little, like maybe he was scared too—but trying very hard not to show it.

“Norman. Norman Bates.” He paused, then added. “But you…my dear. You will call me Uncle Norman.”

You stared at his hand. Then, slowly, unsurely—your small fingers curled into his. His hand was warm around yours—steadier than it looked. You could still feel the ghost of tears clinging to your lashes, but something about the way he held your hand…it dulled the ache somehow. He tilted his head just slightly like he was trying to see you—not just the crying child, but all of you, inside and out. He smiled down at you as if nothing bad would ever happen to you again and squeezed your hand.

“How about we go home, my darling? Would that be okay with you?”

Home.

The word sounded so strange now. You didn’t know what home even meant anymore. Yours was gone—in pieces on the road, left behind with the wreckage of the car you had barely managed to escape from. But when you looked up and saw Uncle Norman looking down at you with that bright smile…You couldn’t help but feel hopeful.

You finally gave a small nod, lips trembling. “O-Okay…”

He exhaled softly, almost in relief, and brushed your hair gently back from your forehead.

“Good,” he replied softly with a grateful smile, as if speaking too loud might scare the moment away or he was simply scared you might change your mind. “We’ll go somewhere quiet. Safe. Just us, for now. No more strangers.”

Then, like a gentleman in an old movie, he adjusted his coat and—still holding your hand—offered you a small smile and a confident tilt of his head.

“Let’s go home,” he declared, and you followed him out of the room. Your eyes glanced back at the room you were leaving. You didn’t know where you were going. But you were certain you wouldn’t come back. You smiled and moved forward.

A few months later…

The house was old, tucked behind tall trees and the kind of fence that creaked when the wind passed through it. You were afraid to even get out of your room at first, but with Norman gentle coaxing you had managed to finally explore your new home.

The house was warm. Always warm.

Norman made sure of that.

There was a routine now. Quiet breakfasts at the little table by the window. Fresh sheets every week. Hot cocoa when the nightmares got bad. A new bedtime book every few nights—Norman’s voice calm and soothing as he read aloud, even if the stories were old and faded. He always tucked you in, always double-checked the locks, always left the door cracked open just the way you liked.

You’d begun to smile again.

Not every day. But some days.

And Norman? He noticed every single time.

One afternoon, you were sitting on the worn couch, your legs tucked under you and a blanket around your shoulders. The TV was on—a black and white movie Norman liked—but your attention was half on the puzzle in front of you, the rest on the rain pattering against the windows. It was peaceful.

Then you heard his footsteps.

He entered with two mugs—hot cocoa for you, tea for him—and handed yours over with a small smile.

“You’ve gotten much better at puzzles,” he commented appreciatively, watching you fit a corner piece in. “Very clever, my darling.”

You looked up and smiled—shy but real. “It doesn’t really count. You helped. You always help.”

He sat down beside you, tea in hand, and gave a soft hum. “Well…that’s what family does, isn’t it?”

You nodded slowly. Then paused.

“Uncle Norman?” you asked quietly.

He tilted his head quizzically at you. “Yes, sweetheart?”

You turned to look at him, searching his face for even the smallest shift—for an answer. “Do you think…my mom and dad would be mad that I feel safe here? With you? That sometimes I’m even…happy?”

His expression shifted—just slightly—but he finally reached out and tucked a strand of you hair behind your ear, just the way your mother used to.

“I think,” he replied carefully, “they would be grateful. Grateful you’re safe. That someone is watching over you. That you’re smiling again. And I think they’d be proud of you. For being so brave.”

You frowned and looked down. “But…isn’t that like betrayal? It’s like…I forgot about them. About what happened…no?”

Norman’s eyes softened and he shook his head. “No, sweetheart. Not at all. This is not betrayal. Your parents would like you to have a life. They would want you to live it to the fullest and be happy. Every good parent wants that for their child. That is the very nature of a parent—their responsibility. It is to make sure that their child feels happy and cared for until they are grown up enough to love themselves.”

Your throat tightened, but you still nodded. And without a word, you leaned against him. He wrapped an arm around your shoulders and pulled you close, the steady beat of his heart right there beneath the fabric of his pullover.

“You’re home now, my darling. And I won’t ever let anything take that away from you.” He whispered as his hand conscientiously stroked your hair. He had always dreamed of becoming a parent…Maybe his prayers had been heard after all.

A year later…

By now, the house felt like it had always been yours. Your shoes lined up neatly by the door. Your drawings pinned to the fridge. The scent of cinnamon lingering from last night’s baking experiment. Life with Norman had become a rhythm—quiet, strange in a way, but good. You’d healed, not all the way, but enough to laugh more than cry. Enough to sleep without fear.

One Saturday morning, you found him in the kitchen, humming as he set the table for breakfast. After breakfast, he took a breath, then crouched beside your chair.

“I have something to tell you,” he admitted, he looked nervous. “Something I’ve been working on for a while now.”

You tilted your head, curious. “What is it?”

He smiled—a little nervous, but excited too. “I bought a motel.”

Your eyes widened. “A motel?”

“Yes. Just outside of town. Quiet, not too busy. Needs a bit of fixing up…but it has potential. A place travelers can rest. People needing peace and quiet. And I was thinking…maybe it could be something we do together? Our little family business. You and me. I can manage the front desk, and maybe you could help decorate the rooms, maybe even draw a logo if you like. We’d take care of it—together.”

You stared at him for a long moment, stunned, then let out a tiny laugh. “Like…you mean I’d help run it too?”

He nodded, a little bashful. “If you want to. I know it’s a lot, but I just…I liked the thought of building something with you. A new start. A future. What do you say, my darling? Are you in?”

A motel. Your own key to a new chapter.

You looked at him. His hands folded nervously in his lap, his eyes warm and searching. He didn’t just want to run a business. He wanted to give you something to belong to. A legacy. Something steady to hold on to.

You smiled and reached across the table and took his hand, squeezing it tight.

“We’ll do it. I want to help you, Uncle Norman. I want to do this with you.”

Norman’s face lit up like a candle. He seemed genuinely relieved.

“Then it’s settled,” he declared with a smile and stroked the back of your hand with his thumb. “You and me, my darling. We are going to run a motel.”

