Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant (26 page)

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 body 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.”

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, representatives 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.