Not long thereafter, during a visit to an amusement park with the Laymons, as we were suddenly swept up in a surging crowd, little Kelly—then no bigger than an elf—reached for my hand, gripping it tightly, and I was touched by her genuine vulnerability and more deeply touched by the fact that she trusted me to keep her safe; yet this same little girl eschewed the usual dollhouse and played, instead, with a miniature haunted castle full of monster figures and beheaded victims. That is a fact, not a comic exaggeration. Now, many years later, Kelly is a young lady, quieter than the sprightly imp of yore, even demure. Nevertheless, she is her father’s daughter, with those same strange genes, and if at dinner some evening she were to say, “Let me carve the roast, Mom,” I’m certain I’d have another catastrophic muscle spasm and wind up on the lawn amidst shattered window glass.

If Island is your kind of book, I’m pleased you’ve found the work of Richard Laymon. I only wish all of you could have had the additional pleasure of knowing Dick Laymon as well as I did. In truth, the strangest thing about him is that he tolerated me as a friend.

THE JOURNAL OF RUPERT CONWAY, CASTAWAY

Today, the yacht exploded.

Fortunately, all of us had gone ashore to have a picnic on this island, so we didn’t get blown to smithereens. All of us, that is, except Prince Wesley.

Prince Wesley wasn’t actually a prince. He was actually an asshole. Sorry about that; you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead. But he was a royal pain in the butt and I wouldn’t be at all surprised if the explosion was his fault. He probably picked the wrong time and place to light up a cigarette.