In Laymon's Terms

She lifted her teeth away from his neck and let him get one last look at her beautiful face. The last thing he heard before everything went black scared him more than anything ever had. She spoke to him, whispered in his ear, in a voice that was so fitting to her beauty.

“You were wrong, Robert, I’m not from heaven. I’m from hell.”

Brent Zirnheld

Y FIRST INTRODUCTION TO Richard Laymon was in The Book of the Dead. I instantly went searching for his books and found The Cellar—a book that shocked the hell out of me, as much for what Laymon did as didn’t do. Sure, the characters were well realized, the pacing swift, the plotting tight, and the style smooth, but there was something else of even greater note—the fantastic resolution! Laymon didn’t end it the way so many authors end their novels because Laymon didn’t do what was expected, something that continued throughout his career. That is one of the things that made his books so suspenseful—as the horror mounted you couldn’t relax knowing the characters you loved were going to find a way to overcome their adversity and survive. Sometimes they did, sometimes they didn’t, but you never really knew how the next book or story would end. You could be reading your second, fifth, or twentieth Laymon novel, but your mind goes back to the one with the ending you didn’t expect and you remember and you know and you can’t tell yourself “Everything’s going to be all right,” and that is as it should be for therein is where the suspense really lies.

So when I reach that critical juncture in my own work where I wonder if I should be merciful with a beloved character, I simply ask “What Would Laymon Do?” and I let my hand be guided.

Brent Zirnheld

HE OLD MERCEDES had seemingly come out of nowhere. Its sleek, black form cut through the humid air as its tires threw a mist of water into the air. It was too wet to be taking curves so fast, but Jim Black wasn’t about to let the reckless driving dissuade him from hitching a ride.

Jim threw out an arm with an extended thumb. He’d been headed the other direction, but what the hell? It was about to rain again and with barely anyone cruising the small, two-lane coastal highway, matters of direction were relative.

Realistically, Jim figured he didn’t have a chance in hell of getting a ride this time. Not from someone in a Mercedes who appeared to be hell-bent on getting where he or she was going. He’d probably have to wait for the next car.

Jim showed his best smile anyway; he always prepared for the worst even as he hoped for the best.

The Mercedes slowed, but then picked up speed when the driver got a better look at Jim. It was then that Jim saw the driver’s distinctively feminine features. If it had been a man second-guessing Jim’s bedraggled appearance he would have been the recipient of Jim’s best one-finger salute, but for the blonde’s benefit Jim continued smiling and even offered a nonchalant shrug as if he understood the bitch’s hesitation. Less than a second later, the brake lights came on and the car slowed to a stop.

Jim picked up his bag and trotted the twenty or thirty feet to the stopped Mercedes. When he got a good look at the driver he wondered if he wasn’t the luckiest bastard on Earth.

He opened the back door, tossed his bag to the floor and then hopped into the front seat.

“Thanks for the lift. Where you headed?” he asked, raking a hand through his wet, black hair. His clothes were very damp from the rain, but if she didn’t give a shit about the car’s interior, why should he?

The young lady shrugged. She was a hot little thing, far too young to be the owner of the vehicle. She’d taken daddy’s classic out for a spin and had done the forbidden: picked up a stranger on a deserted stretch of highway. Daddy would be so upset when he discovered her indiscretion.

Without so much as a glance to check for traffic, she darted back onto the highway. Blondie clearly liked living on the edge, or at least what she thought of as the edge. Sure it was a huge drop from the cliffs to the coast below, but she wasn’t really taking much of a chance—not when the vehicle was designed with control and handling in mind. If she really wanted to tempt fate she’d have to add some force to the gas pedal.

Jim eased back in the seat and stretched his legs.

“The name’s Jim Black. And my savior is...” Jim offered his right hand so he’d know what a willing touch felt like.

She eyed him and his hand and then gave her own. It was warm and soft, just as Jim suspected it would be. So was her smile. She’d be so easy to charm. The pragmatism of age hadn’t yet hardened her; viewing the world through reason-tinted glasses was a few years away yet.

“My name is Celeste White.”

“Black and White? You are kidding, right?”

She laughed, shaking her head. “Nope.”

In an instant, her guard had fallen.

“Where you headed?” she asked. Her hair was pulled back so tightly Jim could hear the follicles screaming for mercy.

“Anywhere.”