You both laughed and he cupped your little face with his hands to press his forehead against yours. He couldn’t wait to get started…

——————————————————————

The sign went up in the soft morning light—Bates Motel, hand-painted with care and just a touch of elegance. Beneath it, a smaller sign swayed gently in the breeze: Vacancy. It wasn’t fancy. Just twelve rooms, a kitchen and a cozy living room, surrounded by pines and quiet. But it was yours. Yours and Norman’s. You stood at the front desk, proudly wearing the apron he’d stitched your name onto—“Little Helper” in careful embroidery. The title had started as a nickname, a quiet joke between you and Norman when you helped him clean the windows or restock the tiny soaps. But it stuck.

The guests were sparse—travelers passing through, families on road trips, quiet folks who liked the solitude. But they always paused when they saw you. A child helping behind the desk, offering mints in a little glass jar, drawing smiley faces on the check-in forms.

A light in a place most expected to be just another cold roadside stop.

“Is this your motel?” they’d sometimes ask, smiling.

And you’d grin and declare proudly, “Mine and my uncle’s.”

Norman would step out from the back room then, wearing that same soft expression he always had around you. The kind of look that made people feel safe just watching it.

“He’s the boss,” you’d joke, nudging Norman’s arm. “I just like to help him sometimes.”

And he would look at you like you were the most precious thing in the world to him—and you were.

It became a rhythm…

You dusted. Helped with laundry. Left fresh towels folded like little animals. Drew chalk signs on the porch saying “Have a lovely stay!” or “Rainy day = free cocoa!” And Norman—he watched you the way someone watches spring return to the world after a long, gray winter. He let you paint the flowerpots outside. Let you pick the names for each room. Even let you greet guests before him, because, “You’re the heart of this place, my darling.” You didn’t feel like the child crying in a hospital anymore. You were part of something. Building something. Creating peace for strangers and stability for yourself.

Some guests lingered longer than expected. Others left thank-you notes on the pillows.

One old woman took your hand as she checked out and whispered, “You remind me of someone I used to love dearly. Don’t let the world take that light from you.”

You didn’t. Not while Uncle Norman was there. And every night, just before bed, Norman would kneel by your door and whisper softly:“Sleep well, my little helper. I’m so proud of you.”

And you’d whisper back: “Goodnight, Uncle Norman. I love you.”

And you did. More than anything.

You thought Uncle Norman would read you bedtime stories more often though, or at least hug your before bed. But…Norman never actually stayed into your room—especially at night. It was a rule. He never entered yours. You never entered his. Under any circumstance…

You never questioned it—because you trusted him. But that didn’t mean you couldn’t hear him cry at night or sometimes…even scream.

You worried about him of course but, every time you would ask he would brush you or dismiss it with a smile…You ended giving up.

But that didn’t mean you weren’t curious about what Uncle Norman was so scared of?

A week later…

It had been one of those quiet evenings where everything felt still and perfect.

The motel had only a few guests that night—two rooms lit with warm yellow light and soft murmurs behind the curtains. The air smelled of pine and distant rain, the porch creaked faintly beneath your legs as you sat curled in a blanket, knees tucked under your chin. Above, the stars blinked—clear and countless—and you found yourself staring at them the way you used to watch through car windows when your parents used to drive you places…

Norman stepped outside, carrying two mugs. He didn’t say anything at first—he never needed to. He just sat beside you on the porch swing, setting your mug in your hands. Cocoa—of course. With just the right amount of cinnamon. Your favorite.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then your voice broke through, barely louder than the breeze. “Uncle Norman?”

He looked over at you, that same ever-gentle smile lingering on his lips. “Yes, sweetheart?”

You looked down at the mug, then back up at the stars.

“I love the motel. I love the quiet. I even like school now, even if it’s hard sometimes.” You hesitated. “But most of all…I really love you.”

He didn’t answer right away. He blinked, and for a brief moment, his smile faltered—not out of sadness, but out of something so big, so deep, he couldn’t quite hold it all at once. Then he set his mug down, turned towards you, and placed a hand softly against your cheek.

“My darling. I…I love you too. More than I ever thought I could love anything again.” His hand was shaking slightly, and his eyes—usually so calm—shimmered under the porch light. “You saved me. You made this quiet little world feel alive again. I didn’t think I’d ever have a family. But then you looked at me that day in the hospital…and you chose me.”

You leaned into his touch without thinking, your heart full in a way words couldn’t explain. He was your whole world. And you were his.

He exhaled shakily and gave you that smile again—worn around the edges, but honest.

“I’ll always protect you, no matter what. You’re the most precious thing I’ve ever had and I would do anything for you. Anything.”

And under that great sky full of stars, with a blanket around your shoulders and cocoa warming your hands, you knew what home really was.

It wasn’t the motel. It wasn’t even the stars.

It was him. Uncle Norman.

He was your home…

After a moment, he spoke again, his voice just above a whisper. “Is there anything you’d want, darling?” he asked. “Anything at all? I’d give you the whole world if you asked. Just name it, and it’s yours.”

You blinked slowly, looking down into your cup. The cocoa had cooled a bit, the whipped cream melting into the drink, but you didn’t care. Your chest felt warm enough. You shook your head, then looked up at him, meeting his gaze.

“I don’t want anything else,” you replied with a smile. “All I’ve ever wanted was a family. And I already have that. I have you.”

Norman froze for just a moment.

Then his shoulders dropped slightly, like the weight he’d carried for years had been lifted, even if just a little. His eyes shimmered again, but this time, he didn’t hide it. He let the tears rise. He pulled you close and whispered into your hair, “You are my family too. You always will be. And I swear to you, no one will ever take you away from me. Never.”

You wrapped your arms around him, small fingers curling into the fabric of his sweater.

That night, Norman tucked you into bed like always. But he lingered longer than usual, brushing your hair from your forehead, pressing a kiss to your temple. And as he turned off the lamp and stood at the doorway, he looked back with the softest smile you’d ever seen.

“You made me whole again, my darling. And I promise, from now until the end…you’ll never be alone again.”

You smiled and nodded. You knew he would keep that promise.

