Leslie has suffered some cuts and bruises. Ryan remains the same. The central hub has filled with about a foot of ice cold water.
Oct 11, 2003
I've been watching the thing swim around in the entrance pod. The lights in the flooded pod have remained functional, so I have a very good view of it through the window in the central hub hatch.
The creature is about fifteen feet long. Its body is green at the tail and then blends into a shade of tan human flesh at its front. It has top and bottom fins that ripple as the creature moves. The creature is incredibly agile. It moves through the water with an eerie grace.
It has Sheila's face now. Her blond hair flows out behind it as it swims past the window. It twists and turns like a serpent and then comes around again. Her blue eyes are flat and lifeless. I hear her voice in my head.
She smiles at me.
Oct 12, 2023
This shall be my last entry.
I knew it was only a matter of time before Leslie or I broke. I considered smashing her head in with a pipe wrench, but there was no way I could be sure that she would break before me. I considered offering her the chance to smash my head in, but wasn't sure how to broach the subject. It's not the kind of conversation that you ever prepare yourself for.
Last night I went to sleep with Sheila urging me to let her back in. I awoke to find Leslie preparing to open the hatch to the entrance pod. She gave me time to get out of the central hub and close the next hatch. She waved to me and then let the water in.
Leslie managed to get out of the way as the hatch door smashed open. I watched her through the window of the last closed hatch in the habitat. The water tossed her around as it filled up the hub. She began to panic as the last of the air rushed out of the room.
The creature slid into the room. It stared at Leslie and Leslie stared back at it. For a moment they hung there motionless like two dancers in a grand outdoor ball, their hair moving about as if blown by a strong breeze. Then the thing screamed.
It could not have made a noise like that underwater. I must have heard the voice in my mind. It was Sheila's voice. I heard Sheila scream.
There was a flash of blue light from its eyes that quickly brightened to a blinding white intensity. I stumbled back and shook my head, trying to clear the strange after images that danced upon my retinas. I staggered back up to the hatch and looked through the window. I saw the thing swim by. A different shade of flesh marked its neck. The thing's body, then its tail slid past. The tail flexed and the thing arced around in a smooth turn.
The thing looked through the window at me. It had Leslie's face now. Her red hair flowed beautifully down the side of its cheeks. She smiled at me.
This endeavor began with noble intent. Its failure cannot be seen as an excuse to stop exploring. It is only with exploration that we can learn what is in the dark. I've come to accept that such knowledge can come with a high price. Someone has to walk into the pitch black room first. Sometimes we encounter things we are not prepared to face.
I have to stop writing now. I have to go let Leslie in.
PASSIONATE IN CHICAGO
John Goodrich
Nickolaus Passionate was the sort of man who lurked in the dark alleys and corners of Chicago, because he was a man of darkness. The landscape was forsaken as the prayers of children abandoned by their God. Trash of every sort littered the dark alley, the refuse of human refuse, where Nickolaus felt right at home.
The alley was behind a bar, next to a strip club. The air was redolent with the reek of stale beer and vomit. Used condoms squished underfoot like shelled oysters. Nickolaus was out here to take a leak.
As he was zipping up, a heap of garbage near the trash bin shifted. He stiffened. Ex-Navy, he was confident he could handle himself in a fight, but with so many people on PCP or crystal meth, sometimes the regular rules didn’t apply. On the other hand, it could be someone who needed help. Or just a city-dwelling raccoon.
Nick approached what he thought was a pile of trash, scuffing his boots to keep from startling anything. The sounds of traffic and humanity were far away. Something shifted. Did he hear a moan of pain?
He squared his shoulders, ready for a crackhead to explode out of the trash. With a few steps, he was enveloped in the darkness, and his eyes adjusted to the dirty yellow light thrown by the sodium lamps. A man crouched like a frightened dog among the bags of stinking garbage. Long hair hung over his face. His shoulders were well muscled, and he wore no shirt.
“You all right there?”
