Collins blinked and felt cold leather underneath him. He opened his eyes and found himself staring up at the ceiling. He tried to move and couldn’t. He was bound tight in the chair, his chair. He began to struggle against his bonds, breaking the skin at his ankles and wrists. He felt warm blood begin to flow.
“There’s a special place in Hell for people like you, Mr. Collins. It’s not a lake of fire and brimstone, but a place of repetition, a place where your evil deeds are visited on you over and over and over again…”
There was a rustling noise and Mr. Winter came into view. The half smile was gone now, replaced by a shark’s grin full of teeth much too big for the little man’s face. He held one of Collins’ own knives in his small hand.
“Let us begin …”
IMPRESSIONS
Christine Morgan
“What’s this nasty, grubby envelope?” the new girl asks.
Kane pokes his head up from the far side of a glass display case. “Uh-oh. Return address?”
She’s behind the counter, sorting the mail. The National Parks Service sends him a new intern every season, part of a college program. This one’s real name’s Philippa, but she goes by Poppy.
“Um … Spectral Outcast Press?”
“Oh, hell.” He straightens from his crouch, stretching until his spine gives a satisfying crackle.
She raises a hand. “No, wait. Sprectal Outcast. S-P-R. That can’t be right.”
“Typo, mistake, Freudian slip, pick one.”
“Sounds like a ghost with a thing for butts. What would you even call that? A proctolergeist?”
Kane snorts. “Funny.”
“Sprectal,” she says. “Who fails that bad on a printed address label?”
“Believe me, that’s small beans. This guy’s ‘published’ stuff with his own name misspelled on the cover.”
“Did you just make actual air-quotes at me?”
“Trust me, it’s warranted.”
Poppy nudges the envelope with a pen, making a face that suggests she expects something to wriggle out from under the flap. “Is this that same wackadoodle who’s been writing to the Gazette?”
“Oh? I haven’t seen any of his brand of crazy in the paper lately.”
“A.J. told me. They couldn’t print half of it if they wanted to.”
“Ah.” Kane utters a sour chuckle. “Full of ripe shits and fuck your mothers?”
“To put it mildly.”
“Only a matter of time until he got around to us, I suppose. Do you know Ms. Ashton-Smith, at the county museum?”
“February? Sure.”
“He’s always trying to ‘donate’ copies of his latest crap. There, the library, even the school. Now it must be our turn. Probably wants us to carry it in the gift shop.”
“Why?”
“Thinks he owns the lake. He used the same name in a story once, so therefore it’s his. Or something.”
She frowns. “But the lake got its name back in the 1800’s. Says so in the guidebook and on the plaque right out front. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“You know that, I know that, everybody in town knows that, anybody who can read or has half a brain knows that. But, logic and reality, they aren’t Uncle Sticky’s strong points.”
“Why is he called … on second thought, don’t tell me. Please don’t tell me.”
He grins, but it’s humorless. “Good choice.”
Outside, gravel crunches under tires as the first car of the day turns into the lot. They both glance toward the windows.
“What should I do with this?” Poppy nudges the envelope again.
“Circular file.”
“You don’t want to open it?”
“I like my brain not vomiting itself out my eye sockets, thanks.” He adjusts his uniform belt and picks up his hat. “How do I look?”
“Park Ranger Brian Kane, reporting for duty.”
“Yippe-ki-yay.” Slapping the hat into place, he strides out to meet the tourist-looking family. “Morning, folks. Welcome to Fossil Lake.”
* * *
Fossil Lake.
Once part of an inland freshwater sea. Rich layers of clay caught everything that sank to the bottom – leaves, insects, worms, pine needles, fish, bits of twig, seed pods, tadpoles, ferns, feathers. More layers, settling as silt, covered them over.
As the organic matter decayed, only outlines remained, the delicate traceries of scales, leafy veins, and fibrous textures preserved in minute detail like fine sketches etched into the clay. Time and pressure took their toll, hardening the sediment into solid slabs that were eventually driven upward by tectonic forces, fractured and fragmented, scattered.
