In Laymon's Terms

As Patty moved forward, she remembered the events of a day much like this one many, many years ago, when she came home early from work to surprise Roger but he surprised her instead: Roger and that woman from down the street, doing terrible things on the kitchen floor like animals in heat. Patty remembered her anger and confusion...and the endless river of blood splattering everywhere.

Now Patty was home again and those horrible sights rose before her eyes, overwhelming her, sending her back to that terrible day. She saw every little detail and she had to do something to make the two heathens stop. She had to stop them again!

The woman named Sally, now backed into a corner, said: “Please don’t hurt me! Please listen!”

But Patty couldn’t listen. She just wanted to make Roger and the awful woman pay for what they were doing. The terrible whore! The whore-husband! It was all too awful and Patty just wanted Roger to come to his senses, to understand what his love meant to her.

Patty accepted that everyone made mistakes, so she just had to help Roger understand the mistake he was making. Forgiveness was love, love was forgiveness, and she loved him so goddamned much. Why couldn’t he just understand that?

Patty raised the knife above her head and prepared to show her husband how much she loved him—and she would keep showing him as long as it took for him to understand that her love was endless and eternal.

She would love him again and again, and she would never, ever stop.

Ryan Harding

WAS FIRST EXPOSED to Richard Laymon through the book Flesh, and I can remember the exact moment when he hooked me. A frustrated horror movie fan had a nude picture of a woman who’d gotten the best of him. As he replayed the conversation in his head, he took a pair of scissors and mock-stabbed her picture between the legs. Such a mean streak of humor offered a lot to someone like me. It was like handing a serial killer a copy of The Collector.

Along with the black humor, wanton violence, and unpredictable character deaths (remember Endless Night?), I particularly admired Laymon’s narrative techniques. The aforementioned Endless Night, for instance, where Simon’s half of the story is told through a tape recorder, and most notably Island, to which “Development” owes a great deal.

I got to meet Richard Laymon and his family at the 1999 World Horror Convention, and again in 2000. He was incredibly friendly, sincere, and approachable. I clearly remember how shocked I was on February 14, 2001 to hear he had passed away. I sat there for maybe an hour, trying to compose an email of condolences that was all of two paragraphs. Despite getting to meet him, I never really got to tell him how his work influenced me (I hope it was apparent to some degree), but I hope “Development” corrects that oversight. His wife and daughter are still good friends, thankfully, and the last WHC was like a family reunion. I wish he was still around for these conventions...and for all of us.

Ryan Harding

AUGUST 20

I’ve never kept a journal before, but there’s too much going on now that I can’t talk about with anyone else. I feel like I have to keep a record. I guess this is also a precaution, too.

I’m Alex. I’ll be a senior at Bernardo High School in a couple weeks. Check the honor roll, I’m there. I play on the tennis team, which I don’t recommend if you’re hoping to attract the opposite sex. I was lucky if my parents or my sister even came to the damn games, much less Lissa Hindley.

I don’t know where to begin exactly, but I guess I’ll start with my job. I develop film at a store I won’t name, because I’d hate to lose your business. Once you hear about the Binders, you probably won’t want to bring your film to me.

I took the job to save up for a car. It only paid minimum wage, and when I first started, I had every intention of leaving when something better came along. I just expected lots of snapshots from birthday parties, weddings, and Disney World, but you wouldn’t believe the pictures people drop off. I guess everyone thinks I wear a blindfold when I develop film. I’ve seen some unbelievably hot slutcakes bare-assed naked or in bone-stiffening states of undress. We’re talking lingerie, swimsuits, nightgowns, and half of one or the other. They pose for their boyfriends and husbands, who don’t have sense enough to develop film themselves or learn how. I bet some of the pictures were sent to amateur photo contests in skinmags like Gallery and Buxxxom. Some had a good chance of winning, although I’ve had the misfortune to see many who could have soured a rapist’s sex drive faster than a chemical castration.

I saved them in the Binders anyway.