Richard Laymon Book Of The Month Club

I'd never read a Richard Laymon book, much less joined a book club, but the Richard Laymon Book of the Month Club on Istagram seemed like a good way to hold myself accountable for tackling my ever-growing "to be read" stack.

The Bookstagram community of Istagram was a welcome discovery when I decided to finally bite the bullet and put a name to my hobby of buying and selling online. Ninth Gate Bookshelf is what I settled on and created an account. I set to work finding out everything I could about this online community.

My browsing seemed to always bring me back around to the horror fiction that I've always been intrigued by. Growing up very conservatively Christian, I was never allowed to be open about my pension for the occult and macabre. I know it's unwise to judge a book by its cover, but the seventies to nineties mass-market horror paperbacks had some awe-inspiring designs. I was hooked.

The cover art and format of Richard Laymon's novels are what drew me to going down the rabbit hole. Simple print. Tongue-in-cheek artwork, without any spoilers. The reviews were even more enticing.

"No one writes like Laymon, and you're going to have a good time with anything he writes" -Dean Koontz

"If you've missed Laymon, you've missed a treat" -Stephen King

How could I not be sold with backing from these greats? So, while on Istagram, I tracked down the latest book club post and requested an add to the group message.

I went ahead and tracked down paperback copies of the next two titles, Island and The Lake on the list and made up my mind to stay committed. As soon as my copy of Island was in my hands, I introduced myself on the message thread and inquired about how it all worked.

I put my phone back in my pocket and got back to my day. Figured I'd give it some time and check back later. Ease in, if you will. It was hotter than a billy goat with a blow torch that summer, so I wiped my brow and got back to my tools. I was just pulling on my gloves when the notifications started ringing through my headphones.

"Who the hell?" I asked aloud to myself.

I pulled off my gloves, retrieved my phone from my sweaty pocket, and checked to see who was causing this cellular ruckus.

The notification informed me I had twenty-nine unread messages in the Istagram group "Rupert's Bouncy Titty Beach Club". I had to get to the bottom of this, but I still had a full day’s work ahead. So, I silenced notifications and decided that it would have to wait until got home that evening.

"You got any idea when you're gonna actually be done?" Trip yelled from behind the heavy steel security door of the Florida room he'd hired me to build a four hundred square foot attached deck and double outswing french patio doors onto.

"The city should be out to inspect the footers after the Fourth of July holiday and materials should be delivered on Monday the thirty-first. I'll have to pour the concrete and set the j-bolts once the inspection is done. Then it's just a waiting game for the remaining materials. The logistics is always the most frustrating part of any project," I replied.

"Well, it better be. I didn't pay you six thousand dollars for a bunch of fucking stakes and holes in the ground," Trip said, only barely joking.

"Yes sir, I know it’s a lot of money, but materials costs and availability have been constant problems since all that mess a few years ago. Things will start shaping up once the lumber is delivered and I can really start building the deck,” I said using my best customer service voice. Trip had disappeared back into the house.

Trip was a dick. He worked as the manager of the meat department at Cozco, rode a motorcycle, and had just moved to South Carolina from Connecticut three years prior. He had a real penchant for home security and seemingly spent those few years making his home a regular Fort Knox. We had even signed the contract for the project on the top of his gas grill, rather than going through the motions of getting in the door. He got shifty when I proposed the use of the facilities inside the home. I shook it off as a privacy issue and told him we were close enough to civilization that it shouldn't be a problem. As the ordering and scheduling commenced, he became nastier by the day. He threw around accusations of misappropriation of funds, attacked me verbally concerning lead times for materials, and made several mentions of his firearms collection. I've never experienced this in my professional career, but some people are just difficult, and I had to do everything I could to appease him. The additional six thousand dollars of the total invoice depended on it. So, I gritted my teeth and kept pushing forward.

Driving home that day, the sign at the local Church of God read one hundred and two degrees. I'd worked myself hard and purely out of spite. I was bound and determined to make this guy look like an asshole when I got finished. It was coming along at a snail's pace though.

Settled in at home, I remembered the slew of notifications from earlier and decided I'd check back in on the book club. I opened the app and the messages started pouring in. They'd really been busy.