The settlers to the area, finding such relics, always hoped for some great discovery, something to rival the dinosaur bones of the Montana Badlands and put Fossil Lake on the map. Sadly, it was not meant to be. Charming though the little lake was, scenic though its surroundings, it seemed destined for a peaceful, prosperous obscurity.
Of those early pioneers, only impressions remain as well. A sole building – formerly the one-room schoolhouse – still stands, converted into a museum by the Poe County Historical Society. Kids from the Chalklines Preschool and Daycare squabble where hardy pioneer children once took their recess from lessons.
The old well at the center of the grassy village square presides over a downtown consisting of Rusty’s Hardware Emporium, a Grocery Barn, the library, an internet café and arcade called GAME OVER, fine dining at Giovanni’s and homestyle family fare at The Unicorn, the main offices of the Gazette, and shops that cater to the tourists.
Near the Visitor and Education Center run by Ranger Kane, is the campground, Mel’s mini-mart, a motel with half a dozen individual cabins, and, of course, the boathouse where Ramsey’s boys rent out rowboats and kayaks.
At the far end of town, past Willard and Frank’s Pest Control – can’t miss the place, what with that giant ant on the roof – is Not That Dark Spot, a roadhouse the summer trade tends to avoid. It’s not that dark because it’s darker than dark, a darkety-dark hole where the wanks and hacks hang out.
On a good night, there’ll be live music from the Black Skull Death Vines, a local band. On a bad night, Peaches will have too many cans of PBR and decide to dance. It’s a scary sight. Those lucky enough to not know better say it’s the scariest sight ever to be seen in the vicinity.
Those who are less lucky, well, they’ve had occasion to run into Uncle Sticky.
And yet, amazing though it may seem, once upon a time there was something even nastier around here. The early pioneers, who’d hoped for dinosaurs, might or might not have been disappointed by what was finally discovered in the fossil record. It was no species of dinosaur, like they’d hoped for, to be sure. Still, it might indeed have put the town on the map.
But, as they say, that was then and this is now.
For now, the tourists enjoy posing for snapshots with the fiberglass replicas out in front of the Visitor and Education Center. They stick their heads into the claws, and pretend to ride astride the carapaces. They buy bumper stickers, postcards, t-shirts, plastic hand-clackers for the kids.
They don’t need to see a shitfaced Peaches twerking it at the bar, or Uncle Sticky waving his stubby middle fingers while he shouts about cum-guzzling infant-rapers. Talk about making the wrong kind of impression!
Such things would detract somewhat from happy vacation memories and wholesome family fun.
Fossil Lake.
The fishing’s no good – attempts at stocking the lake with trout never seem to take – but there’s boating, and swimming, and sun-bathing along the beaches. Hiking trails wend through the wooded hills.
And, of course, there’s the namesake activity, fossil-collecting. Most of what gets found is still ferns and worms and insects. Every now and then, the crumbling clay scree yields some more interesting prizes.
The best ones were found by a Scout troop a few summers back. Sad to say, representative
s of that organization haven’t returned since. That was, unfortunately, when Uncle Sticky got his moniker. Shouting senseless obscenities, sleazing around the campsites spying on teenagers in sleeping bags …
But, no. No. Enough of that. Please, for the sake of all that’s good and holy in this world, enough of that.
The lake’s the thing. Scenic, mineral-rich Fossil Lake. It isn’t a geothermically-heated hot spring like at Yellowstone; the cool water seeps up from subterranean aquifers and artesian wells. Instead of sulfur compounds, it consists primarily of calcite, magnesium and iron.
It’s harmless enough to drink, though it does have a distinct flavor – as well as an aftertaste and residue. For swimming, however, it provides buoyancy and a lovely, silky feel on the skin. Words such as therapeutic, invigorating and rejuvenating are frequently mentioned.
