Someone Is Bleeding by Richard Matheson

murderer.”
    “Oh, you’re crazy,” I said.
    He paid no attention. He seemed to sense me weakening. He went on.
    “She’s insane,” he said. “You may not choose to believe that, but it doesn’t alter the fact. She’s killed three men now. God knows why.”
    “But you still want her,” I said, searching vainly for confidence in Peggy.
    “I guess you wouldn’t understand that.” he said. “You who live by the morals of a petty world.”
    We sat in silence a moment.
    “All right,” I said, looking for a peg to hang my mind on. “Where does that leave us?”
    I couldn’t go on. I couldn’t concentrate. I was sick thinking that maybe everything Jim had ever told me was the truth. How  long can blind love sustain you when someone keeps hacking away at it with a very tangible axe? And the thought that my relationship with Peggy had been an endless fabrication of lies made me ill.
    “I’ve told you,” he said, “they can’t do anything about it. And as long as you don’t try to involve her, I’ll leave you alone.”
    “I still don’t believe you,” I said. “I saw the shock on her face when . . .”
    “One night Peggy and Dennis went out together,” he said. “At three o’clock in the morning, Dennis came in the house with his arm streaming blood. He had to have five stitches.”
    “It’s . . .”
    And the next day Peggy came to see him and she cried and said she didn’t mean it.”
    “It’s your story,” I said.
    ”It’s the facts.” he said. “Use your head. David. When are you going to stop plunging into things you can’t cope with?”
    “Look . . .” I said.
    “You look,” he said. “Open your eyes. You’re not up to this.”
    That’s what Audrey had said too. Maybe they were right. Maybe I wasn’t up to it. I knew it would be a relief to get away from it all.
    “Peggy is . . .” Jim started, “I don’t know what word will express it Deranged, perhaps. I know it’s not a nice word but I have to use it. There’s a Hyde beneath her I don’t know what brings it out, but it’s there. Love won’t help her. Psychiatry may. I don’t know. But she’s dangerous, very dangerous.”
    “Why do you love her, then?” I asked.
    “I happen to love Peggy,” he said, “with a love I don’t think your type of narrow-minded idealist understands. Because it’s a love that asks nothing.”
    “Maybe it asks nothing,” I said, “because it gets nothing.“
    “Now we’re being petty.” he said.
    He said it with the old familiar expression of intellectual scorn on his full face. And it was a shock to realize for a second that this man and I had gone to college together and called each other friends.
    I got out of the car and looked at him. He made no effort to detain me and waved Steig back into the car.
    “There’s only one thing to say.” I said. “Your entire story is a lie from beginning to end.”
    But as I walked back to my room, I knew I’d been reaching. Peggy had murdered once. These clippings were genuine. Even Jones had told me that.
    Which helped not at all. Because there came visions to my mind. Of Peggy holding an icepick, a razor. Standing over Albert, standing over Dennis. Plunge of the arm, sound of steel point driving into flesh and tissue. A look on Peggy’s face. One I’d seen that night on the pier when she’d been attacked. A shocked and wild look.
    A look not human.
    * * *
    Funerals are not nice.
    They are creations of society which are intended to provide people with a last chance to show respects but which turn instead into miniature Grand Guignols. For my money, they’re morbid and tasteless. You just can’t effect anything tasty with a corpse They’re too dead.
    Dennis’s funeral was no exception. I don’t know what brought me to it. Peggy told me about it. She wasn’t going with Jim so I took her.
    And I did feel sort of sorry for Dennis. A little ashamed, too, at having suspected him of murder. He’d just been an ill-fated kid with