"34 degrees here in the UK, mate," read the first message.

"Try 100 degrees in the shade," I responded completely unaware of the heat wave raging in Europe.

"Goddamn Americans again," another member retorted.

The conversation quickly took off and I soon found myself in a whirlwind of like-minded individuals who found the macabre not only irresistible but hilarious. Book recommendations, heart-felt counseling sessions, and even a few accusations of members being serial killers.

"My people," I said to myself.

I quickly finished the first book Island and tried to jump into the book club conversation whenever I had the time. I was enamored with the fact that all these people, from across the world, could carry on such a meaningful, hilarious, and sometimes outright inappropriate nonstop conversation. They had inside jokes and inappropriate memes. It felt just like I was back behind the pine showing a coworker something really fucked up on my phone. Shenanigans.

My current job on the other hand had taken a few turns for the worse. The materials order and delivery had been a disaster and Trip lost it. I defended myself as amicably as I possibly could, but I couldn't shake the feeling that he had it out for me. Almost like he enjoyed setting up unreasonable expectations and then berating me when they didn't pan out. I'm very used to materials delays and order mistakes, but he took them personally. He let me know it every chance he got.

The weirdest part, Trip was like a ghost on his property. I never saw cameras, but I was sure I was being watched. I would typically arrive at eight in the morning and knock off around six in the evening, only leaving to grab materials or God forbid take a piss.

One particularly hot day, I was really putting in the work and chugged nearly a gallon of water before I realized it. The nagging fullness quickly morphed into a frantic effort not to piss myself. I quickly scanned Trip's backyard to find the most secluded area to relieve myself. After backing out in hopes that I could hold it and get to a stopping point once, the urge resurrected. I knew there was no chance of making it to the nearby grocery store without letting loose in the truck. I ran to the woods at the back of the property and took care of business as stealthily as possible. It had been a close one, but I wasn't going to have to stop my progress to drive out somewhere.

I finished the day strong completing most of the deck. Drove home and immediately undressed and showered. While I was in the shower, I heard three text notifications, so I checked them first thing when I got out.

Two photos of me urinating in the woods were followed by a message from Trip.

"My neighbors didn't care for how you exposed yourself today. I have offered to let you use the restroom at my house, but you said yourself 'we're close enough to civilization that it won't be a problem'. You will conduct yourself professionally on my property. There will be consequences."

“This is pretty embarrassing. It was truly an emergency and won’t happen again. I remember our conversation and I did not realize that you were offering the use of the facilities on-site. If the offer still stands, I’d really appreciate it,” I responded.

“We can discuss it,” he texted back.

We never did. The more I thought about it the more unsettled it made me. Reexamining exchange I noticed the photos weren't from the neighbors' house at all. They were from Trip's back window. There had been no cars in the driveway and the house was locked up tight all day. All of the privacy started to seem very sinister.

As my work on the project continued, I noticed faint rumblings from inside the house that would intensify as sunset drew closer. Sometimes the smell of decaying flesh would linger a little too long on the breeze to be roadkill. The property had become off-putting, to say the least. Something seemed off and I could think of no better place to get some input than the Richard Laymon Book of The Month Club.

"So, I've got a really weird situation going on, so I'm just gonna lay it all out there for you all. Let me know if I'm the crazy one in this situation," I typed into the group message.

"You've got some women in a cage out back?" another member replied.

"I'm no Rupert," I said and then began chronicling the tongue lashings, strange noises and smells, and the "pissing outside" incident.

Once I had everything typed out, I hit send and awaited a response.

"What a creep!!!!"

"Who has work done to their house and doesn't allow the workers use of the restroom?"

"From my research, looks like we've got psychopath on our hands!"

"Coming from a serial killer, we know our own kind."

The group's replies lifted the weight off my shoulders of feeling like I was being unreasonable. At the same time, a new weight took its place. Trip was a weird guy, but could there be something more devious taking place inside? He sure liked his privacy, but could it be that it wasn't exactly his main concern? With everything that had transpired thus far, I decided to push even harder, collect my money, and get the hell out of there.

