Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant (24 page)

Penny finished the story, but not easily.

… and this is my last year.

*     *     *

Human voices woke her. The other girls in the cabin were whispering and giggling while the counsellor tried to hush them. Even here, at night in her bunk, Penny could still smell the lake; it hid under her fingernails, concealed itself in her hair, and softened the edges of her scabs. She would carry it home with her like contraband, and savour it for as long as she could.

She was losing everything. Tears streaming down her cheeks, Penny rolled onto her belly and thrust her hands beneath her pillow. Her fingertips traced shale, seeking and finding the clawed creature in the rock.

She had intended to take the fossil home with her. One last souvenir of Camp Zaagaigan. A friend that she could keep in her trinket drawer and take out when she felt alone.

How would the creature fare, she wondered, so far away from Lake Mishipishu? Already it looked less substantial; the charcoal rock and copper became pale grey and faint orange when they dried. She drew the stone from beneath her pillow and rubbed it against her moist face, hoping to feed it sustenance. Penny wept a lake of tears until there were no more left to cry; until the lakebed in her eyes was hard and dry.

When all moisture was gone, truth came to light.

Driven by an inevitability she did not yet understand, Penny unzipped her sleeping bag and swung her feet over the side of the bunk. She clutched her silent friend to her chest and left her flashlight behind. She walked out of the cabin and into the night alone, without even the counsellor’s voice calling after her.

The halogen lamps next to the latrines screamed their illumination into the night. Penny turned away from them and headed towards the lake. The moon overhead rimed the cabins and trees with a delicate silver crust, and Lake Mishipishu was a mirror, throwing back the light like a beacon. The H-dock sat black and heavy on the silvery surface.

Penny slid into the shadows of the boathouse and wrapped them around her like a sleeping bag. The hulk of the boathouse loomed over her, clouding her reflection in the water, merging her into her surroundings. Safely subsumed, she circled the building until she stood on the deck overlooking the water.

Penny used both hands to tilt the fossil until the moon illuminated the little creature within the stone. At a certain angle, the creature appeared to be bursting free of the shale that surrounded it. Her fingers tightened on the rock; but she knew better than to be selfish. The creature, unlike her, could stay.

There was no point returning it to the swimming area for some other kid to find. Penny knelt at the deck’s edge on the side overlooking Leech Beach. She had heard a lot of prayers in the funeral home and wished that even one of them could contain the words that granted release. She held the fossil over the dark waters; then, with one last look at the creature, she forced her fingers to let go.

Water slid over the stone, darkening the shape of the creature within, and for just a moment Penny thought she saw it twitch, as though something darted out of the rock and away into the night-glazed lake. The stone wobbled in the waves, and then the right end dipped and it dropped out of sight into the black.

From somewhere down in the darkness came a flash of copper.

It speared through Penny like a beacon of hope, and without thinking, she followed after. She raised her hands above her head in an arrow and let her body tumble forward off the boathouse deck.

Cold water clasped her in a tight embrace, driving the breath from her lungs. Lake Mishipeshu closed above her like a cocoon. Penny reached out her arms into the darkness, but she felt nothing, and her eyes opened onto water the colour of a night without stars. She tried not to think of leeches and wondered if perhaps the Mishipeshu might come to her if she were still. Her body conspired against her, shoving her towards the surface in quest for air.

She folded her body in half and wound her fingers into the weeds again, as she had yesterday, but here the weeds were too thin; their roots gave way, and she bobbed to the surface, clutching useless green strands. Frustrated, frightened, she looked back over her shoulder to where Camp Zaagaigan lay sleeping, its silhouette thrown into stark relief by the latrines’ halogen lamps. Nobody knew she was missing, yet, but sooner or later her counsellor would question why Penny had gone to the lats without a buddy, and what was taking her so long to return.

Concerned, the counsellor checked the lats – and everywhere else a camper out alone at night might go – but Penny was nowhere to be found. Realizing her camper was missing, the counsellor sounded the alarm. Seconds later, the camp’s bell began to ring its urgent warning, and sleepy campers wrapped in blankets stumbled down to the flagpole to be counted by the camp director. The counsellors formed a human chain and waded into the lake …

Penny would be seen as soon as the bell started ringing; she and the H-dock were the only things that broke the surface of Lake Mishipishu. Penny would be caught and she could not even count how many rules she’d broken by now. They would send her home a day early, and they would never let her come back.

She snorted, raising up bubbles when her nose dipped under the surface of the lake. She was turning thirteen this fall. She wouldn’t be coming back anyway.

