Fossil Lake II: The Refossiling

by H. P. Lovecraft

  “‘Dem bones,‘dem bones,‘dem dry bones ...’”

  Gideon, he’s just watchin’ me fastening them bits together like I’m some mad scientist building his own Frankenstein creature, and at that moment I felt damned glad God didn’t give dogs no voice to express themself. It seemed clear the two bony members come from the same person. Whoever it was, back into the freezer I put ‘dem ol’ dry bones. Crazy thing was, Giddy, he set himself by that freezer box for hours like he felt some kinship with whoever’s bits and pieces I’d put inside, and he wouldn’t leave that freezer ‘til I turned out the lights for bed.

  Next day another arm arrived at my boots, this time with the hand still attached. My Gideon was fetching me this complementary skeleton piecemeal, that’s a fact. Clearly someone had did some dismembering of this poor soul, and I weren’t favored of authorities sticking their noses into my business while searching for foul play. So I kept my dog’s spoils ‘tween only him and myself.

  Next, Gideon retrieved what looked like a torso’s rib cage. There weren’t a stitch of clothes on it, and I figured maybe them decayed tatters ol’ Giddy chewed off to make the miles of transporting easier, or maybe they just plain tore off along the journey ‘cause he lugged that skeletal bastard all the way home ‘round Fossil Lake and through the driftin’ snow. Hoping to find some answers I tried followin’ him, at least as far as I were able. But ol’ Giddy, he wouldn’t have none of that. This job he clearly chose to tackle solo and he run clear past the lake, so I contented myself with that bony jigsaw and my trusty nail gun. I discovered some old door hinges worked just fine for them trickier moving parts. But there was something I knowed from the start ‘bout ‘dem dry bones.’ See, they seemed more than a tad familiar to my Giddy.

  “‘Are these my Mattie’s bones you’ve been fetchin’ for me, are they, boy?’ I asked.

  “But you weren’t tellin’ your secrets, were you Gid?”

  Mattie weren’t exactly a small woman and these could certainly be her pieces inside my parlor. And the way Gid had been standing watch ev’ry night alongside my freezer, well, it just seemed the most natural deduction. I half hoped them bones would soon reunite with an accompanying skull, find a voice that distinctly sounded like Mattie’s, and say to me, “Why, hello, Abe. How the hell have you been?”

  So I’m thinking I ought to take a walk up to the bone yard what held my departed wife’s remains, maybe stumble on some answers. But a fresh carpet of snow had fell practically every day, and judging whether Mattie’s grave had been tampered with might’ve proved difficult. My ol’ pickup weren’t much use in the snow gettin’ me up to Mt. Mariah where she lay buried, and in this cold my arthritis would scarce permit these creaky joints to attempt that long hike. So I had to rely on my natural intuition to determine what Gideon was telling me with new bones at my feet most every noon. A leg come one day, its accompanying foot the next, and I just kept piecing ‘em together, a regular Sherlock Bones workin’ out this mystery of connecting leg bones and hip bones and rib bones, just like in that dumb ass song.

  ‘Cepting for the fact there weren’t no head bone.

  My Lab seemed purposely to be dawdling concerning that bony centerpiece. Maybe Giddy was saving that particular prize for last, I don’t know. My dog, he always had a flair for what’s dramatic.

  “Lookit that tail goin’. Damn if Gid don’t know I’m talkin’ ‘bout him.”

  Okay, so maybe what I’m telling you sounds crazy, but let me say this straight out ‘cause this next part got all the rest beat. Them bones, they was too many of ‘em to keep shoving into my freezer every evening. I don’t get too many visitors to this cabin, so I figure I can keep them skeletal remains flat on my floor, then wait ‘til Giddy decides to go fetch me that head. ‘Course, once my job was complete I had no idea what I might decide next, ‘specially if Sheriff Pete should come calling because some local cadaver’s been reported A.W.O.L.

  As things turned out, that decision weren’t mine to make.

  “‘Dem bones, oh ‘dem dry bones ...’”

  But they wasn’t really dry ...

  At first it seemed maybe my eyes, they’d gone as bad as my joints. I’m no kid no more, I know that. But what I seen - or what I thought I seen on them remains - well, that just made no sense at all. I had to inspect up close to make certain my own brains wasn’t leaking through my skull. No, it was there, all right, plain as daylight ...

