In real life, there was no chainsaw. br Nor was there a blood-sucking grandfather br carried down the stairs in his wheelchair br by a family of bumpkin cannibals. br No meditation on cows and sledgehammers br either, much less a van of college kids br br pondering astrology just before, one by one, br they’re pulled behind the sliding tin door br of a killing room under the stairs, resplendent br with an overgrown chicken in a bird cage. br There were bones, yes, and grave-robbing, br even a homemade suit of women’s skin br br but the true killer, Ed Gein, acted alone. br His weapon of choice was a small revolver. br Despite the opening sequence, he was not br driven to perform by solar prominence. br His mother, a dominating fundamentalist, br scolded her sons against making friends, br br sermonizing the dangers of loose women. br He probably killed his only brother, Henry. br An old photo shows Gein in a checkered br hunting cap, unshaven, his thin drooping br eyes clouded by a thoughtful loneliness. br After the asylum, buried back in Plainfield br br where they teased him for being a sissy. br One woman, Bernice Worden, was found br hanging from the rafters, gutted like a deer. br Newspapers showed him descending br the steps of the courthouse in shirt and tie, br handcuffed, grinning like a Rockefeller.