The water is crystal clear down to within about eighteen inches of the bottom, which stirs up in murky roiled clouds whenever disturbed. But few swim down so far. For one thing, it requires scuba gear. For another, there wouldn’t be much to see even if not for the silt.
Usually.
If someone went down there now, equipped with mask, tank, flippers and dive-light, he or she might see something after all, something buried in the soft clay as if to hide … the way flatfish burrow into the sand for camouflage, peering up with a single watery eye in the shadows … or the houses of spiders who dig into loose desert dirt.
Imagine it there, lurking.
Lurking in the dark like some darkly lurking thing.
* * *
A tent, a cooler, some music, and three chums kicking back on canvas chairs around the fire.
Good times.
The lake glimmers under a half-moon. Ripples lap softly at the pebbled shore. A playful breeze wafts spirals of smoke this way and that. When a log splits, orange sparks whirl up from its glowing heart.
Peaceful. Relaxing.
“Nice,” says Cody. Then, “Whoops, shit!” as his marshmallow ignites.
“Hold it over the coals, not the flames,” Jeannie says.
Mark stretches. “Glad we got a quiet site away from the crowds.”
Further down the beach, by the RV park, bonfires blaze. Silhouettes pass in front of them, people dancing or rough-housing or strolling along the boat-docks. Lights shine in a few cabin and motel-room windows.
It’s just the right balance of being out in the unspoiled wilderness and being close enough to civilization that they’re not totally isolated.
They talk books, agreeing that Clive Barker is brilliant, and that however skilled Orson Scott Card might be, his raving homophobic bigotry renders him utterly unreadable. The breeze shifts, bringing them the cool mineral scent of the lake and whiffs of barbecue. Stars twinkle in the blackness above.
Conversation ebbs into companionable silence. Mark pokes the fire. Jeannie opens a fresh bag of marshmallows.
“Hey, did you hear something?” Cody tilts his head.
All three of them listen. Water ripples, the wind whispers in the trees, distant strains of music and whooping voices drift over from the bonfires. A dog barks. Another burning branch cracks in the firepit, spitting sparks.
“Nope,” says Jeannie. “Nothing weird, anyway.”
“Okay. Must be the quiet, getting to me.”
“Spooky story time?” Mark grins.
“Yeah, right,” Cody says. “What, the Fossil Lake Monster?”
“The ghost of some drowned camper?” suggests Jeannie.
“A murdered maniac back from the grave,” Cody adds. “Like something from a horror movie.”
“Or a novel by Laymon, Ketchum or Lee. Inbred cannibal hillbilly mutants.”
“Picture if you will,” Mark begins, doing his Rod Serling impression. “Fossil Lake, a serene and idyllic retreat –”
Jeannie chucks marshmallows at him until he surrenders, all three of them laughing.
Then there’s a heavy sort of rustle and crunch. Their laughter stops. They take uneasy glances around. The flickering firelight gives the illusion of stealthy, scurrying movement.
They wait. Nothing happens.
“Probably an animal,” Jeannie says.
“What if it really is the Fossil Lake Monster?” Cody widens his eyes. “Remember those models outside the Visitor Center? What if it’s one of those things, crawling out of the lake?”
“You heard what the ranger said.” Jeannie chucks a marshmallow at him, too. “They went extinct millions of years ago.”
“And even if they hadn’t,” says Mark, “they wouldn’t sound like that.” He makes pincers with both hands and snaps them rapidly.
The breeze shifts again.
“Oh, whew,” says Cody, grimacing.
Jeannie flaps a hand in front of her nose. “God, what died?”
“A hobo in a truck stop men’s room?”
The scent that hits them is not a scent but a bona fide stench, conjuring mental images of fetid basements, mouldering piles of unwashed laundry, a kitchen trash can overflowing with spoiled food and used toilet paper.
A strange chortling giggle, high-pitched but mushy, comes from somewhere past their tent.
“Who’s there?” Jeannie calls.
“Yeah, quit screwing around, whoever you are.” Mark stands up.
“Come on, say something,” says Cody.