  There was new flesh growin’ on them bones!

  No, there weren’t much, not at first. Just tatters, really, little shreds of skin here and there like gnawed chicken parts. But it was flesh I hadn’t seen on them remains before, right down to the liver and onions stink of it. And Gideon, he just kept sniffing them skeleton bones as if to prove my mind hadn’t left town.

  “You smelled it too, didn’t you, boy? I know you did.”

  But that ain’t all. See, every day there seemed a bit more skin, and them bony remains was filling in nicely. Weren’t none of that rotting flesh neither, though maybe it might’ve started out that way. But that skin soon turned fresh, even took on something of a hue, not like no deteriorated corpse been in the ground for Christ knows how long. I know what I seen was clearly impossible, that no skeleton turns itself back into flesh and blood. But seeing is meant to mean believing, and the proof of what I seen lay on my parlor floor.

  This body was - Lord, is there even such a word? - recomposing!

  There weren’t enough skin yet to determine whether my guest was man or woman, but I christened my creation Mister Bones, havin’ no desire to face crushing disappointment. See, had Mister Bones turned out a woman I was hoping he were my Mattie, though don’t you ask me why. I guess that’s what too much loneliness can do to an old fool.

  So I’m thinking maybe time’s come to share my find with some professional hot shot - a doctor, maybe even a mortician - what might supply some highbrow logic to what seemed perfectly insane. ‘Course, a problem was how I’d spent two weeks welding pieces of some likely stranger, and go try explaining that to someone with a certificate on his wall while blaming all that grave robbing on my dog. ‘Yes, Officer, and I swear it was my dog what just farted too.’ On consideration, I figured it best not to involve no third parties. Answers would come. You wait long enough, answers always come, don’t they? Even if it’s answers you never want to know.

  This particular answer come on the day Giddy dragged in that corpse’s head.

  As he always done, Gideon laid that last bone at my feet, then set there all pleased with himself while I’m lookin’ down at this big grinning skull. In a day or two, sure as shinola, I’d see flesh growing on it with eyes in them sockets ‘stead of black holes, and a real face too. I picked up that head bone, spoke to Mister Bones like we was best friends.

  “Whoever you are, maybe I owe you an apology. See, I mean no disrespecting of the dead, and that’s plain truth. My dog brung you here for a reason and what I done ain’t so horrible if it answers questions so badly need answers. So I’m hopin’ you forgive and consider what I done I done for good cause.” I ain’t ashamed to admit I picked up that skull, whispered to it, “And if you are my Mattie, welcome home ...”

  Then I went for my nail gun.

  Late that night I left that skeleton, newly complete, on my parlor floor still reposed as if finally resting in some semblance of peace. Too exhausted even to put out the embers in my fire place I never made it to bed, instead fallin’ into a fitful sleep right there in my easy chair. Slept clear to morning too with Gideon at my side. But when the first light of daybreak come, I rose up like a shot. My brain required a moment to register what I saw.

  “ ... Sweet Jesus!”

  Them skeletal remains was gone! Mister Bones had somehow got to his feet and left!

  Giddy, he was scratching at the bedroom door, and I knowed why. Still, it took some time to muster enough grit to swing that door open. But when I did, there he was, Mister Bones reposing beneath my covers like he’
s had himself one hell of a good night’s sleep. His head was turned so I couldn’t really see, and I damn near tiptoed to that bed. He already had some hair now, not a lot, just some tufts. It was thin and it was grey, but it was hair. I reached out to tilt the face on my pillow, and what I seen turned my insides to ice there on the spot. That dead man’s face was still unformed, but Mister Bones, he was a man, all right, and he had a face now, and ... that face ... Jesus, that face ...

  ... it was my own!

  My dog, he’s sniffing at that corpse ‘cause he knowed who it was too.

  “Giddy, what is this terrible thing you brung into our home??”

  Gideon, he’s just staring at me, but he remained alongside the bed refusing to budge. I reached out to him, tried to pull him from that body, but my hand, it passed through my dog like I was reaching at air.

