“What are you staring at Leonard? Come closer, let me kiss you, like a good mother should. I’ll introduce you to some of the friends I met in the earth.”
Leonard thought he had known despair before in his life, but now he learned the true meaning of the word. His worst fears realized, he stumbled backwards, knowing with the inevitability of the damned that he was staring straight into the gaping, gap-toothed mouth of his downfall.
Terror and desperation saturating his mind, he attempted to turn and run, but flight was denied him, as he felt an icy-cold shroud envelop him, glaciating him in mid-step. Slowly, against his will, against the efforts of his still-straining muscles, he felt his body twisting into a position that any contortionist would have viewed with admiration. Leonard’s head bent backwards in a position so painful, so physically impossible, that he found himself listening, straining to hear the sound of his own neck breaking. Mother watched impassively, chewing on a bit of her cheek.
“I don’t know what to do with you Leonard. You disappoint me so. After your father and sister proved to be such failures, you were my last hope.”
She ran ragged stumps over her calamity of a face. “You’re a bad, bad boy, Leonard. It was such slow work putting all my pieces back together. And my knowledge of anatomy isn’t all that it should be. I’m afraid it’s going to take a lot of experimenting before I’m seamless again.”
She sighed, a sound that came out more like a dry heave due to the numerous patchy openings in her throat. “Despite all the pain and frustration you’ve brought me, Leonard, I find that I still can’t bring myself to dispose of you once and for all.”
Hearing her words, Leonard was torn—almost literally—between hope of reprieve and a baneful wish to finish it—just finish it, you bitch—and end his suffering.
“Because you’re my one and only son, I’ll spare you this one last time. But this is the last time. One more act of treason and I’ll see to it that you suffer for all eternity. For now, you’ll just get a taste of that punishment.” Her diatribe complete, Mother mushily snapped her fingers at Leonard, and he collapsed in a silent heap.
Vaguely, Leonard felt the scraping and bumping of steps beneath his back and realized he was being dragged down to the cellar. The always-locked-and-bolted cellar, guarded by Mother like Cerberus at the Gates of Hell. At least I’ll find out what’s so damned important down here, a voice whispered insanely in his head.
The sounds of his arrival seemed to awaken other denizens of the cellar. A voice croaked from the distant corner of the blackened basement, rasping as though its very vocal cords were being stretched on a rack: “Leonard! Have you come to free us?”
“Yes, yes, is it finally time?” echoed another, burbling and gurgling through a liquid prison of some sort.
“Dad? Sis? Is...is that you?” Leonard’s voice cracked.
He was looking around, trying to make sense of the darkness when another voice, one that seemed familiar yet somehow altered, came from everywhere and nowhere.
“Dear Agnes. It’s so nice to see you again.”
A gasp. From Mother, it seemed.
“You’ve been so distracted with your little facelift, you’ve forgotten all about me, haven’t you?”
Perhaps more whimper than gasp in response this time. And Leonard was sure that response came from Mother this time. And he thought maybe he recognized the voice of the other speaker as well, although it...it just couldn’t be.
But just then Mother released her grip on him, sending him sliding past her down the stairs, his head performing a particularly sharp ricochet off the bottom step. Colored lightning zig-zagged across his vision and Leonard had a moment to wonder whether the light was real or he was literally seeing stars, before consciousness slipped away.
Some time later, awareness seeped back. Leonard felt cold stone beneath his back, a sticky wetness oozing around an epicenter of pain on the back of his head.
“Hello, Leonard.”
That voice again. He was sure now that he knew it.
“N-nana? Is that you?” He struggled to raise his head.
“Oh, Leonard. I’m so touched that you remember your grandmother after so long.”
“Where’s Mother? Have you...? Is she gone?”
“She is quite gone. I think it’s safe to say she won’t be plaguing you any further.”
“Oh, Nana...Thank you! Thank you!” Leonard was embarrassed to realize he was starting to cry, but the relief he felt...oh God, free at last.
“I wouldn’t be thanking me just yet.”
“Why?” Leonard asked. “What do you mean?” He tried to raise his head again, realized there was more holding him down than just bruises and stiffness. A moan came from somewhere in the darkness behind him.
“Your Mother was right about one thing. You’ve been a bad boy.” Her wizened, desiccated face loomed down at him out of the darkness. Whether spent alive or dead, the years had not been kind to Nana.
“A very bad boy. And you must be punished.”
Leonard heard himself whimper. The sound was echoed by a second whimper from elsewhere in the cellar. His grandmother’s face vanished back into the gloom, her steps echoing through the cellar as she tottered away.
“Nana! W-wait! I...”
“Oh don’t worry,” came the fading reply. “I’ll be back. Eventually.”
Leonard felt something like a fat, cold snake slither across his chest, and he started to scream.
He was still screaming when a weary but satisfied Grandmother closed the cellar door, her family together again at last.
Roger Range
HADN’T READ RICHARD Laymon’s work until some friends convinced me that I had to—they were right, it’s amazing stuff. Unfortunately, that was only recently after his death, so I never got a chance to meet him. But after hearing so much about him, that’s at the top of my list of Life’s Greatest Regrets.
The Cemetery Dance memorial issue was my first indication of how well-loved Dick was; there were so many authors with so many positive things to say about him that I began to feel like I knew him through those essays. The Laymon story in that issue was the first one I’d ever read, but his talent was evident and I began seeking out more of his work.
Even more striking, though, were the personal stories I heard from everyone who knew him. As I became more involved in the horror genre over the next few years, it became apparent that all of the writers who called him a friend had been profoundly touched by his kindness and mentorship. Many of the rising authors I’ve gotten to know claim to owe much of their success to Dick’s encouragement and support.
Because of that, they feel that they now owe the same kind of encouragement and support to newer writers, like me, who are just starting out. Because of Dick’s influence, the horror field today is a friendly, supportive place to explore terrifying ideas. Dick lives on today in all of the writers that he fostered. Through the people that he touched, I almost feel as though I really did get to know him, and it makes me glad.