Ernie screamed again and scrambled backward in panic.
“Come down, Ernie Davis, and bear witness!” Swann’s voice filled the arena. The Beth-demon laughed as he stumbled away.
“Bear witness!” echoed the crowd. Hands reached out, grabbing at Ernie as he backed down the aisle, his eyes shifting wildly from Swann to Beth and back. Swann’s eyes glowed with unholy yellow flame, the pupils narrow and reptilian.
“Has your new life been so disappointing that you would turn your back on me?” Swann’s voice was suddenly low and intimate, speaking only to Ernie. “I gave you everything you wanted and more, for the paltry sum of a thousand dollars. Now when I call you, you run from me?” The sorrow in the voice was heart-rending. But still Ernie moved toward the exit, pulling back from the grasping hands. His breath came in ragged sobs.
A big, hairy arm shot out and jerked Ernie backward and lifted him off the floor by the neck.
“Let me go!” Ernie shrieked.
“The hell I will, you miserable little dick!” It was Witkowski. “YOU did this to me, didn’t you, asshole? I came here tonight to get a few of my own prayers answered, and damn if one of them isn’t answered already!”
Witkowski smelled as if he’d been living in a brewery and sleeping in a sewer. His breath was hot and foul. “I’m going to tear your pointy head off, you fucking weasel,” he hissed.
Ernie looked at the Reverend Swann, who was watching him intently. He looked at Beth, who was demurely buttoning her blouse. Her face was normal and lovely again, but she shot him a hate-filled glance.
I’ve been sleeping with a demon from hell, he thought, and shuddered.
Witkowski’s fingers tightened on his throat, and he gagged. The crowd was hushed in anticipation.
“Well, Ernie...? Shall I let you go back to being a nobody? Shall I let my friend here be avenged on you? Or will you come to me?”
Ernie flexed his hands and felt the bites bleed afresh. He flung his arms behind him and crashed his fists against Witkowski’s eyes. The pain and blood blinded Witkowski and with a piercing howl he loosened his grip on Ernie, who spun away from him.
“Fuck you all!” he screamed.
At once the crowd rose and turned, ripping the arms off the seats and brandishing them as they closed in. Ernie raised his arms in weak defense as they prepared to beat him to death.
“God, I’m so sorry. Please God, no,” he screamed.
The crowd drew back and roared as one, a surge of rage reaching a crescendo that rolled over Ernie like a wave. He fell to his knees. “Forgive me,” he cried. Then he knew no more.
When Ernie came to, he was in the parking lot of the Civic Arena. He raised his head and looked around. Dawn was just breaking. The lot was empty except for an old Honda Civic. With a start, he recognized it as his own.
“I’d have thought you’d be scrap metal by now,” he said. He felt dazed, as if he’d just awakened from a deep sleep.
Beth, Swann, Witkowski—where were they? Where was his Acura?
He got slowly to his feet and walked to his battered old car. He still had a key to it on his keyring. He got in and started it.
The palms of Ernie’s hands burned painfully. He turned them up and looked at them. The bite wounds were still there, shaped like the mouths that had been Beth’s nipples.
“Oh, my God,” he groaned.
And he watched as the little mouths slowly curled into smiles.
Mark Justice
NEVER MET DICK LAYMON.
I did interview him twice for my radio show. The first coincided with the Leisure release of Bite.
The first Laymon I read had been The Stake, which I found in the Greenup (KY) County Public Library, in hardcover. I read the book in a few hours, certain that I’d found a new favorite author.
From this point, the story will be familiar to Laymon fans in the United States. No new books. No old books to be found at the flea markets and secondhand stores. No Internet access to find out more about this mystery author and where he disappeared.
Flash-forward about five years. I’m on the ’net. I’m frequenting the horror chat rooms. And I start to hear about this Laymon guy. Something about his books being huge in England, yet he can’t get arrested over here. I find a U.K. bookseller and order The Cellar and The Beast House. I discovered that The Stake wasn’t a fluke. This guy was great.
I ran up my Visa bill ordering Laymon books. Then came the Leisure news. And my opportunity to talk to The Man.
During the course of my broadcasting career, I’ve interviewed a lot of celebrities. I’ve never gotten nervous. Until I talked to Dick Laymon. Over the course of a couple of years, this guy had become a hero of mine. What if he’s a jerk? That was my fear.
He turned out to be one of the kindest people I’ve ever interviewed.
A few days after the interview I received a package with Laymon’s return address on it. Inside was an autographed copy of the U.K. edition of One Rainy Night, his next release from Leisure.
During my second interview with him, a few months later, I commented that reading a Laymon book brought back the thrill I got from seeing those great B-movies at the drive-in as a kid. I immediately regretted the words, afraid that he would take it as an insult.
Before I could apologize, he chuckled and said, “Great! That’s exactly the mood I’m going for.”
That’s the same mood I’ve attempted with “The Red Kingdom”. I hope Dick Laymon would have approved.
Mark Justice
1.
It started out to be a great night. Maybe the best night ever.
It was the kind of party he’d never been invited to in high school. Back then, he was the fat bookworm with the thick glasses and out-of-date clothing.
Now he was different. Better. Eighteen months of diet and exercise, contacts, and some new duds made all the difference.
“Hey, Bishop, this party gonna be a booty convention,” Greg said from the front seat. “Maybe you’ll finally get laid.”
Okay, some things hadn’t changed. Mike Bishop was a Nineteen-year-old virgin. But he was going to a big party with two of the coolest guys at UCLA. Chances were good that this would be the night. Hell, he didn’t even care how hot the girl was. He’d take the spillover from Greg and Duncan. Gladly.
His stomach was twisting nervously. That was okay. He had a good feeling about tonight.
For the first time, all the pieces were in place.
No one at the party would know him. He was a clean slate. All the nerd-dom of his past had been erased. All he had to do was relax, be cool, and let the party come to him. He was smart. He could be funny.
On paper, anyway.
Ten years of scribbling stories had taught him how powerful words could be. They were his only weapon and his only salvation in school. Words got him into college.
And, through words, he hooked up with Duncan and Greg.
Two star basketball players.
Who never missed a party.
They couldn’t say the same thing about classes, though. That’s where Mike came in. A simple recommendation from an instructor and he was tutor to the stars. The boys got to stay on the team and Mike Bishop moved up several social levels.
“Yo, Bishop, you bring any rubbers?” Duncan said, from the driver’s seat. He brayed like a donkey and gave Greg a high-five.
“‘S’okay, bro. We got extra.”
Mike felt his face grow warm. He was glad it was too dark for them to see him blush.
They hadn’t told him where the party was, just that it was going to be the hottest gathering in Southern California. They’d been in traffic for about thirty minutes when Duncan took an exit and began climbing.