"She was afrad of him, now. Yes, she must be. Because not once, all through this, had she called him "son"." - Robert Bloch

Why, she wouldn't even harm a fly...

Then she did see it there - just a face, peering through the curtains, hanging in midair like a mask. A head-scarf concealed the hair and the glassy eyes stared inhumanly, but it wasn’t a mask, it couldn’t be. The skin had been powdered dead-white and two hectic spots of rouge centered on the cheekbones. It wasn’t a mask. It was the face of a crazy old woman. Mary started to scream, and then the curtains parted further and a hand appeared, holding a butcher’s knife. It was the knife that, a moment later, cut off her scream.

And her head.

We’re all not quite as sane as we pretend to be.” Sam