In a flash of movement so sudden that Simon didn’t see before it was too late, Sherry stuffed the barrel into his mouth.
“Not to mention you have reason to kill yourself.” She then blew his brains out through his head.
As the machete fell to the floor and Simon was sent flying backwards, Sherry laughed. “Didn’t I tell you to close your fucking mouth?”
She watched as Simon crashed to the lounge room floor, then hurried into the bedroom. She had to act quickly.
The first thing she did was to slip on the black gloves that she had hidden inside the bedside drawer. Then she had the freedom to get dressed and gather up her bag. She picked up the rumpled note and stuffed it into her bag. Then she closed the closet door, grinning as she did, and dashed out the room. Running through the kitchen, Sherry stopped to collect the second note, then hurried into the lounge.
She rubbed the gun thoroughly before wrapping Simon’s right hand around the handle, then placed it where she guessed the gun would’ve dropped if Simon had been holding it. The last thing she did was to place the suicide note on the coffee table. She wandered over to Simon and crouched down.
“May God have mercy on your pitiful soul,” Sherry said. “You pervert.”
She stood up, took off the gloves and shoved them into her bag, along with the first note. She threw the bag to the couch then rushed to the phone.
She plugged the cord back into the socket, then picked up the receiver and called the police.
Sebastien Pharand
EN YEARS AGO, I found an old tattered copy of a book called The Cellar in a used bookstore. I had never heard of Richard Laymon, but was intrigued by the cover. I got home, sat down in my reading chair and began reading the book. To my complete surprise, five or six hours later, I had completely finished it and was amazed at the slur of emotions it made me feel. The book was scary, bold, bloody, violent, and darkly funny. It gave me a whole new perspective on horror fiction.
It is Richard Laymon who made me want to become a horror writer. I have been a constant reader of his ever since that long-ago evening and I know that I’ll keep coming back to his stories the moment I need a good scare. Richard Laymon is a writer who will greatly be missed by me, by his fans, and (maybe most importantly) by the horror genre itself.
Sebastien Pharand
HE MAN STOOD AT his window, his shotgun pointing at nothing into the moonlit night. He couldn’t see them just yet. But they were out there, hiding from him, playing with him. He kept his gun aimed toward the forest that besieged his house, waiting for them to show their ugly little faces. He’d be ready for them this time. Ready to shoot every single last one of those little fuckers. And then maybe, if he was able to get every single last one of them, he’d finally be able to get some shut-eye. He would sleep without troubles for the first time in months.
As he kept his gun erected toward the dark lawn below him, the man actually did smile, sensing that the freedom he had sought for such a long time was just around the corner.
Mark pulled on his brother’s arm. “Come on, squirt! Hurry it up, will ya! We don’t got all night.”
“I’m tired, Mark. Why do you want to go to the woods for?”
“’Cause we can.” He let go of his brother’s arm and accelerated his pace, hoping that Billy would hurry along and follow him.
They were supposed to be back home, sleeping in their tree house like they often did when the summer nights got too hot and the air inside the house became stale to the point of suffocation. The moment the light in their mother’s bedroom had been turned off, Mark had roused his brother and forced him down the tree to bring him into the dark forest where they now stood. If their mother knew what they were up to, she’d surely ground them for a week and serve their heads on a silver platter with tomorrow’s diner. They had to be careful not to wake her up. They had to be as quiet as they possibly could.
He permitted himself to speak only once the house was far behind them, hidden by the tall oak trees of the dense forest.
“Come on, Billy. We don’t want to be gone too long.”
“I told you I’m tired. Where’re we going anyways?”
“Old man Bradley’s farm,” Mark replied with a grin on his face.
At that, his little brother stopped dead in his tracks and stared back at him with a glimmer of fear in his eyes. Slowly, he shook his head.
“Nah-ah. I’m not going out there. Mom says that man’s crazy.”
“What’s gonna happen, huh? Tommy told me that he found old bones in Bradley’s barn and I want to see them for myself.”
“Tommy’s a big fat liar, and you know it!”
“Yeah, well, I just wanna see things out for myself. If you don’t wanna come, fine, turn around. But you’ll have to walk back by yourself.”
Mark turned around and resumed his walking. He knew Billy would follow him. His little brother would never venture through the forest at night on his own. He wouldn’t even enter the woods on his own during daytime. After a few seconds of walking, he shot a quick glance over his shoulder to see Billy closely following him, his tiny legs trotting quickly on the dirt trail to keep up with him. They didn’t utter another word as they made their way through the maze of trees and shrubs until finally, the old house appeared before their eyes.
Everything around the farmhouse was dark and still. Even the gentle summer breeze seemed to disappear as they reached the house in which old man Bradley had barricaded himself for the last decade or so. Folks in town said the old man would only come out of that house to hunt for food or to fetch his mail from the mailbox he had planted at the side of the road nearly a quarter of a mile away from the house. At least, that’s how the story went.
“We’ll just take a quick peek into the barn and then we’ll both be able to prove that Tommy’s a liar. We’ll be quick. Promise.” Billy didn’t answer him, too stricken with fear to say anything.
He gave his brother a quick playful punch on the arm and snorted at him before returning his eyes toward the dark house that loomed before them.
He could see them now, those little creatures. They were coming for him. But he’d have the last laugh this time. He’d get those little bastards good. They wouldn’t come around these parts again once he was finished with them.
The creatures had first showed themselves a few months ago, after those strange bright lights had appeared in the sky. That night, they had swarmed his land, knocking on the walls of his house and making the dirty windows rattle as they tried to find a way to seep into his home. And they’d come back many nights after that. Not every night, though just often enough to annoy and scare the hell out of him.
He pumped the shotgun, loading a shell into the barrel, ready to fire the moment they’d show their ugly faces.
He could see them crawl through the woods now, making the leaves shudder and cracking branches under their weight. They were inching quickly toward his house, unknowingly creeping ever so close to their eventual death.
A smile grew on his lips as he cocked the gun toward the movements in the woods. He could practically see those horrible green eyes glowing in the darkness. He imagined their little clawed toes digging into the wet earth as they took another step in his direction. He heard their laughter as they cut their way through the night.