The story that Dick read was “Kitty Litter”. It’s a sweet little tale about a girl coming to adopt a kitten. Except the girl is really rather horrid. And she threatens the quiet fellow who’s giving away the kitten. And then steals the cat. By the end of the story you’re quite happy when she falls in the pool and drowns. The nice fellow who was so mistreated listens to her splash and then goes for a walk.
It was an excellent reading and there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that Dick was the quiet, nice fellow who takes a walk. It was not until quite a while later that I discovered that Dick was very nervous at that reading. The reason? It was the first time he had ever read his work in public.
Would Dick Laymon actually walk away from a little girl who was drowning, regardless of how horrid she was? I’m sure he wouldn’t. But, like many people, he certainly might have wanted to.
Dick, myself, a number of other authors and my staff had dinner after that reading. The (wise) manager of the restaurant put us in our own room at the back of the building. However, throughout that dinner people kept poking their heads in to “see what all the laughing was about.”
Quite a contrast, isn’t it? A man who can imagine his daughter raped, write about it, and sell this nightmare for money. Yet the same man always had a kind word of encouragement for younger authors, worked tirelessly for the overall good of the horror field as a leader and organizer, and would giggle like a girl when provided with suitable amounts of certain beverages.
It may be quite a contrast but it’s not contradictory. Dick could imagine walking away from a drowning girl or his daughter being raped. He could turn it over in his mind and see each detail. He could put words around the worst things that we can imagine. And it made him sane because he had looked at all the darkness, confronted it, and passed it by.
Richard Laymon was one of the best-hearted people I’ve ever known in my life. All the blackness went out on the page, where it will continue to thrill, frighten, and entertain long after we’re dust.
Brian Keene
RITE ABOUT HOW Dick Laymon influenced us, in two hundred words or less. Sounds like an impossible homework assignment. Dick was a lot of things. Look at his incredibly prolific body of work and you’ll understand how he influenced an entire generation of horror writers. He was a husband. Father. College graduate. Librarian. Schoolteacher. Temp worker. Legal report writer. Bram Stoker Award Winner. Practical joker. HWA President. History buff. Firearms expert. Friend. Mentor.
Cub scout den mother.
That’s how I remember Dick, as the den mother of the “Horrornet Cabal.” We were young and ready to conquer the horror genre. Dick cheered us on. We wrote, revised, and submitted. Dick guided us. We were full of piss and vinegar. Dick topped us off when we ran low. He drank with us. Laughed with us. And when we “occasionally” got ourselves into trouble, Dick was there to bail us out (even when he was the one that had inspired us to cause trouble in the first place).
When one of us did something he liked, a story or an essay perhaps, he’d say: “The Dick is pleased.”
First Laymon I ever read as a kid was The Cellar. I loved the Beasts, and tried to capture that in the story I wrote for this anthology.
Dick would be pleased with that, I think.
The table of contents for this book is full of those cub scouts (and girl scouts) that Dick Laymon watched over—all grown up now but still causing trouble.
The Dick would be pleased with that, too.
I miss him...
Brian Keen
ECKA KNEW SHE was going to drown. Gasping, she filled her lungs as a wave forced her below.
Above, she saw the legs of the other castaways. She swam toward them. Her head broke the surface.
A TV camera stared back at her.
Ignore it. It doesn’t exist.
The men on the boat glanced at her, impassive.
“Think they’ll give us a ride?”
Jerry treaded water beside her, droplets rolling off his shaved head and chest.
“You know the rules,” she panted. “Initiating contact with the crew means disqualification.”
“I was just kidding! You’re Becka—right?”
She fought to keep from swallowing water as another wave crashed over them.
“Right,” she spat. “I’m sorry. I don’t like the water.”
Shit! Now he knows a weakness he can exploit.
“This?” They drifted farther from the ship. “This is nothing. Hang on to me and I’ll get us both to shore.”
The camera boat raced ahead, lenses trained on Shonette and Marcy.
Becka hesitated.
“Look, that million dollars isn’t going to do you much good if you drown before reaching the island.”
He held out his arm. She paused, and then took it. The muscles were hard, his skin slippery. He propelled them forward with confident strokes.
Ahead, Troy swore as a wave knocked his battered green Jets cap off his head. Arms flailing, he swam after it. The hat floated by Marcy, who plucked it from the water, waving it over her head. Laughing, she shot forward.
“Hey,” he shouted. “You’re playing with your fucking life, sweetheart!”
The camera caught it all. Becka noticed that the guy behind it seemed to linger on Marcy’s breasts.
“She’s certainly got no problem staying afloat. Wonder how much she paid for them?”
“Ha,” Jerry chuckled. “Remember, all of America might hear you say that.”
Her own breasts brushed against his chest. Her nipples were stiff, whether from the water or excitement she didn’t know. Maybe a little bit of both.
Jerry blushed, and then grinned again.
The helicopter roared overhead, shooting aerial footage and ferrying Roland to the island.
The island. It loomed before them, a foreboding volcanic mass of hills and jungle.
“It looks like something out of Jurassic Park,” Becka observed.
“Yeah, but on this island, it ain’t the raptors you gotta watch out for,” said a voice behind them.
They turned in surprise. Antoine’s approach had been silent.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that we gonna be busy enough watching our backs around each other,” he nodded. “We the dinosaurs this time. Everybody’s out to get paid.”
“You were a Marine, right?” Becka asked.
“I was. Twenty-fourth MAU.”
“Maybe we should form an alliance,” Jerry suggested. “Whaddya’ say, yo?”
“Yo? My name is Antoine. Just because I’m black, you think you can talk to me like I’m some kinda thug? Where you from?”
“Los Angeles,” Jerry stammered. “I own a video store.”
“L.A.,” Antoine mused. “I’m from North Carolina, so we ain’t homeboys.”
He thrust past them, parting the water like a knife.
“He seems nice,” Jerry muttered.
Troy was frothing now. Shonette and Heather had joined Marcy in a game of keep-away with his hat. Larry waded toward the beach.
One by one they reached it, sprawling in the sand. Each of them tried to ignore the cameras flitting between them, filming every word. Heather and Marcy stretched, letting the luxuriant sun warm them, while Larry openly leered. Shonette busied herself with some stretches. Antoine stood off to the side. Troy sat on a nearby rock, muttering and twitching.
“What’s wrong?” Becka asked him.
“I need a fucking cigarette,” he snarled in a thick New York accent. “Thirty days of this without a smoke!”
“Why didn’t you just bring some as your luxury item?” Jerry asked.
“They made me pick between my hat and my smokes. I don’t go anywhere without my hat.”