The main raised his head, and for a moment, Nickolaus would have sworn it was the face of Italian model Fabio Lanzoni. But he moved his head, and the illusion was spoiled. Still, he had a bodybuilder’s chest, heroic shoulders, and a chiseled jaw.
“Leave me alone.” His voice was an exhausted whisper.
“What’s your name?”
“Isaac Allen,” he said. “Just ... just forget you saw me.”
Nickolaus looked down at the wretched face.
“I can’t. You look like you’re hurt, and I won’t leave if you’re in pain.”
“No ... No, I ...” Isaac made a sound somewhere between a whine and a groan. “Go away.”
Nick was conflicted. He respected choice. But this man seemed so wretched, so determined to be alone that his defiant streak kicked in. He would not be told what to do. A man was suffering. He wanted to help.
Isaac shifted, and something was wrong. He was hunched over, but even Quasimodo didn’t have such a mass on his back. Isaac tried to re-adjust the filthy blanket that covered him, but the bulge on his back was so unwieldy that the blanket fell off, revealing pearly-white, feathered wings. Nick tried to conceal his astonishment. Was he in a Gabriel García Márquez story? How could those wings be real?
“Oh God don’t look at them,” Isaac said. “They’re hideous. I’m deformed.”
Nickolaus’s eyes were wide with wonder, his hands reaching out to touch the marvelous pinions. The feathers were soft as an angel’s whisper, and glowed with a clean, comforting light in the alley’s dim confines.
“Not hideous. They’re beautiful.” As Nickolaus stroked the wings, they spread, as if through some unconscious reflex. Nearly twenty feet wide, Isaac had to turn sideways so they wouldn’t touch the filthy walls that hemmed the alley. Far from being delicate, they were strong, the feathers soft but the underlying wing stiff, yet warm. Under his fingers, Nickolaus was sure he could feel the pulse of Isaac’s heartbeat.
Isaac moaned and tried to pull away, folding his wings, hiding them as best he could. But Nick held onto his shoulders, not letting Isaac shut him out.
“Hey, hey.” When Isaac gave up trying to escape, he rested his head on Nickolaus’s chest. “Whatever is happening, it’s a part of you.”
Could he comfort someone so miserable, so at war with his own body? It broke Nick’s heart to see someone reject themselves. Nothing good ever came from self-hate. Nickolaus stroked his hair, and Isaac’s breathing calmed. Isaac’s scent was musky, manly.
“I understand something about what you’re going through. You feel adrift, a stranger in your own body.”
Isaac said nothing, his hot tears spilling onto Nick’s chest. There was nothing to do but wait for his anger to abate, to let the storm of emotional energy blow itself out. Nick promised himself that he would help this lost soul. He had once been adrift, full of hate, lashing out at everyone around him, jealous of their success. But he’d created the quiet mindfulness that allowed him to accept himself as he was, not some distorted perception others forced on him. And though his thoughts remained dark, they were a darkness of still and quiet, one that enveloped and protected. He sighed, and hoped that some of his peace would seep into Isaac.
“They’re beautiful. You’re beautiful,” he whispered into Isaac’s hair.
“I’m a freak,” Isaac whispered through his tears. Despite this, his wings rose, reflecting the alley’s yellow light, turning it into something softer, more
pure.
“Special,” Nick gently corrected him. “No one else has wings. Think of how unique and glorious that makes you. They are a wonderful gift, not something to be hidden in a dark alley.” Isaac did not respond. What could Nick say? What could he do? “Accept who you are. If you let someone convince you to hate yourself, you will end up dead inside, like a fossil in a lake bed.”
Isaac looked up, searching Nick’s face. His eyes were a deep and soulful brown, still brimming with tears, terrible in their vulnerability.
The kiss was unexpected. Nickolaus thought about resisting, but melted into the offered heat. Isaac’s mouth was warm, his tongue sensual and demanding. The sandpapery feel of his stubble added a frisson to the delight, a little discomfort that emphasized the pleasure.