  Now, the rest of this you’re going to have to take on faith. It’s not like I’ve any familiarity with the mysteries of time nor space, and I’m as much in the dark about the true nature of this world as the next fella. So I can’t make no apologies if this part don’t make much sense. But, see, at that moment my flesh, first it seemed there, but then it weren’t, and I’m watching while my skin is disappearing before my eyes! My own hand, it might’ve just as well been made of smoke. My finger bones was peeking through what flesh remained, and I look over at that other me reposed there in my bed. It seemed I’m looking at a regular changing of the guard because I swear we was swapping places!

  And then the damnedest thing of all ...

  From nowhere all the sunshine in the world dropped in one spot. This abrupt feeling come over me, this peace inside I’d not felt in such a long while. And suddenly it’s like all what’s past, none of it matters ‘cause I’m not scared no more, not scared at all. Me and Gideon, we was inside that white luminescence, just taking it in while it washed over us like warm spring rain. It felt so damned good I can’t begin to tell you, and I don’t intend to try.

  Maybe I would be with Mattie again after all. And my dog, he would be there too, my yellow Lab retrieving for one last time what happiness I lost.

  “Will you take me to her, Giddy?”

  He ran ahead where the light shone brightest but stopped to turn and wait so I might catch up, then ran only a bit further and waited for me to follow.

  I did just that.

  Such a good dog, my Gideon is.

  So what is it you call this place ...?

  Sheriff Peter Dexter’s new deputy, Walter, could make no sense of what they found. During his morning patrol of North Jasper’s wooded interior Walter had noticed smoke billows belching from Abe Samuels’ chimney. The old man had been dead for close to six months and excepting some worthless furniture Abe’s shanty had remained empty. Now two officers stood slack jawed with their discovery inside the old shack’s small bed room.

  “That’s Abe Samuels, no doubt about it,” the sheriff said. “I attended this man’s funeral at Mt. Mariah last spring, saw him put into the ground myself. It’s vandals brought him back here, that’s my bet. Kids probably with nothin’ else to do but skim stones ‘cross the ol’ lake.”

  “Where’s the mud they would’ve dragged in, Sheriff? And we had to bust the door ourselves, so how would kids get past a door locked from the inside without—?”

  “—Door was left open, maybe the lock catch slipped back on after they left. And there’s snow on the ground, and maybe it dried up.”

  Walter shook his head. He wasn’t buying it.

  “Then what’s with the stuffed dog? Kids carry him in too?”

  The remains of an old Labrador Retriever stood stiff alongside the old man’s bed, its belly badly stitched by someone who clearly knew very little about taxidermy. The yellow fur along the nape had gone ragged and grubby as if the dead dog had been touched too many times.

  “That’s Gideon,” the sheriff explained. “This dog was all Abe had after his wife passed on. Mattie’s dead close to five years now, and his Labrador never left Abe’s side from the moment she passed. So when Gideon died too, Abe couldn’t bear to see his circumstances altered further. He stuffed that dog himself. Everyone in Jasper knows his story, Walter. After so much grief Abe’s heart finally went bust. It’s sad what comes of old folks.”

  “You’re saying that stuffed dog’s just been setting here all this time? Okay, so Abe’s been dead and buried six months? This corpse looks fresh to me, Pete. How in hell did he get here in such condition? And where’s his clothes?”

  “Snow keeps a corpse fresh in that cold earth. Vandals took his clothes to leave the poor ol’ guy naked, that’s my bet. Abe had nothin’ worth stealing.”

  “I don’t know, Sheriff. Something here just don’t feel right.”

  Pete Dexter mopped sweat beads from his forehead. He sat on the bed near Abe’s feet. “No one never said the world had to make sense, Walter. I think that may go double for North Jasper’s woods.”

  The deputy offered his own take on the old man’s circumstances. “How’s this for no sense, then? Maybe Abe wanted to die but knew he couldn’t allow it, not while ol’ Gideon was still here needing him. His dog was already dead, but maybe Abe didn’t know it, or didn’t want to. This old guy had his own way of living, Pete. Maybe he had his own way of dying as well.”

  Sheriff Dexter smiled a little wider than seemed necessary.

  “You’re telling me Abe didn’t know he was dead too, that he come back here for his dog? That seems a bit hard to swallow, don’t you think, Deputy?”

