In Laymon's Terms

Evelyn stood, quickly cutting the rope from her neck. She looked down at Jong. At his bleeding and his silence. She pressed one tennis shoe against his throat, smoothing a little pressure that brought bubbles and squeaking air.

So she pushed harder.

More bubbles and a full-fledged whistle escaped. She started to clap then, slow and steady, and continued to play his wound like a kick drum.

Evelyn knew Jong would appreciate that.

Sheri White

WAS A FAN OF Richard Laymon back when I was fourteen, but didn’t realize that until twenty years later.

Let me explain.

My mom was pretty strict on what she would let me read. Also, I went to Catholic school, and its library was limited to works approved by the nuns.

I was, and still am, a voracious reader, devouring anything I could get my hands on. But for someone like me, who wanted books with a bite, having to limit my selections to the Scholastic line was frustrating and unsatisfying. I had been reading higher than my grade level since elementary school, so those books also presented no challenge.

Then one day, I discovered a gem on the shelves among the Little House series, Narnia, and Judy Blume’s teen angst. A book titled Your Secret Admirer.

It hooked me from page one. The premise was titillating: a fifteen-year-old girl is pursued by a secret admirer and comes to realize his intentions might not be so admirable. One thing that struck me was that it wasn’t dumbed down, as were most young adult books I had read. Your Secret Admirer was suspenseful, funny, and had a twist at the end that completely blew me away.

After that, there was no way I could go back to the stuff my mom approved of. That’s when I started secretly reading Stephen King, John Saul, and V.C. Andrews. The last practically required reading for young teenage girls. I looked for adult books by the author of Your Secret Admirer, but couldn’t find any, much to my great disappointment.

Flash forward twenty years. I’m now an aspiring writer in the horror genre, thanks to the books I read in my teen years. I attended KeeneCon 2000, looking forward to making new friends and meeting writers whose work I admired. I was especially anticipating meeting Richard Laymon, because I had recently read several of his books, including The Cellar. That book had been forbidden by my dad when I was young. Since Dad didn’t care if I drank beer with my friends and was permissive in most other ways, I knew The Cellar had to be awesome. It was, of course, and I couldn’t wait to meet the obviously twisted man who wrote it.

I also brought my daughter Sarah to the gathering. She was eleven at the time, and had a story published by Brian Keene in Jobs in Hell. Those of us who attended KeeneCon became friends over the course of that weekend.

But Sarah and Richard took a special shine to each other. She thought it was so cool to hang out and talk to a writer whose books were on her mom’s sacred horror bookshelf. Richard took the time to encourage Sarah in her writing and offered her tips and advice.

A few weeks later, Sarah received a package from the Laymon family. Richard had enclosed a letter urging Sarah to keep up with her writing, plus a couple of books he had written for younger readers.

When I looked at the books, I was amazed and delighted to find Your Secret Admirer among them. However, he had written it using the pseudonym Carl Laymon. I wasn’t familiar with the Laymon name when I was fifteen, and didn’t make the connection until I was “old enough” to read Richard’s adult stuff.

I’m so glad I found out Richard wrote books I can introduce to my other daughters when they’re a little older. While I’m not as uptight as my mother when it comes to reading material, I do realize Richard’s books are for an older audience. And he himself told me not to let Sarah read Among the Missing until she’s at least thirty.

But when my daughters are old enough, I will happily share my treasured Laymon books, and hope they’re as captivated by Richard’s words as I continue to be.

Tom Piccirilli

HE NOISE TORE me out of bed. The lady next door’s cats had gotten up into the pomegranate trees again and were wailing their scrawny asses off. They did it a couple of times a day, but by now I’d grown used to their screeching. It reminded me of police and ambulance sirens in Brooklyn and even made me a little homesick.

Monty’s place had two main floors, an attic and a mother-in-law apartment around the rear. The landlord and his wife lived in the house proper, but they were always on the run in Mexico from drug dealers they’d burned in East L.A. Monty Stobbs stayed in the attic, and I lived out back directly below his window. He wouldn’t waste time walking down all the stairways and would just call me on my phone instead.