A few months later…

You had come home from school like always—backpack slipping off one shoulder, your shoes tracking in dust from the path behind the motel. You had expected the usual: the scent of soup simmering in the kitchen, the quiet hum of Norman’s soft humming, maybe a new flower pot on the porch because he liked to surprise you with little changes.

But not today.

The front door was half open. The sound of voices—tense, low—came from the office. You followed it instinctively, heart tugging with a kind of unease you hadn’t felt in a long time.

“…I am not saying you haven’t provided a stable environment,” a woman’s voice echoed. “It’s clear the child is well-fed, attends school, shows signs of emotional stability. But I would be failing my duty if I ignored the fact that you have a record, Mr. Bates. A criminal record. A serious one.”

Then Norman’s voice, quiet, fraying at the edges. “That is not who I am anymore. Please. Do not take her away from me.”

You stepped closer, just enough to see him through the cracked doorway—standing stiffly, hands clasped tightly in front of him.

The woman—middle-aged, tired eyes, clipboard in hand—shook her head slowly. “You were institutionalized. You were tried for multiple homicides. This isn’t something I can simply overlook.”

You had never seen Uncle Norman so desperate—his eyes betrayed sheer panic and genuine fear. He wanted to beg. He was ready to do that if it meant keeping you with him. Norman’s eyes shifted then—past her, past the file in her hands—landing right on you. He looked stricken for a moment. He rushed to the door and gently, but firmly, closed it in your face. But not before you heard him whisper, his voice cracking: “Please…I have changed. I swear it. I’m not…I’m not her anymore. I’m just her uncle now. Without her…I am nothing.”

You stood frozen on the other side, your heart pounding so loudly you could barely hear the muffled conversation continuing.

You didn’t understand all the words.

But you understood enough.

He used to be a murderer.

Uncle Norman. Your Uncle Norman.

The man who wiped your tears when you were sad. Who brought you cocoa on rainy nights. Who taught you how to prune flowers and sweep porches. Who kissed your forehead every night and made you feel like the world was finally safe again. You shook your head. No. No! You wouldn’t believe it. Besides, even if he was? You still loved him. And you weren’t going to let anyone take you away from the only home you had left…

A few minutes later.

The social worker, you would learn that her name was Ms. Greene, sat across from you with a polite smile and a notepad tucked beside her plate. She hadn’t touched much of her food. You glanced at Norman, who sat stiffly beside you, hands folded in his lap. He looked composed on the outside, but you could see the tremor in his fingers, the too-straight posture, the slight twitch at his jaw. He was trying so hard to be perfect—to look perfect at least.

“So,” Ms. Greene started, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin. Her tone was casual, but her eyes were sharp. “How do you like living here, sweetheart?”

You swallowed a bite of potato and nodded. “I love it here.”

“Do you?” she pressed, tilting her head slightly. “And Mr. Bates—is he kind to you? He takes care of everything you need?”

“Yes,” you answered quickly. “He makes my lunch every day. He walks me to the school bus when he can. He reads to me at night sometimes, and he—”

She interrupted gently, “Has he ever lost his temper?”

You blinked and shook your head vividly. “No.”

“Not even once?” She insisted. Her pen hovered over her notepad. “Not even when you made a mistake, or misbehaved?”

You opened your mouth, then looked at Norman, who was staring at his plate, unmoving. His face had gone pale. You could tell he was holding his breath.

“No,” you replied, firmer now. “He doesn’t yell. He just…talks to me. He teaches me.”

Ms. Greene gave a tight smile. “I see. And do you ever feel…afraid when you are with him?”

“Only when I think someone might take me away from him,” you replied almost instantly.

Norman’s head jerked up, his eyes wide—but full of emotion. You could see it all written there: gratitude, heartbreak, love.

The room went silent again, save for the tick of the old wall clock.

Ms. Greene looked at you for a long time. Her pen moved, scribbling something, but she didn’t ask more questions after that. You weren’t sure what she was writing, and honestly, you didn’t care. Because as Norman quietly reached over to refill your glass of water, his hand brushing against yours, you felt it again—that unshakable truth.

He was your uncle. And you were his child.

No file, no clipboard, no official could ever understand what he meant to you.

And no matter what they said—

You weren’t leaving.

…

That night, sleep never came. The house was still. The ticking of the old clock echoed down the hall like a metronome counting down something inevitable. You lay in bed, curled beneath the covers, eyes wide and unblinking, staring at the ceiling.

They were going to take you away.

No one had said it aloud, but you could feel it—hanging in every word Ms. Greene didn’t say, in every quiet glance she cast towards Norman when she thought you weren’t looking. She didn’t understand. She didn’t want to understand. You couldn’t go to foster homes, to strangers.

Norman was yours. He was your home.

And so—sometime around two or three in the morning—your brain, aching and desperate, whispered something dangerous…You tried to ignore it. But you couldn’t.

You got up.

Your feet were bare, silent on the creaking floorboards as you slipped from your room and padded towards the guest bedroom where the social worker was staying the night. The house groaned faintly with every step you took, like it too knew what you were doing.

A pillow was clutched in your arms. Your hands trembled.

She was snoring loudly.

You opened the door slowly, carefully—just enough to slip through. The room smelled like her perfume and hand sanitizer, foreign and unwelcome. You moved towards the bed, each step hesitant, heart pounding in your throat.

“It’s like sleeping,” your brain told you reassuringly. “Just sleep. She wouldn’t even feel it.”

You stood there for a long moment, looking down at her shadowed face in the moonlight. Her chest rose and fell with every breath.

She didn’t look like someone trying to ruin your life. She just looked…human.

Your arms lifted.

But your eyes filled with tears before you could press the pillow down. Your shoulders trembled. You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t do it.

And then—

The doorknob clicked.

You froze.

The door creaked open slowly, but deliberately. Your breath caught in your throat, and in pure panic, you dropped to the floor and slid beneath the bed, dragging the pillow with you. Dust prickled your nose but, you held back a cough or a sneeze.

Footsteps entered the room.

Soft. Deliberate. Familiar.

They moved closer to the bed, and your pulse thundered in your ears.

Then—

Schick.

A knife—long, gleaming—pierced down through the mattress above. You watched the blade flash in the darkness, stopping just inches from your face, blood starting to drip. Then the knife was retrieved and returned.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Ten times.