The reply is a slurred rush of mumbling grunts, from which a few semi-comprehensible words emerge.
“… faggoty assfucker … go get raped by barn animals … call me a fraud? fuck you I am darkly controversial … all the incest abortion babies who want me to go away for not writing yaoi slash …”
“What the hell is it?” Cody rises from his camp chair as well.
“Creepy, whatever it is,” says Mark.
Jeannie pulls a stick from the fire to serve as a torch. “Maybe someone needs help.”
Another muddled mess of words spew forth like pus from an infected wound. “Why you have to be a raging bitch about it and take a big ripe steaming shit on my publications well I wish you would stick an AIDS-infected squirrel up your ass and then my whole roster can take turns taking big ripe steaming shits in your open coffin.”
“Someone needs help, all right,” Mark mutters.
They edge sideways around the tent until the light from the makeshift torch falls upon a pudgy, misshapen figure hunched in the bushes. Hate-filled beady little eyes squint against the glare. Long greasy tangles of hair fall in lank clumps to the collar of a grimy shirt sporting the logo of some metal band.
“Think it is a hobo,” Cody says. “Hey! Who’re you?”
“Do you have sleeeeeeeeping bags?” the weirdo asks, oozing his slimy snail-trail gaze over them, licking his scabby lips. Here, unmistakably, is the source of the stench. “Tight, snug sleeping bags? Tucked in real tight and zipped shut real good so you can’t move?”
All three of them take instinctive steps back. Their faces twist with revulsion.
“What is wrong with you?” Cody asks. “Dude! Sick!”
“I think he must be mentally defective,” says Jeannie.
“Call me a retard you slutwhore I bet you are some fucking plagiarist wank, another cunt trying to sabotage –”
She brandishes the torch at him. “What did you call me?”
He recoils, whining. “Just because I suggested they give rim jobs to their dead relatives and suck dog-dicks, they go and try to make me a laughingstock; well, I have a crude sense of humor and am outspoken about my beliefs which the homo agenda wants me to shut up!”
“Get the fuck out of here, you creep! Before we call the ranger or kick your ass ourselves!” Mark moves a meaningful stride forward, fists clenched.
The weirdo squeals. An acrid stink of piss overpowers everything else. With a shrill, gurgling cry that is either a titter or a yelp, he makes a break for it. His clumsy, stumpy-legged excuse for a run tramples the undergrowth. Leaves don’t quite wilt at his passage, but it wouldn’t have
been surprising.
Then he’s gone. Cody, Jeannie and Mark shudder in unison. They look at each other as the smell dissipates and the normal scents of the forest once again fill the air.
“Who’s for moving camp over closer to the crowds?” Cody raises his hand. “Like, immediately?”
Jeannie’s and Mark’s shoot up as well.
“That,” says Jeannie, “or pack up and leave altogether. I don’t know about you guys, but I never want to spend the night in a sleeping bag again.”
* * *
Lloyd, A.J.’s partner at the Gazette as well as in other ways, bursts into the Visitor and Education Center, wild-eyed and wild-haired, panting for breath, his rumpled clothes askew in a sexy kind of way.
“Me and A.J. … we were at … at the lake … we saw … he went to grab his camera … we saw … we saw …”
“What?” asks Poppy. “What did you see?”
“An unseen horror!”
“But you just said you saw it,” she says.
He falters, blinking. Pretty, like most of A.J.’s boyfriends, but not the sharpest crayon in the box. “Unknown, then. An unknown horror.”
Ranger Kane pinches the bridge of his nose and strives for patience. “So, what did it look like, this unknown horror?”
“It was indescribable!”
“Indescribable?”
“Like something out of a horror story!”
“Indescribable,” Kane repeats dryly.
“Yeah, like from a story Stephen King, or Richard Matheson. Or an episode of The Twi–”
He leans across the counter to swat Lloyd upside the head. “Knock it off. You’re a reporter, a writer. It’s your job to describe things.”
Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant Page 24