The job progressed rapidly after this. Trip continued to be a silent specter, knowing my every move without ever physically being on the property. The sounds had escalated within the property, but I reminded myself that I was there to finish the project not police what this lunatic had going on inside. With some long hours, blood, and sweat the final day was now in sight.

I parked in the empty driveway of Trip's house when I arrived to complete the final punch list. I'd been pulling around back for convenience but today was gonna be the final day and I wouldn't need many of my tools. I grabbed my handgun from the dash of the truck because, unlike my tools, there was no way of locking it up. I'd rather hold onto it, just in case.

The rotting meat smell was foul on the air but, by God, I was almost done. I switched out a few decking boards, added a piece of trim to the doorway, and began my final inspection when there was a sudden crash from the large bay window at the back of the house. A folding chair had slammed through the glass and was now amongst a sea of shards on the back terrace. A thin, pale man with an ancient chain and collar around his neck bolted toward the treeline at the back of the property.

I stood in awe at the scene transpiring before my eyes. As my shock subsided, a rush of adrenaline hit my system, and I reached for the 9mm tucked inside my waistband.

Suddenly the back door swung open, and Trip was tearing across the lawn, armed with a large butcher's cleaver in hot pursuit. The man had fallen several times in his escape due to the cumbersome restraints and his clear emaciation.

"Slow down, you crazy fuck!" I yelled as I leveled my gun at Trip.

He stopped and turned to me calmly and said,

"Look, you need your money and I need you to keep your fucking mouth shut!"

He then continued and caught up with the poor soul. He began dragging him back toward the house by the chain.

"I'm calling the cops," I said as he approached the open back door.

"If I'm in jail, how are you gonna get paid?" Trip asked.

I hadn't really thought of it. Surely, I had to report whatever weird fantasies this guy was playing out, but he was right. I did need the money terribly.

"Follow me," Trip said as he paused just before entering the door.

"I'm not taking these sights off of you until I'm in the truck and rolling," I said. Hoping that he knew I meant business.

I followed the pair into the house with Trip's upper back dead in my sights. As I crossed the threshold, the smell hit me like a tidal wave. My eyes welled with tears but I kept my composure. I was astonished that the place was nearly empty. Some newspapers scattered on the floor, a folding chair and table, empty beer cans, and a large safe were all that the living room contained.

Trip led the shell of a man to a heavy steel door to the left, unlocked the crucible of security measures, and pushed the man headlong into the dark void. I couldn’t help but notice what looked like large bins of copper toned dirt lining the walls of the dimly lit room. Also the frail fellow hadn't made and sound since I'd seen him and was silent until he was forced into the chamber.

"That should hold you until I get something new figured out," Trip said as he turned to face me.

"Now, for you," he said as he walked calmly to the safe.

He twisted the combination lock, the mechanism activated with a heavy click, and the door swung open. Trip retrieved a massive stack of cash and counted off ten thousand dollars in banded bundles. He then turned looked me in the eyes and said,

"Your work is complete, and you saw nothing."

He then extended his fist, stretched tightly around the stack of money.

"Why should I take this? Why shouldn't I shoot you dead and call the cops?" I asked.

"We know our own kind. You're not one of us. Just take it and do what you wish," he said in a defeated tone.

The tangle of thoughts in my head finally settled on getting out of there as fast as possible and sorting it out after I'd put a few miles between me and this place.

I snatched the cash from his hand and carefully walked backward to the door, never lowering my weapon. When I came to the threshold, I bolted. I ran around the side of the building, jumped in my truck, and tore out of there. When I'd made it a few miles out of town I stopped and dialed 911. I explained who Trip was and what I'd witnessed, and they said that officers were en route.

The house was engulfed by the time they got there. The fire marshal said that with the amount of accelerant used to start the blaze, he was surprised the houses on either side weren't alight. All the information Trip had given me had been false and there wasn't anything left as far as evidence in the burned down home.

The officers met me at a nearby gas station and took my statement. I didn't tell them about the cash Trip had given me. After all this trouble, it was mine and didn't need to be caught up in the investigation.

"I have the wildest story for you guys," I messaged when I got home that evening.

I told the story just as I've told it now and waited in anticipation of the responses.

The first really caught me by surprise,

"I told you. We know our own kind."