You counted in your head. The blade moved like it knew exactly where the heart was. No hesitation. No sound but the wet, dull tearing and the creak of the bedframe.

You didn’t scream.

You didn’t move.

You only clamped a hand over your mouth.

Another stab. And another. Ten times—each one perfectly spaced, controlled, silent.

Not a word was spoken.

You saw droplets fall—warm, bright, red—splattering against the floor and your own body. The snoring had stopped. You didn’t need to look to know she was dead.

The footsteps receded. The door closed again.

You didn’t move. Not for a long, long time. And in the silence that followed, beneath the bed where your whole body shook in fear and confusion, one thought crawled into your mind and made a nest there.

There was no doubt about it.

It couldn’t have been anyone else but your sweet loving Uncle Norman.

You lay under the bed in silence for a while, your breath shallow, your eyes wide and stinging. But you eventually returned to your room and washed yourself carefully before going back to bed. But you couldn’t sleep. Uncle Norman…Your Uncle Norman had just killed Ms. Greene. He had just killed someone—ended their life. He hadn’t even hesitated. This woman who probably had a family, friends, people who cared about her…

Your eyes filled with tears and you started sobbing—burying your face in a pillow. That very pillow you had thought about ending her life with not even half-an-hour ago.

But you wouldn’t have done it.

…

..

.

Right?

…

The next morning smelled like toast and soft butter. Sunlight poured through the lace curtains in the kitchen, painting golden shapes across the wooden floor. The kettle was hissing gently, and the old radio on the counter hummed a low, cheerful tune. You stepped in quietly, bare feet making no sound. Norman stood at the stove, humming along, his sleeves rolled up neatly, the apron tied perfectly around his waist. He looked over his shoulder when he heard you, smiling with such warmth it almost knocked the breath out of you.

“Good morning, my darling,” he greeted you. “You slept in. That’s good—rest is important for young minds. Sit down, sit down, I’ll butter up your toast just the way you like it.”

You sat down and stared. The table was set. The eggs were still steaming. Strawberry jam sat in a little glass dish beside the bread. Norman picked up the knife to slice into the loaf. And something inside you stopped. You watched the blade glide smoothly through the crust, every movement precise, clean, silent.

He didn’t know you were there last night.

He hadn’t said anything about Ms. Greene.

There was no panic. No cover story. No signs of anything at all.

But you knew. You knew by the way he held the knife. The stillness of his hands. The steadiness of his breath.

It was him. He had killed her last night.

And even so—your feet moved on their own.

You got up from your chair and quietly walked over to him. He was focused on plating the toast, humming softly. He didn’t hear you at first. The kettle was whistling. The knife rested on the cutting board.

And then, your arms were around him.

Norman stiffened just slightly in surprise before turning his head, looking down at you with a soft, startled smile.

“…I love you, Uncle Norman,” you whispered, cheek pressed to his back.

He paused.

And then his hand came up, gently resting over both of yours where they crossed over his stomach.

“…Oh, my darling,” he whispered. “I love you too. More than anything in this world.”

You stayed there, wrapped around him like ivy on an old house. He didn’t ask if you knew. And you didn’t ask where Ms. Greene had disappeared to. Because in that kitchen, in that quiet moment, you both understood. Whatever had been done, had been done for you. Neither of you said anything about the empty guest room. Or the missing clipboard. Or the deep silence that had settled over the house.

Because for now—there was breakfast. 

Years later…

The acceptance letter trembled slightly in your hands as you stood on the old porch of Bates Motel. The paper felt heavy, not because of its weight, but because of everything it meant.

You had done it.

Nursing school. A prestigious one. Your name, printed in crisp ink across the top, bold and undeniable. A future—your future—unfolding just ahead.

You looked back. There he was.

Standing on top of the steps, framed by the morning light like something carved from time.

Uncle Norman.

Still in his neatly pressed shirt, the collar just a little too stiff. His hair combed carefully, like it had been for years. He looked exactly as he always had. The day he brought you home. The day he made you pancakes after your first nightmare. The day he buried a woman in the rain for your sake, and never told you…But the blood never soaked into his skin. He had stayed the same—like time didn’t dare touch him. Like growing older was your burden alone. You were taller now. Wiser too.

But he had stayed the same…You guessed he would forever remain the same. Just like a memory that refused to vanish.

“Do you remember,” you asked softly, folding the letter in your hand, “when I told you all I wanted was a family?”

Norman smiled before nodding. “I do.”

You nodded back with a smile. “You gave me that. You are my family.”

He looked away for just a moment, jaw tight. You could see the sadness in his eyes. “And yet…You’re going to leave now.”

“Just for a while,” you reassured him. “To learn. To help others. Like you helped me.”

He didn’t answer right away. The wind ruffled his hair slightly, and for a brief second, he looked like a painting. Untouched.

Frozen in time—you could even say trapped.

“I always knew,” he murmured. “You’d grow up. You’d want to leave. I guess I had just hoped…hoped I would have more time. More time to be the best parent to you. More time to convince you to stay. More time to…be a part of your world.”

You stepped forward and took his hand.

“You were and are the best parent I could have ever asked for,” you assured him, your voice steady. His fingers curled around yours slowly. And for a fleeting moment, you could swear you saw something in his eyes—a flicker of sadness, of pride, of gratitude. Maybe even fear. But mostly love.

Love that had never faltered. Not once.

And you smiled.

Because even as you stepped away, suitcase in hand, heart beating with the thrill of becoming something more—

You knew. No matter how far you went…

Uncle Norman would always find you.

You hesitated at the threshold, your hand resting lightly on the doorframe. The sun cast long shadows behind you as you turned, a gentle smile softening your lips.

“I was there, you know? That night.”

Norman froze, his breath catching for a heartbeat before a slow, knowing smile spread across his face. His eyes locked onto yours, searching, curious. You didn’t need to say which night. You both knew which one it was.

“…I see,” he uttered quietly. “Do you think me a monster then, my darling? Is that the reason you are leaving me?”

You met his gaze without flinching, warmth and honesty shining through.

“No,” you whispered. “Not a monster. Never a monster. Just…someone who loved me fiercely. In the only way he knew how. And someone who needed help—help that I couldn’t provide. But now, I am leaving to learn more about you—about people like you. I want to help them. I want to help you.”