Her hands checked her arms and legs, just in case.

No leeches anywhere.

She looked at the old rec hall, housing the same spiders as everywhere else, and the woods where no murderers lurked. She looked at the sad, stinking, hollow lats and the cabins where traitors giggled in the dark. She thought of friends grown into strangers and fathers who loved the dead, and in the darkness, the serpentine tail with its copper spines cut through the lake between her and Camp Zaagaigan, severing heart and soul.

Penny took one last breath and went under, wrapping her hands around the tail and letting it tow her, away from the boathouse and into the swimming area, in search of an anchor more substantial than weeds. Two feeble beams of moonlight pierced the surface of the water; then she was under the H-dock and all was blackness.

She felt her body weaving in between the anchoring chains like a braided lanyard. Her copper hair swirled above her head: the tendrils of an exotic undersea plant, the Mishipishu’s secret trove. She could feel some small creature zip by her ear, gently tugging on her waving strands with its ragged claws.

Penny’s lungs felt like a universe waiting to implode; the pain was something she could never have imagined, having nothing to compare it to. She wondered if her friend had felt the rock closing in around it, pressing living cells into fossilized shale, and wondered if it would have hurt so much, after all, to have the years turn her heart to stone instead.

She spread her fingers and toes wide. It was inevitable that they would find her, but if she was lucky, they wouldn’t find
all
of her. Penny wanted at least a few little bones to escape; to burrow down into the soft muck in search of eventual shale. It would be best, she thought, if a part of her were always in the lake.

She had seen her future and wanted no part of it.

She would rather be a ghost story.

MALICIOUS INTIMACY

by William Andre Sanders

I refuse pretending

romanticism

is chocolate truffles,

accompanying a flower bouquet.

I'd much rather prefer –

pampering you with a rodent,

victimized by road rage,

six days dead –

birthing blowflies

out of maggots.

I'd offer a bottle of Tequila,

undesirably aged.

Eat the soggy worm,

swipe its liquified innards

across my tongue,

while kissing passionately

psychotic in expression

of honorable adoration.

Most men act out

sappy sentimental charades,

in fear of not succeeding

despair in lonesomeness.

In this unsympathetic world,

scarlet madness

defines devotion.

Therefore, I've chosen

not to hide behind the deceitful

mask of assumed affection

most men cleverly sneak

into drinks on dinner dates.

Let us etch this night

together –

forever lustful in our minds

by committing our dark hearts’

desire –

low-budget pornicide.

Scream and I'll yank

strands of crimson hair

clear from hidden lacerations

streaming blood out of fresh

life-threatening fractures

scattered across your head.

BENEATH

Michael Burnside

June 23, 2023

I write this in the hope that it may one day be read by the world at large. With that in mind, I hope my colleagues will forgive this journal's tendency to state things that, for them at least, are well-known facts. So it is for my readers who are unfamiliar with our endeavor that I provide some background.

Most of our world is covered by water and even in this modern age we have explored little of what lies beneath. We have all heard this simple fact, but when we hear it, most of the time our minds envision oceans. However, this applies to our lakes as well. If you have never seen one of the Great Lakes, it is understandable that you may picture a lake as a serene body of water that you can leisurely swim across in a few minutes. But the Great Lakes are inland oceans. You cannot see the far shore of any of these lakes, just an endless moving plane of dark water extending to the horizon.

The biggest of the Great Lakes is Lake Superior. It is the largest freshwater lake in the world with a surface area of over eighty-two thousand kilometers. It is over thirteen hundred feet deep in some parts. And it is from beneath its waves that I now write this.

Our foundation has lowered a habitat into the deepest depths of Lake Superior. The habitat consists of four small pods connected to a central hub. Each pod is no larger than a single car garage. The central hub is the size of a large living room. The outer pods serve as living quarters and observatories while the central hub is our primary laboratory.

There are four us living in this unusual home. Myself, Dr. Sheila Batroni, Dr. Ryan Harrington, and Dr. Leslie Walker. We are all freshwater marine biologists.

We have plenty of windows but need dozens of powerful external lights to keep the outside darkness at bay. Our home beneath the water is cramped and we have few comforts, but we are all very excited to begin our research.

I'd like to write more, but Leslie is giving me a look that says I should sign off and help her move some equipment. I probably will not be able to write more for a few days, as I suspect we will be very busy trying to organize the laboratory.

July 15th, 2023

I intended to write sooner, but the first few days down here were so busy there wasn't time. Once we had settled in, I must confess that I did not write because my disposition has become somber. I wanted this journal to serve as an inspiration to young minds and did not want my dark mood to have the opposite effect.