The kiss grew more passionate, Nick’s need surging and meeting Isaac’s. His hands roamed, his fingers tracing down Isaac’s sculpted pectorals, then down to his lean abdomen. Nick traced a hot line of kisses down Isaac’s neck, and then the great wings arched and beat at the air as he mouthed the small, sensitive nipples. A firm erection pressed at Isaac’s pants, against Nick’s stomach. Nick put his hands on the front of Isaac’s jeans, but soft hands stopped him.
“Not here.”
They disengaged, staring at each other, the weight of their love crashing like silent thunder. Neither would be the same again.
“Never let me go.” Nickolaus was not sure who said it. His heart hammered so much he feared his ribs would break.
Without a word, Isaac scooped Nickolaus up. He walked at first, and then began to run. He held Nick to him, the two sharing a heartbeat as they left the alley, and the majestic wings snapped opened. And then they were airborne. Nickolaus looked down, saw the streets of Chicago receding below. The city’s lights were beautiful, a luminous carpet spreading out as far as the eye could see. Mighty wings caught the air, and they soared higher. Isaac held him tight against his warm chest, his body hot from exertion. Exultation filled Nick, buoyed by the thrill of height, and the heat of Isaac’s skin.
Nothing would ever be the same, and they would be together. Forever.
MR. WINTER
Jeremy Terry
The office had been empty three minutes before when Collins stepped into his private bathroom to answer nature’s call. He would have heard the outer door open; the hinges were in need of maintenance, and squealed slightly.
Yet he found a man sitting in the high backed leather chair when he returned. Collins glanced over the man’s shoulder at the ornate wall clock hanging above the chair, a gift from a grateful client.
It was 12:10 P.M.
Collins frowned. Veronica never allowed anyone into his office without his first telling her to send them in, especially between noon and one when he was taking his lunch. This was all highly unusual. He looked back to the man, studying him. He was slight, barely five feet tall, with delicate features and skin as white as freshly denuded bone.
Denuded bone, thought Collins, feeling a chill run through him. Why did I think of that?
He looked into the man’s eyes and felt he was being trapped by them. They were the blackest black, the color of midnight in Hell. They were startling, unnerving, and yet strangely beautiful. It seemed his pupils absorbed the light, devouring it so there was no shine or reflection in his eyes. They were like a void, the absence of anything.
It was very curious indeed. Collins felt compelled to speak.
“How did you get in here?”
The man did not answer.
Collins turned to his phone and pressed the button to key the intercom between his office and Veronica’s desk outside, “Veronica, why did you send this man into my office? Who is he?”
Veronica didn’t answer.
“Veronica?”
“She isn’t there, Mr. Collins,” the man said, speaking for the first time since entering. His voice was weird, high and breathy like that of an excited girl rather than a grown man.
Collins frowned. “What do you mean, ‘she isn’t there?’”
“I believe she has gone to lunch.”
“That’s not possible. She never leaves without my permission. I’m her boss.”
“Oh, don’t fret, Mr. Collins. Her absence gives us more time to speak.”
“Excuse me, but I don’t know you. Do you have an appointment?”
“Oh yes. Our appointment has been on the books for quite some time. It is a real pleasure to finally meet you.”
The way he said pleasure creeped Collins out. He had the impression this man’s idea of pleasure might be vastly different from his. Of course, Collins’ own idea of pleasure was far from what would be considered normal. His mind drifted to the small room in the basement of his home. The man’s lips twitched upwards as if he were about to smile and Collins felt a trickle of fear. For a moment it felt like the odd visitor knew what he was thinking.
Collins cleared his throat, “I’m not aware of any such appointment. Who are you?”
“I have many names. You may call me Mr. Winter.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
Mr. Winter laughed, his girlish voice echoing off the walls, “It means just what I said. I have been called many things over the long years and while I do love the old names this is one of my favorites. Winter signifies death. It brings about the end of things so spring may come and bring new life.”