His smile faltered slightly as his eyes softened. Then he reached out, gently stroking your cheek. “In that case, I suppose I raised you right.”

You nodded and smiled—tears forming in your eyes. “You did, Uncle Norman. You truly did.”

He stepped forward slowly, arms opening wide, and pulled you into a gentle, tight embrace. You hugged him back without hesitation, resting your head against his chest, listening to the steady, calm beat of his heart. For a moment, time seemed to pause, holding space just for the two of you.

“…Thank you for saving my life, Uncle Norman.” You whispered.

He held you a little tighter at those words, a soft sigh escaping him.

“It was never a choice, my darling,” he whispered back and a hand cradled the back of your head—holding you close. “You saved me too. More than you’ll ever know.”

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, a flicker of something fierce and protective shining there.

“Always remember that.”

And in that moment, you knew—for better or worse—he would always be your guardian. Your family. Your home. A thousand memories came to you at once and your eyes watered as you stroked his cheek.  “I do not know where I am going but, know that wherever I go or whoever I become…It will be thanks to you.”

His eyes softened as your fingers traced the line of his cheek, the years of pain and love reflected in their depths. A quiet, bittersweet smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

“No matter where life takes you,” he replied voice trembling just enough to show how much it meant, “you will always have a place here—with me.”

He reached up, cupping your hand against his face, as if trying to hold onto the moment forever. He kissed your palm and smiled.

“They can call me what they will—a monster, a killer, a slasher…but to you? I am and will always be…your Uncle Norman.”

You smiled back and nodded. You then opened the door and took a step out—but felt tears brimming in your eyes. You then couldn’t help but turn around to hug him again. For that was the man who had saved your life, who had offered you a home when no one else would, who had learned to love you even if it wasn’t his responsibility.

He froze before crying as well as he held you tightly. He didn’t want to say goodbye. He didn’t want to imagine life without you—not after having fought so much to keep you.

But he knew it was time.

So he released you and gave you a peck on the forehead.

“Promise me…You will come back one day.”

Your heart clenched at his words and you nodded.

“I will. I promise.”

You then stepped back and crossed the threshold.

With one last, lingering glance back at the familiar silhouette of the Bates Motel, you got into the cab that drove away. But deep inside, you knew that no matter where life took you, a part of you would always belong to this place, to that man.

“See you soon, Uncle Norman…”

You smiled as your moved forward…

Vincent

Vincent didn’t say anything when you arrived. He didn’t have to.

You felt his eyes on you the moment you stepped into the house—sharp behind that wax mask, thoughtful, unreadable. At first, you weren’t sure if he liked you, or if he even wanted you around. He didn’t speak, didn’t write anything down for you, just kept that quiet, looming presence nearby. But it didn’t take long before you started noticing the small things.

The cup of tea left steaming on the table when you were sick. The way your favorite book, the one you mentioned once, ended up sitting on your bed with a delicate wax bookmark tucked inside. The sculptures—small at first—showing up near your things. Little animals, sometimes a flower, sometimes a ballerina with your posture, your hair. You realized he was watching you—not out of suspicion, but because he wanted to understand you. Know you. Understand you. Create you, in a way only he could.

You were the only one who didn’t flinch when he removed his mask—outside of his brothers. The only one who looked at his scars, his silence, and didn’t shrink back.

And if anyone hurt you? He’d make sure they never walked again.

Lester

Lester was the first one to hug you. Not a stiff, awkward hug like you were expecting, but one of those full-body, bone-squeezing, almost-too-long kind of hugs. He smelled like oil and something burnt, and when he pulled back, he just grinned at you with his crooked teeth and wide eyes like you were the best damn thing he’d seen in years. “Well I’ll be damned,” he exclaimed happily, voice warm and surprised. “A sis’, huh? Never had one of those. Am finally goin’ to be a big bro!”

From that moment on, you couldn’t get rid of him. He was always there. Pulling up in that rusted truck and yelling for you to hop in. Taking you to the edge of the woods to show you “somethin’ cool” that usually ended up being something gross, hilarious, or both. You’d sit in the back of the truck with your legs swinging over the edge while he tossed you a soda and rambled about anything—old stories, roadkill trivia, dumb jokes he knew you’d roll your eyes at.

Lester never treated you like you were fragile. You were his little sister, sure, but that didn’t mean you were helpless. He was the one who taught you how to skin a rabbit, how to spot a bear trail, how to light a fire with wet kindling. He called you “kid” or “squirt” or “baby sister,” but he said it with pride. And if Bo got on your case too hard, or if you came back crying from something you wouldn’t talk about, Lester didn’t push. He just sat beside you, shoulder bumping yours, offering a piece of jerky or a dumb story about a deer that fell into a ditch.

Michael Myers

Michael doesn’t scare easily. Most would flee at the first glimpse of your split mouth or your quiet voice—but not him. When you first appeared in his shadow with that haunting question, he just…stared. He doesn’t care what you look like. Beauty means nothing to him.

But power? Yes.

When you move like smoke across the floor or disappear behind doors without a trace, it doesn’t unsettle him—it impresses him. There’s a moment of mutual understanding. You both are predators born from trauma, shaped by myth. He doesn’t run from you—he follows. You don’t speak much. Neither does he. But there’s an eerie synchronicity between you. He walks beside you sometimes, as if drawn in by the same invisible cord that binds killers to their shadows. 

Bubba Sawyer

Poor Bubba. The first time he sees you, he screams.

You appear in the darkened hallway of the farmhouse, your mouth hidden behind a blood-speckled mask. You whisper, “Am I beautiful?” and his chainsaw slips from his fingers. But you don’t move. You wait. And eventually, he stops shaking.

You’re terrifying—but you don’t mock him. You don’t yell. You just ask, in a voice that seems far more sad than cruel. Bubba grows curious. He notices how you stare at mirrors too long, how you touch your cheek as if remembering something. He starts trying to communicate. He brings you fabric. Maybe masks. You tilt your head curiously when he shows you his face in return—the mask of another’s skin sewn over his own.