But now I have decided to simply tell it like it is. It's wrong of me to paint the life of a researcher as one big adventure. As with any job there are tough times. If this journal turns away students who thought this work would be easy, so be it.

I had not anticipated just how isolated it would feel down here. We are thirteen hundred feet down, which is deep in terms of water depth, but really not all that far. I am less than a city block away from the crew of our tender ship. If there were not water in between us, I could wave to them and they would see me clearly. But there is a tremendous amount of water in between us. Those who live above the water and those who live beneath it are in different worlds.

Though our habitat keeps the water at bay, my mind can still feel the water pressing down on me. I feel I could be crushed at any moment.

Perhaps I'm just working too hard in an environment that is not ideal for humans. I should be grateful that the habitat is as large as it is. It is the largest underwater habitat ever used, but I must admit, I still feel as if I am in a prison. It is cold down here and always damp. The dehumidifiers try their best but they simply cannot keep up. I can hear the motors of the dehumidifiers always whirring. There's a constant thumping sound from the compressors that move air around the habitat. Then there's the steady hum of the electrical generators and the random beeping of lab instruments.

But underneath it all is the constant sound of dripping water. Condensation gathers the water on our windows, on the pipes that run along the walls, and on duct work that hangs from the ceiling. It all runs together and drips down. The water that runs down the walls and windows just adds visually to the feeling that we are slowly drowning, but it is the water dripping from the ceiling that will drive us mad. The drips fall with a steady quiet rhythm that is almost soothing until the moment comes when a drop lands on the floor too soon or too late and your brain's sense of anticipation gets kicked in the gut.

Also the whole place smells like sweat and socks.

July 30th, 2023

It is perpetually night outside. The external lights on the habitat push back the gloom only a dozen feet. If you stare out into that darkness, you can see things move.

It's not surprising. Even at this depth, there are fish out there. Some of the fish in the Great Lakes are not the prettiest creatures. The sturgeon with its flat head and shovel-like snout is an odd-looking thing that can grow up to twelve feet long. It's creepy to see one loom out of the darkness, swim past a window, and then fade into the black again.

The sea lampreys are the worst. They are eel-like things that are usually gray or black. They are small compared to the sturgeon, but make the sturgeon seem like welcome guests. Indeed, the lampreys feed on the sturgeon. They feed on every fish that lives in the lake. Sea lampreys are water vampires. They have circular mouths that are lined with rows and rows of teeth. They swim up to other fish, bite into their sides, and hold fast. Then they take their barbed tongues and dig into the fish causing it to bleed. They'll feed on their victims like that for weeks. Once the fish they are feeding on dies, they move onto their next victim. They are simple, methodical killers.

When we bring a fish into the habitat for examination, it's not uncommon to find two or three lampreys feeding on a it. When we pull the lampreys off, they rip quarter to half-dollar size chunks of flesh off the fish. It's a horror show.

I know as a biologist I should admire the sea lamprey for its evolutionary proficiency at survival, but I simply can't stand the things. They are an invasive species, aliens from other waters. Lake Superior is infested with these vile creatures and there doesn't seem to be any easy way to stop them.

I think I'm going to start ordering mandatory trips to the surface for each member of the team. Going this long without sunlight just isn't good for any of us.

August 23, 2023

I managed to spend a few weeks topside, and the fresh air did me a world of good. I had hoped my mood would stay lifted even after I returned to the habitat, but it has darkened quickly.

We use a closed diving bell that is raised and lowered by a crane.  Because of the pressures involved, it is a slow process. Going up is like ascending into heaven. The black outside the windows slowly lightens to a dark blue. The bell lets out metallic sighs as the pressure comes off it. The dark blue slowly turns clear. When the hatch opens, the stale air brought up with us from the habitat rushes out, and a sweet cool breeze sneaks in.

On the way back down, everything is reversed. The water slowly grows dark. The bell creaks as the pressure builds. The air inside the bell grows stale. It's like descending into a tomb.

Sheila and Leslie went up two days ago, leaving me down here with Ryan. We have not spoken since our return. Ryan has not done well with the isolation. I can hear him muttering to himself. He rambles about the habitat taking the same path each time. He tinkers in the lab, swears, then paces.

I hope Sheila and Leslie return soon.

September 3, 2023

Sheila and Leslie have returned and, like me, they have suffered a quick return to dreary moods. Still, I am glad they are here. They can assist me in keeping an eye on Ryan whose behavior is becoming increasingly erratic. And, though it frightens me to suggest it, perhaps they can keep an eye on me.

