Rick Hautala R.I.P.

Apologies in advance, because there’s just no way I can write about this one in a detached, journalistic voice simply listing the deceased’s accomplishments. Somewhere along the way, I became the necrolog of the horror genre. I guess it’s because of Jobs In Hell (one of the first email newsletters for horror professionals, which I used to edit way back in the early days of the internet). The fact is, folks come here to get not only news about my work, but news about the horror genre in general. So, when someone passes, I write it up. But I can’t just “write this up”. Not this time.

Rick Hautala should be no stranger to anyone who’s read horror. Over 30 books in print (under his name as well as A. J. Matthews), and an essential part of the 80’s horror wave. I remember reading Moonbog in High School, and am happy to have that same copy still on my shelf, and personalized by Rick. My favorite by him was always Little Brothers. It had a definite impact on my own writing. I was delighted over the years to go from being a fan of Rick’s to being a friend of Rick’s. On those nights when the writing just isn’t worth it, the one thing I am grateful for is how many of my literary heroes have become friends and mentors to me — guys like Richard Laymon, Keith Giffen, Jack Ketchum, Edward Lee, Brian Hodge, Tom Monteleone, F. Paul Wilson, Chet Williamson. And Rick. Oh, yes, Rick.

I was friends with his wife, Holly, first. Holly was part of my generation of writers — and part of our Central Pennsylvania writing circle. Eventually, she moved up North. I got a call from her one night, and she said, “Guess who I’m dating” and when she finally told me who it was, I lost my shit and begged her to tell me everything and peppered her with questions and sobbed with gratitude when she promised she’d introduce me. And she did, and like so many others, Rick was gracious and generous and kind to this new guy. He gave me a lot of great advice over the years, both in my writing life and in my personal life. Just yesterday, I got an email from him asking for a cover blurb and I was delighted and honored to do it (but hadn’t yet responded, because I’m terrible at answering emails in a timely manner).

I know that I’m rambling, and I’ll write a more fitting remembrance later, but right now this is raw and somehow not real. Rick and I often talked cigars and bourbon. I’m going to go smoke a Gurkha and drink some Knob Creek riverside in his memory. After that, I’m going to come back inside and re-read his last short story collection, Occasional Demons. Please remember him in your own way, as well. I know it’s coming on the heels of David Silva and James Herbert, but this one is still a gut-punch.