Over time, Bubba grows attached. He brings you flowers. Tries to smooth your hair with awkward, gentle hands. He doesn’t understand you, but he likes you. You’re not afraid of him—and you’re even scarier than he is.

Thomas Hewitt

You’re dangerous. Thomas knows it the moment he hears your steps. You glide like a spirit, scissor blades clicking softly at your side. You ask the question—and he hesitates. He looks at you the way he looks at broken things: with sorrow, not fear. He’s seen enough cruelty to understand what likely put those scars there. He doesn’t speak, but he touches his own face, as if to say: me too. You don’t talk much either—but your silence is a comfort, not a threat. When you pass each other in the house, it’s like a ghost drifting through the halls. You both come from worlds that judged appearances harshly. Your disfigurement doesn’t repulse him. It makes him see you as a friend…

Norman Bates

When you reveal your slit mouth, Norman stammers, trying to hide his discomfort. But he forces a smile, tries to be polite.

You see through it.

He fears you. Not because of your face—but because of your femininity twisted into violence. You’re what “Mother” warned him about. A woman who kills. A woman who seduces with sorrow, then punishes with steel. He tries to stay away. But he’s drawn to you, like a moth to flame. And “Mother”? She hates you. Screams in his head about you. “She’s a demon! A whore! Get rid of her!”

However, he slowly becomes obsessed.

You’re haunting, sorrowful, yet otherworldly beautiful. He fixates on the way your eyes don’t match your smile, the way your voice quivers like an old record. Mother whispers warnings. But Norman can’t look away. You awaken something in him—something that he cannot escape from and neither can you.

Brahms Heelshire

The first time you step into his manor, Brahms watches from the walls. He sees you touch the mirrors gently. He hears your question whispered into the empty air. “Am I beautiful?”

You do not raise your voice. That haunts him more than screams. Brahms becomes fascinated. You’re quiet, ghostlike, never seeking attention. He relates to that. Eventually, he leaves you notes: Yes, you are beautiful. He leaves you masks, ribbons, small tokens. He mimics you.

He wants you to live in the walls with him.

Forever.

Jack Torrance

It’s late. The halls are quiet. He’s got a drink in hand that doesn’t exist, muttering to himself about being misunderstood. Then you appear.

Your scissors click gently as you walk.

“Am I beautiful?”

Jack stiffens. Turns. Blinks. He tries to place you—are you a ghost? A nurse? A hallucination? His grin flickers at the corners of his mouth, like a man deciding whether to be charmed or terrified.

You remove your mask. He sees the bloody slashes carved across your face.

And Jack?

He laughs—this deep, cracked bark of a laughter. “Honey,” he finally speaks, “you should see what I look like inside.” He taps his head. “Now that’s ugly.”

But then his face shifts. Gets darker.

He steps closer. “Tell me—did someone do that to you? Or did you do it to yourself? Because if it was someone else…maybe I can go pay ‘em a visit. With an axe.”

He sees something in you—a madness like his own, just…colder. More deliberate. He respects that. Maybe envies it. You’re the kind of woman he might fall in love with in a fever dream and kill in the same night. He is a man who never respected his wife all that much as a living husband—perhaps this is his chance of doing something right for once.

Pennywise

He’s fascinated by your ability to strike fear—not through brute strength, but through intimate horror. You play with your prey. You tease. You make them question their sanity. Pennywise lives for that.

But he also senses your rage—something deep and old and personal. You weren’t just made a killer…you were shaped by betrayal. And that’s something he deeply respects and understands. He was betrayed when he was human…betrayed by people he thought he could trust.

He sees you as a fellow predator. Maybe even a rival. Maybe…a perfect partner in fear.

As for your question? Are you beautiful?

Well…

“I can’t say. Lost the ability to see any beauty in this world a long time ago. Sorry, sugar…” Pennywise replies…He even adresses you a sad smile—or so you think.

Penny

You ask, “Am I beautiful?” in that soft, silken tone of yours, mask covering the cruel slashes underneath.

Penny’s reaction? He laughs.

Not mockingly—but like a kid who’s just been handed a brand-new toy with blood on it. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what true beauty is. He claps, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eyes lighting up with glee.

When you reveal your slit mouth, expecting horror?

He leans in. Nose almost touching yours, eyes roaming the scars with genuine curiosity and fascination. “Now that’s a smile. Puts the Joker’s little face-carving habit to shame.”

He doesn’t fear you. He adores you.

He’ll follow you around like a bloodstained puppy, offering you balloon animals shaped like scissors, whispering ideas for new victims. He’ll dramatize your legend, spin tales about you to the other slashers, and try to impress you with circus tricks and cannibalism.

Freddy

You’re in his domain.

It starts like all his dreams do—darkness dripping down the walls, a school hallway melting into a boiler room, the air thick with smoke and rot. Then you appear, quiet, floating at the edges of the dream like a ghost that doesn’t belong to him.

That alone pisses him off.

He narrows his eyes and lets out a raspy chuckle. “Now what the hell are ya supposed to be, sweetheart?” he growls, leaning back against a pipe, claws scraping casually against metal.

Then you ask him: “Am I beautiful?”

Still masked. Still eerily still. Freddy’s smirk falters just slightly. He’s seen monsters. He is one. But there’s something uncanny about your voice—smooth, tragic, intimate. Like a lullaby hummed while drowning a child. He watches you with new eyes, no longer a predator staring at prey, but a predator sizing up something worse.

And then you remove the mask.

The slit mouth. The scars. The smile that wasn’t born—it was carved.

Freddy doesn’t flinch. He stares for a beat too long. Then licks his lips and grins wide—mocking, hungry, but undeniably impressed. “Now that’s a smile to die for.”

He paces slowly around you, claws tapping. “You’re not just a ghost story, huh? You want ‘em to look. You make ‘em answer. Then you rip ‘em apart when they get it wrong. But there ain’t no good answer, is there?”

He doesn’t flirt with you. He knows you’re not the kind of killer who can be seduced or baited. You’re deliberate. You’re a question with no right answer. You enjoy watching people unravel in the pause between “yes” and “no.”

“Tell me, sugar,” he rasps in your ear, “what do you really want? Screams? Blood? Or simply for humanity to pay for what they did to you?”

