In Laymon's Terms

Billy’s body was found three days later, by a search party led by the missing boy’s father. No one knew what had happened to the boy, not even Mark, who had trouble remembering the events of that night. The only thing he could remember was that thing he had seen in the woods. The very morning after that night, Mark had returned to the woods in the hopes of finding that thing’s body, just to reassure himself that he hadn’t gone completely insane, that what he had seen had in fact been very real and not some horrible concoction of his overactive imagination. But the moment he neared the Bradley place, a strange fear seized his whole body. He found himself unable to walk down that path. The fireworks began to detonate in front of his eyes and that searing pain returned in his head.

And then, on the next day, when he walked by the town’s playground with his mother after returning from the Sheriff’s office, Mark saw half a dozen of those little monsters playing in the sand and on the swings where children should have been. They all looked back at him, grinning with hunger, laughing at him through their large eyes. The nightmare was far from over. It was just beginning.

Jonathan Torres

ROUND 1999 I discovered Dick’s novel, Funland. That will always be one of my favorites. It was such a kick to read despite, or maybe because of, the nasty things that happened within. Ever since then, I have devoured every Laymon book I got my hands on.

During the same time period, I had just started writing “seriously.” Richard Laymon jump-started my writing. His novels provided the spark that made me passionate about writing. His novels have also been the standard I measure my writing against. I don’t think I’ll ever come close, but I still try.

After seeing and talking to Dick at a few signings, I realized something; he truly had a blast with his writing. It came through in his writing and when you talked to him. You can’t separate one from the other. His personality and writing are interrelated.

Dick was the real deal. As much as any of us try to emulate him, none of us will ever match him. But one thing I can take from him and make my own is this: I can enjoy the hell out of what I do. If I enjoy it, maybe others will feel the same way.

I think that’s something Dick would agree with.

Jonathan Torres

HE UNMARKED, WHITE-PANELED van sidled up to the front of the driveway and lurched to a stop.

“Why’d we stop?” Henry righted himself in the cracked, avocado-green passenger seat.

David pointed out the passenger-side window. “I thought I saw one run into that garage.”

Henry turned and studied the open two-car garage. As he expected, nothing moved within the gray-shadowed maw.

“It’s amazing how you can see one every few hours.”

“What the hell are you trying to imply? Do you think I like going home with their smell all over me? But you wouldn’t know anything about that since you never get close enough to one!”

Henry turned and tuned him out. Well, you wouldn’t get their smell on you if you didn’t-—

Something jabbed him in the head. “Are you listening to me in there?”

“Don’t touch me!” Henry slapped David’s hand away. “Fine, let’s go snipe hunting.”

Doors slid back and they jumped out. Henry opened the utility compartment on his side of the van. He pulled out a four-foot long aluminum pole with a loop of reinforced nylon cord hanging out the end and handed it to David. He stuck his hand back into the compartment and took out a stun gun. He wrapped his hand around the stock and pressed the button. A streak of blue-white electricity crackled across the metal contacts.

David snatched the stun gun out of his hands. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? No one uses this except me. You are not properly trained to use such a dangerous device.”

David slipped the stun gun into the waist of his pants, metal contacts down.

Henry put his hand back into the compartment and pulled out a chain-linked leash. He closed the compartment door and looped the leash around his hand.

Henry started up the driveway when a hand on his shoulder pulled him back.

“Now Henry,” there was that tone: soft, almost lyrical. He sensed what was coming. It made his stomach gurgle like snails frothing into nothingness after a salt shower. If he turned around he was sure he would see white bubbles slipping down David’s mouth.

“You got to try and be more aggressive in there. Don’t be afraid to manhandle them if you have to. Don’t worry, I won’t tell.” Henry turned. David’s lips were stretched too high and too tight for a friendly grin.

Henry pulled himself from David’s grip and started up the driveway. “I’ll try to remember that.”

“Henry!” David’s voice plummeted an octave. “Don’t go pussyfooting around anymore.”

As they strode up the driveway with David jockeying to get ahead, the front door opened and out stepped a short, balding man wearing a T-shirt and khaki shorts.