  Pondering the sheriff’s argument Walter managed an embarrassed grin, but Dexter wasn’t satisfied he had made his case stick. His tone became that of a man pulling rank.

  “There’s nothing here out of the ordinary beyond some local kids’ vandalism, isn’t that just common sense? Isn’t it?”

  The deputy’s face went crimson. He was new at this, but there seemed no point in coming off like a complete fool at his first real crime scene.

  “Hell, Pete. I guess you’re right. Of course you are. You can’t blame a guy feeling a little spooked finding the old coot on his bed like this with his dead dog here standing watch. Sorry.”

  “Strange things happen in these woods all the time, Walter. But corpses crawlin’ out of their graves, I’d say that seems a little far fetched. Abe’s remains will decompose soon enough, and I see no advantage goin’ into the unspoiled manner in which we discovered him. So we won’t be putting any of that into our report, will we?”

  Walter managed to return the sheriff’s smile. “Vandals, that’s what did this,” he said, then bore with the uncomfortable silence that followed.

  Finally Dexter managed to look at his partner again. “Glad we’re on the same page, Walter. Guess you and me ought take a ride up to Mt. Mariah this morning, eh? Let old Abe get back to restin’ in some peace?”

  “I don’t mind getting my hands dirty, Sheriff. Maybe we should see that Gideon here finds some well deserved rest near Abe and Mattie too. A faithful dog deserves that much, don’t you think?”

  Dexter nodded, and straightening his hat pulled his collar tight.

  “I sure hope Patty’s got a fresh pot of coffee on for us. It gets damned cold in that bone yard.”

  PERFECT TEN

  Scott R Jones

  No one really expected her to do as well as she did.

  I mean, a new poet like that — attractive in a bruised but obviously affected way; defensive stare, pupils laser-guiding you away from the vacuity behind the eyes; black leather notebook full of angry or hopeful or political or dreamy poems — girls like that? Poets like that? The Moon Under Water sees half a dozen come in at each slam.

  They get up behind the mic, and forget that there’s a time limit on their performance, forget that the moment the first word passes their lips, somewhere in the room the timekeeper has clicked her stopwatch. They forget that they’re being judged, forget about the random drunks in the audience equipped with score cards. Or maybe they don
’t, maybe they remember the stopwatch and the cards because after all, it is a poetry slam, but they don’t care because they’re poets, faux-bruised for their art, and they go on for half a minute explaining the anger or hope, the politics or dream that fuels the poem before even starting the fucking thing. Clutching their notebooks in pale hands, knuckles ivoried from their own nerves and the lights above and the hundred eyes watching them. They finish, finally. They go overtime, usually, some by a few seconds, others by whole minutes.

  They never score well. Either they don’t know how to use the microphone or they mumble lines from their pages and refuse to make eye contact with the audience or the poem is just no good in the first place and they go over the three minute time limit besides. People still cheer when they’re done, though. I mean, just getting up there on stage deserves encouragement; it’s harder than it looks. Most get a taste for it and come back for the next slam. Maybe some of them get better. A few get really good, with time and practice and the toughening that comes with competition. A poet gets to know what the audience wants at a slam, what the judges dig, and they alter their style accordingly. Become better performers, for what it’s worth.

  But the new poets? The ones who have never slammed before? Girls like her?

  No one really expected her to do as well as she did.

  But then, she didn’t read from her notebook, which was faded yellow leather and not black. During the first round, when Slam Master Todd called her name (which, thanks to the shitty sound system of The Moon Under Water, became burst-of-hellacious-feedback-Castaigne), she took her notebook up on stage with her, and there she briefly consulted a page, in silence. From behind the bar I could see the timekeeper getting fidgety, thumb over the button. She consulted a page, then another, before letting the hand that held the book drift lazily to her side, forgotten, a handful of pallid dead leaves clinging to a November branch. She raised her eyes to the gathered hippies and anarchists and liberal arts students and drunks, then, this new poet, this girl, this burst-of-noise Castaigne, and her eyes were lasers, yes, but not defensive somehow, not meant to distract the gaze from her abyss but to target and lock on and draw it within her. I remember catching at my breath when she looked at me, as if I’d just stepped up to a cliff edge in the dark. The whole bar caught its breath.