September 23, 2023

Walking through cramped halls, the water and darkness press in.

October 2, 2023

Bad weather has set in. Down here in the darkness, we sense nothing. Above us, the ship has departed. Without its crane, we can only return to the surface using the emergency pressure suits. That would be a long swim in the black. It is hard not to feel trapped.

October 5, 2023

This morning I awoke to screams. I threw aside the covers and bolted out of bed. I ran down the tight corridors in my socks, jumping through hatches and landing in small puddles of water on the floor. I arrived in the entrance pod to find Sheila Batroni curled up in a corner and shrieking. Sheila is not one prone to hysterics. She has far more nerve than I in dealing with the damn lampreys. I scanned the pod expecting to see some sign of catastrophe - water breaking through seals or bulkheads crumpling under pressure, but nothing seemed amiss.

I knelt down in front of Sheila and shook her by her shoulders. "What's wrong?"

She pointed at the window to the right of the main hatch. "It had a face!"             

"What do you mean?" I asked. "What had a face?"

"It did!" she insisted.

I stood up and walked over to the window. The water caught in the external floodlights glimmered a sickly green that faded to black. I saw nothing in the murk.

I walked back over to Sheila and knelt down in front of her. "There's nothing there now," I told her.

"There was," she said.

"You said you saw a face?" I asked.

She nodded while pushing her blond hair back. There were dark puffy circles under her eyes. "A human face. There was a human face on something that swam up to the glass."

I thought about what she said for a moment, wondering if the isolation of this place had led her to have hallucinations. But a more plausible, more morbid, possibility entered my mind.

There have been over three hundred and fifty shipwrecks in Lake Superior and these have claimed over one thousand lives. Lake Superior does not give up her dead. In other lakes, the decay of a body will eventually cause it to rise back to the surface where the corpse may be found. But Lake Superior is so cold that it inhibits the decay process. Those who die and sink into its depths never resurface. Perhaps what Sheila saw was a body carried by water currents.

I suggested this possibility to Sheila and made clear that I believed such a sight would cause anyone to lose their composure.

She shook her head. "It swam!" she insisted. "It swam up to the window and it looked at me."

October 7, 2023

Sheila did not see a corpse.

I saw what she saw the next morning. I was reading in my cot and I felt a sinister presence in my mind. It was if a shadow had fallen over me and I instinctively turned to see what had blocked out the sun.

I looked out the window that is alongside my bed. I peered in the green lit water and further out into the inky blackness. There was movement out in the darkness. Somehow my mind saw it before my eyes did. A huge shape slipped into the light. It had the body of a massive eel. It swam forward, its body rippling like silk in the wind. It had a human face.

It swam past the window and looked into the habitat. The thing had brown hair and hazel eyes. The skin was pallid and frayed. Its lips thin and blue. It looked at me and smiled.

October 8, 2023

It has begun speaking to us. We hear its voice in our minds. Its thoughts can reach us anywhere in the habitat, but the effect is much worse when we can see it looking at us through the windows.

We have gathered in the center hub for mutual support and because that module has the fewest windows. We have radioed that we need to be evacuated as soon as possible, but we received no answer. We have no way of knowing if our transmissions are being sent. The radio antenna is held aloft by a buoy on the surface. The storms may have ripped the buoy free. Or that thing out there may have severed the antenna.

Dr. Sheila Batroni and Dr. Leslie Walker are holding up reasonably well. They are quiet and grim-faced. Dr. Ryan Harrington appears to be breaking down quickly. He often cries out about the voice in his head and lapses into periods of prolonged sobbing. Twice now I have had to stop him from attempting to cut his head open with a lab saw. I locked the saw in a cabinet after his first attempt and cannot figure out how he managed to get ahold of it again. He has a brilliant mind. Am I supposed to outthink him as comes up with ways in which to harm himself? What am I supposed to do if Dr. Batroni and Dr. Walker also lose their grip on sanity? I am trapped down here with three geniuses who are being driven mad.

And I am quite uncertain about my own state. The voice in my head is smooth and insistent. It speaks to me as I pace back and forth. It speaks to me in my dreams. I can no longer tell if I am awake or asleep.

The voice only has one thing to say to me:
"Let me in."

October 9th, 2013

Ryan is dead. He found something sharp and cut an artery while the rest of slept. Now there is a large dark lake of blood in the center of the hub and the small room has a strange copper smell.