Sometimes when I read particular authors I find myself getting nervous. I turn each page with just a little dread. One author who does this to me is Richard Laymon.
The first book of his that I read was The Cellar. While not going into too much detail, it was a pretty typical kind of horror story. He peppered the entire work with a lot of recognizable tropes and character types that I have read in hundreds of other books. It felt pretty common, comforting. I knew where the story was going. It was a certainty.
Then the book ended on one of the most unsettling, discomforting moments I have read in a horror story. It was not gory or flamboyant. It was abrupt and dark. It was simple and it was full of implications that crept into my head. Then it nested there.
I shut the book and felt as if I had been duped. He tricked me. That old bastard tricked me. He told me what to expect with those characters. He laid them out and promised me through their commonness how things were going to play out. Then he yanked the rug out and I was left in the middle of the darkness, sitting on a sore butt.
Occasionally I will find myself replaying the last scene in my head. I will see it, hear it, and feel just like I did that first time. I recall it every time I pick up one of his books. There is no comfort in them now. I know I can't trust him.
I love him for it, like a college girl dating a shifty drug dealer. I love my bad boy authors. They shower me with kisses and hug me tight. They lead me down the path, only to leave before I wake up, stealing my X-Box and my cash. Yet I keep taking them back.
Some of Laymon's books are really good Trash Horror novels. Others warrant no more then a simple shrug from me. Still I pick up his books and devour them without hesitation. They give me what I want. They give me those unsettled shivers, that excitement only a bad boy can.
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