He’s testing you. Trying to get in your head. He might offer you a place in his dreamscape, a shared playground of screams. But deep down, he’s nervous. Because he knows if you ever forced an answer out of him, he might not survive. Because there are NO right answer.

Bo Sinclair

You’re leaning against the side of the gas station, late at night, scissors glinting in the moonlight. Bo comes out, wiping his hands off with a rag, grease and blood still on his knuckles. He’s muttering about tourists until he spots you.

Still. Silent. Masked.

“Am I beautiful?”

Bo freezes mid-step. You’re blocking the way to his truck. Mask on. Posture stiff. Hair obscuring part of your face like a porcelain doll that’s been dropped too many times.

He looks you up and down slowly. “Well, hell. You’re either real bold…or real stupid.”

He doesn’t scare easy. But something about you—it’s off. The way you tilt your head, the way you wait too long for a response—it crawls under his skin in a way that no tourist ever has.

When you remove the mask? When he sees your slashed smile, that bloodstained elegance, the ghost-like patience in your eyes? He still doesn’t flinch. But he does back up half a step. “Shit,” he mutters, voice quieter. “You ain’t no tourist.”

Bo isn’t afraid—he’s calculating. If you’re dangerous, that means you can be useful. But if you’re unhinged? That’s a different game.

“Yeah,” he drawls, eyeing you warily. “You’re beautiful, alright. Beautiful and…fuckin’ terrifying.”

He starts flirting after that. Not because he wants to win you over, but because flirting is his favorite defense mechanism. “Ya ever get tired of that scissor routine, sweetheart? I got a place for ya in Ambrose if ya want. Ain’t every day I meet a woman who makes me nervous.”

He sees you as dangerous, potentially useful, and maybe someone who gets what it’s like to wear a mask—literally and emotionally. He flirts to mask his unease. Will 100% watch his back around you.

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent sees you first from a distance. You’re standing completely still in front of Trudy’s wax museum, head tilted towards the door like you’re listening to something only you can hear. Your presence is so still, so unnatural, he doesn’t think you’re real at first. He watches through the gaps in the curtains, completely silent, until you finally speak:

“Am I beautiful?”

It echoes—not just through the air, but through something in him. When you remove the mask, Vincent doesn’t react with horror. He studies. Tilts his own head like a mirror to yours. You’re an anomaly. Something broken yet whole. Tragic, cruel, and quiet. You remind him of his own face—scarred and hidden. You carry pain like art. That slit smile is grotesque, but there’s precision in it. Drama. Story.

He doesn’t speak, but he slowly raises his sketchbook, flipping to a blank page. He draws you. Later, he’ll sculpt you in wax. Not as a monster—no. As a goddess of vengeance.

If you linger long enough, you’ll catch him leaving you small offerings: a wax figurine. A ribboned mask. Scissors carved from bone…

Lester Sinclair

You cross paths with Lester in the woods near the outskirts of Ambrose. He’s dragging a roadkill bag, whistling low, when he hears your voice behind him:

“Am I beautiful?”

He turns around slow. Real slow.

You’re standing at the tree line. Motionless. Holding scissors that catch the dying light just right. You’ve got a kind of sadness in your tone that he can’t quite put his finger on.

He stares. Doesn’t move. Then offers the most honest thing he’s got: “…I dunno yet.”

You blink. Maybe you’re thrown off. Most people either scream or lie.

But Lester just shrugs and looks you in the eye. “Don’t mean nothin’ if ya look beautiful, miss. That ain’t the part that matters.”

You show your scars. You wait for the scream, the flinch, the rejection.

But Lester just…nods. “I seen worse. Hell, I been worse. You’re still walkin’, right? That’s somethin’.”

He doesn’t try to flirt. Doesn’t try to run. He treats you like someone real—like a human being. Later, he might offer you a ride in his truck without asking questions. He won’t try to fix you. He just figures maybe, if you’re killin’ folks, there’s a good reason behind it. And if not—well, everyone’s got demons.

Might even offer you jerky and a juice box.

Ghostface Eddie

Eddie’s seen blood. He’s spilled it, soaked his Ghostface robe in it. He’s chased prey through their own homes while laughing in their ears. He lives for the adrenaline—the theatrics. A true performer.

But the first time he sees you? You don’t run. You don’t cry. You don’t even breathe like someone alive. You’re standing there—long coat, scissors glinting, mask hiding a promise of horror—and the first thing you do is tilt your head ever so slightly and ask:

“Am I beautiful?”

And Eddie? He actually shuts the hell up for a second. There’s this moment—this brief, rare flicker of silence in his always-running mind—where he stares at you and just processes what’s happening.

“…Okay,” he finally says, voice breaking into a nervous chuckle. “What the fuck are you?”

Then you take off your mask. The slit mouth. That slow reveal. The look in your eyes like you’re watching to see which version of yourself he’ll react to—pretty or monstrous.

He doesn’t flinch. He stares. Lips parted, something akin to fascination blooming behind his dark eyes.

Then he finally reacts…

“…That’s metal as fuck.”

Eddie lives for unpredictability. For chaos in beautiful packaging. And you? You’re a ghost story brought to life. He wants to understand you. Wants to know why you kill, how you kill, whether you truly smile under that mask or if that’s all someone else’s handiwork.

“Do you ever get tired of asking? Like, does it matter what the answer is? What if I said you were the most beautiful damn thing I’ve ever seen—what would you do? Would you kill me?” His grin widens, daring. “Always wanted a pretty woman to take me out.”

Heath Ledger’s Joker

You show up during one of his heists. Face hidden. Voice soft. “Am I beautiful?”

Joker laughs—not because he finds you funny, but because he gets it. He claps his hands, points at you, and practically howls.

“You’re askin’ me that? Look at this smile!” he says, pointing at his own grin. “We match!”

He loves you. He sees your question as performance art. Your violence? An aesthetic. Your mask? Symbolism. You are, to him, a tragicomic masterpiece of society gone wrong.

“You and me? We’re chaos. You ask, and they lie. I don’t ask—I take. But that grin?” He smiles, touching his own face. “Now that…that’s art.”

