In Laymon's Terms

The Cemetery Dance memorial issue was my first indication of how well-loved Dick was; there were so many authors with so many positive things to say about him that I began to feel like I knew him through those essays. The Laymon story in that issue was the first one I’d ever read, but his talent was evident and I began seeking out more of his work.

Even more striking, though, were the personal stories I heard from everyone who knew him. As I became more involved in the horror genre over the next few years, it became apparent that all of the writers who called him a friend had been profoundly touched by his kindness and mentorship. Many of the rising authors I’ve gotten to know claim to owe much of their success to Dick’s encouragement and support.

Because of that, they feel that they now owe the same kind of encouragement and support to newer writers, like me, who are just starting out. Because of Dick’s influence, the horror field today is a friendly, supportive place to explore terrifying ideas. Dick lives on today in all of the writers that he fostered. Through the people that he touched, I almost feel as though I really did get to know him, and it makes me glad.

Roger Range

OW MUCH LONGER?”

Richard Freeberg closed his eyes for a moment and sighed before wearily answering his son for the ninth time. “I don’t know, Billy. It should be coming up any time now.”

“I don’t know why we have to stop and see another stupid ruin,” said John, Richard’s oldest son. John was sprawled out on the rear bench seat of the Plymouth Grand Voyager that had been the family’s home for almost two weeks. “We’ve seen so many friggin’ old Indian ruins I’ve lost count.”

“John!” Richard’s wife Sonia turned around in her seat beside him to glare at their son. “What have I told you about cursing? You shouldn’t swear; it’s not polite.” She turned back around. “Especially in front of your little brother and sister.”

“I didn’t swear,” John said, rolling his eyes.

“It’s close enough, son,” Richard jumped in, supporting his wife. “We don’t want to hear that kind of language from you.”

“Aww Dad, I hear worse than that from my friends on the playground,” Billy said.

“That’s no excuse for your brother,” Sonia said. “And if that’s the case, maybe we shouldn’t let you play with those friends anymore.”

Billy looked back down at the screen of his GameBoy, apparently having risked enough parental wrath. John had by now blocked out the conversation and was back to reading his latest science fiction novel, pretty much the only thing he’d done the whole trip. Sally, sitting in the seat next to Billy, was staying well out of this argument, quietly reading her Cosmo Girl magazine.

Rich just couldn’t understand it. This was the first time he’d taken the family on a vacation by road, their first chance to see other parts of the country firsthand, and all they could do was sit and read or play video games, just like they did at home. He shook his head in bewilderment. The Arizona countryside they were driving through was beautiful in its contrast between desolate wasteland and vibrant plant life. His parents had taken him and his brother on long road trips during their summers growing up, and they had made some of the most vivid memories of his boyhood.

Rich had been planning this trip for a year, taking his entire two weeks of vacation from his construction job, to share those memories with his own kids, but it was utterly lost on them. Almost two weeks of driving from their home in San Luis Obispo out to the Alamo in Texas and back, and he hadn’t been able to squeeze the least bit of interest from his children.

As a boy, Rich had always been fascinated by the Anasazi Ruins strewn throughout the Four Corners region of the southwest. The Anasazi had a thriving culture for thousands of years, then at some point in the thirteenth century, they had moved out of their fertile river valleys into precarious dwellings in the sides of cliffs and on the tops of mesas. Very difficult living arrangements. No one knew what had caused the move. Then, maybe fifty years later, the whole culture had simply abandoned the region, and still no one could figure out why. They’d never kept any written records, just obscure pictographs, so it was all a huge mystery to modern archeology.

The mystery of the culture had consumed Richard as a boy, and he had hoped to share his enthusiasm with his kids, but not one of them seemed the least bit interested. They had been at first, especially Billy, but after seeing the first couple of ruins, they totally lost interest. Rich suspected it was because they could only look from afar. In an effort to preserve the ruins from the wear and tear of tourists tromping through them, the National Parks Service had closed off most of the ruins and they could only be seen from a distance. There were only a few sites you could still get within touching distance of, though that was, of course, strictly forbidden.