“What … are you playing games with me?”
“I never play games, Mr. Collins.”
“Then what are you doing here? What do you want?”
“You,” Mr. Winter said.
“You want me?”
“Yes. I’ve come for you. I am your winter, Mr. Collins. I am your end.”
Collins stood up quickly, sending his chair crashing into the wall behind him. “Are you fucking crazy? I’ve had enough of this shit! Get out of my office!”
Mr. Winter’s mouth twitched up into his almost smile again and he shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not. I’m not going anywhere and neither are you.”
“We’ll see about that,” Collins replied. He strode around the desk, making for the door.
He half expected the little man to try to stop him but Mr. Winter remained still, watching him with his flat black eyes. Collins gripped the doorknob and twisted. The knob refused to turn.
“What the hell?”
“I told you that you weren’t going anywhere. It’s much too late for that.”
Collins turned to Mr. Winter, “What do you mean it’s too late?”
“It’s over, Mr. Collins. I claimed you while you stood before your bathroom mirror marveling at yourself. You belong to me now.”
“I belong to nobody.”
“See for yourself,” said Mr. Winter. He motioned with his pale hand towards the closed bathroom door.
Terror gripped Collins. He didn’t want to see for himself. He didn’t want to go into the bathroom. He didn’t want anything more to do with the vile little man, not now or ever again. Yet he found himself inexorably drawn to the unknown. He walked past Mr. Winter without daring to breathe and paused at the threshold. One last piece of him cried out for him to stop, to resist the madness, but the imperative would not be ignored. He reached out with trembling hand and opened the door.
Insanity crept upon him then. It was like a great blinding light threatening to burn away all he was. He fought it, seeking reason, seeking some hidden truth to explain everything and set the world straight.
There was a body on the tile floor but it couldn’t be him. After all, he was standing right there. He touched his cheeks and was reassured by the solidness of his flesh, by the warmth of his skin and the roughness of his stubble. There must be an explanation and he would find it. He looked at the body again. It wore a suit like the one he wore. It wore the same shoes and the same gold watch glistened on the corpse’s grey wrist. These things were disturbing but they didn’t prove anything.
He needed to see the face.
The b
ody lay on its side with one arm lying over its head, obscuring its features. Collins crossed the cold room and knelt down. He reached out and pushed the corpse onto its back.
His own dead, sightless eyes stared up at him from his dead face.
The blinding light exploded in his mind and there was no resisting it this time. Collins threw his head back and began to scream. He stood up and fled from the horror. He paused when he reached his desk. The office was empty. There was no sign of Mr. Winter save for the office door, which now stood open before him. Collins ran through.
The reception area with Veronica’s neat desk and family pictures was gone.
In its place was something that couldn’t be there. Collins skidded to a halt on the smooth concrete floor. He turned, looking for the door to his office, and found a solid white wall. He turned back to the room and looked around.
There in the corner was the big wooden box he kept the children’s toys in. Along the back wall ran the cabinets where he stored the candy he offered the kids, the candy laced with a sedative to make them manageable when the real fun began. His knives hung in a low row on the left wall, gleaming in the fluorescent lights like the teeth of some great beast. And there, in the center of the room was the chair. It began its existence as a simple dentist’s chair but Collins had turned it into so much more. This was where he had his way with them and then cut them up.
His room, the one place he could be his true self. How had he come to be there? Had he dreamed the whole thing?
“You’re not dreaming, Mr. Collins.”
Collins screamed and spun, looking everywhere for Mr. Winter and not finding him. The high-pitched voice spoke again, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time.
“This is where you brought your victims. This is where you took their innocence and then their lives. This is where you showed your true colors, the colors of a monster. You did all of this thinking no one saw you, but you were wrong. I saw you. I was in this very room as you made your cuts. I was the one who took the torn and broken children far away from you and all the hurt to a place more beautiful than the most brilliant mind can fathom. But that place is not meant for you.”
Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant Page 23