He follows you around like a man possessed. Tries to make you laugh. Tries to get you to go off-script. He pushes buttons just to see if you’ll lose it. But in quiet moments, he stares at your face—not in pity, but respect. He knows that behind that smile…there is a woman who suffered far more than she should have.

A few days later:

The first time Jason had a nightmare, Brahms thought the walls were caving in.

It started with a sound—a low, guttural noise, something between a growl and a whimper. Brahms, curled up under his covers, stirred at the disturbance, irritated more than anything. He cracked open an eye, ready to snap at Jason for being loud—

Then Jason moved.

It was violent, sudden—his massive body jerking upright, fists clenched, breath ragged and wrong. Even in the dim moonlight filtering through the window, Brahms could see the way Jason trembled, his whole frame shaking with something primal, something terrible.

Brahms barely had time to react before Jason lunged.

A massive hand clamped around his wrist, yanking him forward with terrifying strength. Brahms gasped, his back slamming against the mattress, Jason’s weight pinning him down in an instant.

“What are you doing ?! Unhand me this instant, you big stupid—!"

Oh.

Brahms’ eyes widened when he saw the giant’s eyes and the tears streaming down his face. He wasn’t awake. Not really. Jason’s hollow eyes were open but empty, lost in something far away. His breathing was uneven, harsh, almost pained. His fingers tightened around Brahms’ wrist, not crushing but firm, holding onto something—or someone—that wasn’t there anymore.

For the first time, Brahms felt the true extent of Jason’s strength. If Jason wanted to hurt him, if he really wanted to—there’d be nothing left of him but broken bones and bloodstains on the sheets.

But he didn’t.

Jason wasn’t attacking. He was reaching.

Brahms could feel it now, the way Jason’s grip wavered, like a drowning man clinging to the last thing keeping him afloat. It wasn’t aggression. It was fear.

Brahms went still.

For once, he didn’t fight. Didn’t struggle. Didn’t snap.

Instead, he moved.

With careful, deliberate intent, Brahms shifted—slowly, gently—until his arms circled Jason’s broad shoulders. And then, with more strength than people ever gave him credit for, he hugged him.

Jason tensed. Every muscle in his body locked tight, as if he was bracing for something awful.

Brahms didn’t let go.

His fingers curled into the fabric of Jason’s shirt, his breathing slow and steady. He wasn’t sure what made him do it—maybe it was the way Jason had never once lashed out at him despite his constant antagonizing, or maybe it was because he knew what it felt like to wake up in a cold sweat, heart pounding from ghosts of the past.

So he held on. Firm, but not forceful. Protective, but not suffocating.

Jason’s breath hitched. His fist, still gripping Brahms’ arm, shook. And then, after what felt like an eternity, the tension melted.

Jason didn’t collapse, not entirely, but he slumped, his weight no longer rigid, no longer ready to fight. His breathing slowed, his grip loosening—not because he was letting go, but because he didn’t need to hold on so desperately anymore.

Brahms didn’t say anything. He just kept his arms around him, waiting, grounding.

Eventually, Jason shifted—silent, hesitant—and returned the hug.

Brahms exhaled, relaxing into it.

They didn’t talk about it in the morning…

But Jason never pulled away when Brahms sat closer after that.

Brahms had trouble sleeping himself. His nightmares were relentless, and that one night which was particularly bad. He had woken up drenched in sweat, his breath ragged. Feeling suffocated, he left his room and wandered the facility, ending up in the courtyard.

Jason was there.

Sitting on one of the benches, staring up at the sky. Just...sitting.

Brahms hesitated. He didn’t want to go back inside, but he also didn’t want to be near Jason. Yet, for some reason, he stayed. He sat on the opposite bench, far enough away to avoid feeling threatened but close enough that he wasn’t completely alone.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence stretched on.

Then, after what felt like an eternity, Jason shifted slightly and held something out. A small wooden figurine. Brahms hesitated before taking it.

It was a frog.

Brahms looked up, startled. Jason was watching him, tilting his head slightly as if waiting for a reaction.

Brahms turned the figurine over in his hands, running his fingers along the smooth, carved edges. It was simple but well-crafted—detailed enough to recognize as a frog, yet rough in a way that suggested it had been made with care rather than perfection. He swallowed, unsure what to say. Jason hadn’t spoken, hadn’t gestured, just…offered.

Brahms glanced up again, watching Jason’s mask in the dim courtyard light. The hulking man had returned to staring at the sky, as if nothing had happened.

Brahms shifted on the bench, the wooden frog warm in his palm. He wasn’t used to gifts. Not real ones, anyway. His fingers tightened around it. Say something. Do something. But words felt foreign, and he wasn’t sure Jason would care for them anyway. So instead, he did what felt natural.

He reached into the pocket of his cardigan and pulled out a small trinket—a marble, smooth and dark, with a swirl of deep blue in the center. Brahms had found it in the facility’s art room weeks ago and kept it ever since, fascinated by the way the light bent through it. He hesitated only a moment before leaning forward, placing it carefully on the bench between them.

Jason’s head turned slightly. He looked down at the marble, then back at Brahms.

For a moment, Brahms thought he had made a mistake. Maybe Jason wouldn’t understand. Maybe Jason didn’t trade. Or make friends. But then, with slow, deliberate movements, Jason picked up the marble between two fingers. Examined it. Turned it in the dim light the way Brahms had done countless times before.

Brahms held his breath.

Jason tucked the marble away in his pocket.

Brahms let out a quiet exhale, a strange warmth settling in his chest.

The silence stretched on again, but this time it felt different. Lighter. Jason returned to looking at the sky. Brahms, still holding the small wooden frog, followed his gaze.

For the first time in a long time, the night didn’t feel so lonely.

“…Pretty.” Brahms said after a few seconds and Jason gave a slow nod. It was an odd friendship, built on silence, stolen moments, and quiet understanding.

But it worked.

And since then, they have been best buddies and even when the nurses tried to separate them—they couldn’t because Brahms would start crying and Jason would start cutting off heads. So for the safety of all, they stayed roommates.

…..

Brahms: “Jason ! There’s ice cream at the cafeteria !”

Jason *stands up as fast as he can and they both run for it—Brahms waiting for him every time the big guy trips and falls in his hurry because he wants to enjoy ice cream with his best bud.*