In Laymon's Terms

“Aw, shit, Joe. It fucking figures, you know? I call to tell some anonymous fuck he can shove life up his asshole and I get you of all people. I always said if it wasn’t for bad luck I wouldn’t have none at all. Proves me out. What the fuck are you doing manning a crisis center? You fucking hate people!”

“Jesus, Ralphy. I don’t hate you! What the hell are you thinking of?”

“I’m takin’ the .45 caliber highway, Joe.”

“You can’t do that!”

“Sure I can. McNulty did, remember? Only his was a .38.”

“Wait. I’m coming right over.”

“Nah. That’s bullshit.”

“Don’t do anything until I get there. Promise me.”

“What? You want to watch? That’s my Joey. That’s my boy.”

“Come on, dammit! Listen to me. Don’t do anything to yourself! I want you to promise me.”

“’Bye, Joe.”

“Wait! For chrissake wait!”

“Amazing. Good old Joe Fitzpatrick, model compassionate citizen. Now I seen everything. Now I can fucking die happy.”

“Wait, goddammit! Ralph. Ralph!”

But the line was dead and by the time he made it through the goddamn storm so was Ralphy, all over the kitchen floor, so he had to call for cleanup. He knew the number.

Regina Mitchell

ICK LAYMON WROTE stories like nothing I’d ever read before. They were fast, bloody, and violent—but most of all they were fun. His writing was a huge influence, and most of the lessons I learned were from simply reading his fiction.

I learned that characters in fiction were allowed to be real, to speak and act like real people. I learned that old ideas can be reworked into fresh, exciting ones—if you give them a personal touch. I learned that a book doesn’t always have to end the way you think it should.

I also learned that not all famous writers are jerks. They can have families and be pleasant. They can write blood-soaked fiction and still be nice guys.

I only met Dick Laymon once, and I was too scared to do more than stammer “Hello” and shake his hand. I was too embarrassed to ask him to sign any books for me, but I did get up the courage to send him an email or two later. To my surprise he answered me. And later that year he sent me a hand-drawn Christmas card.

I’m sorry that the next generation of horror writers won’t have the same chance I did, to see that a great writer can be a great person as well, but I’m thankful that others may see the huge influence he still has over many of us and that they, too, may read his work and be inspired.

Regina Mitchell

HE DIRTY NAKED boy ran down the street sniffing the air.

Mother?

But he had never known a mother, not really. Just Kylie and the memory of a scent, a woman scent fresh in the stale desert air, similar to what he smelled now, reminding him of soft, pink flesh.

Flesh he still tasted in his dreams.

Alison got out of the car and stretched her legs, grateful to be outside despite the heat. She twisted her blonde hair into a ponytail as she spoke. “So, this is your ghost town.”

A stretch of broken road surrounded by six or seven wood frame buildings bleached by sun and the blowing desert sand. A cluster of shacklike dwellings was visible a few miles away; even further were the mountains.

“Yep. Isn’t she a beaut?” Steve looked around proudly, as if he had built it with his own hands.

Alison nodded, thinking, not really. The town looked like a tornado hit it and nobody bothered to clean up afterward. Glass from broken windows glittered in the dust. Broken boards were strewn here and there. Most of the signs were long gone, but a few remained. The word “Groceries” was faintly visible on one, the word “Clark” on another. But what did I expect a ghost town to look like? she asked herself. Deserted places weren’t supposed to be pretty—that was part of their charm, part of the reason she’d agreed to spend the night here. It would be something different.

“I’m glad you came out here with me, Al.” He put his arms around her waist. Rested his head on her shoulder. “Much nicer than camping with the guys.”

“You think?” She laughed.

They stayed that way for a while, looking at the landscape. It was so quiet here, so...desolate. She thought of the tagline from a movie she’d seen: In space no one can hear you scream.

“Do you want to put up the tent?” Steve asked.

“Isn’t that what we brought it for?”

“Well, we could sleep in one of the buildings.”

“In one of them?” They had originally planned to camp in the desert beside the town, but the thought of staying in one of these places was sort of intriguing. And then she thought of the downside. “But what about scorpions and spiders? And snakes? At least we know they aren’t in the tent to begin with.”

“It was just a thought,” he said. “No big deal.”

“No, I think I want to. But...let’s look around first, see how bad it is.”

Alison grabbed a flashlight from the back seat and patted her rear to make sure her pocket knife was still there. It was an old Swiss army knife, not much in the way of defense, but having it close somehow made her feel safe.