In Laymon's Terms

Charlie watched the pile of dirt and sand pile up behind him, quickly at first, then more slowly as his arms got tired. He dug wide and deep, hoping against hope that he hadn’t lost his mind, and that he wasn’t digging in the wrong spot. Somewhere around seven that evening, he offered up a silent oath to pummel Greg into the ground if the kid had lied to him.

Then he tried to withdraw his shovel from the dirt and it stuck. Something soft and spongy had grabbed on to those little prongs on the head of the spade and held tight. Charlie let go of the handle and bent down to examine the hole more closely.

Something thin and black protruded from the sand and he poked at it, watching for signs of attack. Once he had decided that the thing was not really alive, he began pushing the sand away from it with his hands.

He poked one finger through the thin plastic, then shoved in a second finger and pulled. The bag slipped open, splitting easily from age and wear. Something white and hard poked through, stabbing through the air at him.

Charlie screamed and fell backward into the sand. His eyes locked on to the hole in that bag, he panted, gasped. It was a bone. Picked clean and bleached by time, a thick leg bone pointed at him accusingly.

He was off running then, spade and bag forgotten. He had to get to a phone, had to get help. Now, they would believe him.

Charlie wandered about the bookstore, looking in corners and peering among shadows. All about him, policemen gathered things and whispered among themselves. When he thought that no one might notice, Charlie stole away to the back of the store.

“How many of you are there? Did he kill you all?” Not a single book moved. “Why won’t you talk to me anymore?”

Charlie felt heat rise into his face. His muscles ached and his head pounded. He had digested an enormous amount of fear in the past twelve hours. Now, he merely felt empty.

“Hey, kiddo!” The tight grip on his shoulder squeezed a yell from Charlie’s lips. “You did a good thing.”

“Sir?” The policeman’s face was a welcome relief. Mr. Standish had long since been carted off to jail, but somehow, in Charlie’s mind, the man possessed superhuman powers and might well have shown up for one last crack at him.

“You probably saved a lot of children’s lives today. But tell me, how did you know to look under the pier?”

Charlie dry-swallowed his morals and stuttered. “I was just...you know...messing around under there. And I ran across the bag while digging for pirate treasure.” Charlie hated to lie. His mother lied all the time and it made Charlie feel sick inside when she lied to him.

“You must have been very frightened.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What I still don’t understand is how you connected it all to Mr. Standish.” The officer stared at him, unblinking and steady.

Charlie tried to think of something to say, tried to come up with some plausible lie that wouldn’t make him sound like a fool.

“Oh well! Of course! He probably showed you what was in the back room. All those books. Written in blood and bound in human skin. He’s really an awful man. And you’re damn lucky he didn’t get his hands on you.” The officer poked Charlie in the stomach playfully. “From now on, you leave the sleuthing up to us professionals, okay, pardner?”

“You got it, sir.” Charlie nodded vehemently and crossed his fingers behind his back...just in case.

The policeman walked away, leaving Charlie alone with the books. He turned slowly, sighing as he gazed up at the shelves.

“So what will become of you now? Will you get to go free? Or are you stuck here?” He waited a reasonable amount of time, then shook his head sadly. “Well, I might have hallucinated the whole thing. Who knows? Maybe I am a little crazy.”

Slowly, Charlie wandered down the aisle of bookshelves, his legs a little weaker than they were that morning, his load a little lighter.

Then he heard a sound, something familiar in its tone, yet strange in its timing. Two books, hitting the floor, though not as they usually did. These books simply landed on the wood floor, falling gently as though dropped from only an inch or two.

Charlie froze for a moment, holding his breath and wondering what he would see. When he turned, the two books were directly in front of him, not more than six inches away. He smiled as he looked at them, nodding reverently as he read the titles.

THANK

YOU

“You’re welcome,” Charlie offered with a little mock salute. Then he turned and left the store, the books, and the bones.

Philip Robinson

HROUGH AN INTERNET message board, I once told Richard Laymon how my agent had rejected a novel manuscript because she was so disturbed by the content that she didn’t feel comfortable introducing such work to the reading public. The book had been heavily influenced by Richard Laymon. He replied, suggesting I frame that letter.