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.
I have begun to consider using the pressure suits to escape the habitat. It would mean being out in the dark water while that thing swam around us, but the pressure suits are rigid, so I don't think the thing could crush us or bite us, although it might convince us to kill ourselves by opening our suits as we ascend. But it's been trying to convince us to die for two days now, with some success. The ascent would last only hours, minutes if we decide to embrace the bends. What stops me is that I have no idea if there is a ship up there. Without a ship we'd just bob around on the surface until we ran out of air. We'd have to open the suits to breathe. The rough waters of the lake would soon drown us. Still ... if our last few hours are free of that voice...
...
The suits have been sabotaged. Their seals have been cut. Maybe Ryan did it before he killed himself. Perhaps it was Sheila or Leslie. Maybe it was me. There are no rounds of incriminations, no accusations. None of us is certain that we have control of ourselves anymore.
I need to sleep. I will dream of the voice. Or perhaps I need to wake up, and I will think about the voice.
October 10th, 2013
I awoke with my arms wrapped around Leslie. I do not remember her lying down with me. I found myself with my hands around her waist and her back tight up against my chest. We were fully clothed. I do not think anything unprofessional had occurred, but I confess that the warmth of her body felt nice.
The voice told me that if I let it in, I could be with her forever. Her red hair was in my face. I gently brushed it aside exposing the sweat slicked skin of her neck. She smelled human. She smelled of fear.
She awoke suddenly and clambered out of the cot. She looked around with fast, spastic movements. She looked at me with wide open eyes.
"Where's Sheila?" she asked.
It's an odd thing to lose track of someone in such a small space. It was not as if
Sheila had many places she could go.
Ryan is the easiest to keep track of. He is still where we found him yesterday - in his cot with his arm sliced open and hanging out over the floor. His eyes are wide open, staring at the ceiling. His mouth is open and his lips are curled back in a silent scream. His skin is an ashen white.
We found Sheila in the entrance pod. The entrance pod is connected to the flood room and the flood room is where our closed diving bell rests. When we want to use the bell, we go into the flood room, enter the bell, and use remote valves to fill the flood room with water. Then we trigger the top hatch to open and a crane on the support ship slowly lifts us up.
Sheila was standing by the hatch to the flood room. I could tell by looking at the small window in the hatch that the flood room had been filled with water. Sheila had both hands on the metal bar that would open the hatch.
There are a half-dozen safety features, both mechanical and electronic, designed to prevent the entrance pod hatch from being opened when the flood room is filled with water. Your average biologist would never figure out how to override those features. Dr. Sheila Batroni designed most of those features. I knew instantly that Sheila could open that hatch if she wanted to.
Leslie tried to rush past me. I grabbed her. I knew that if Sheila opened the entrance hatch, our only hope would be to shut the hatch to the central hub, so I held Leslie at the entrance to the pod.
Leslie squirmed and kicked. She reached out toward Sheila and screamed, "What are you doing?"
Sheila looked at us with tears streaming down her face. She said, "I'm sorry," and she opened the hatch.
The force of water at a thousand feet is something that is hard to imagine. As soon as the mechanical mechanism that held the hatch shut was clear, the door swung open and hit Sheila with such speed that she simply vanished from view. A torrent of water burst towards us like a horizontal waterfall. Leslie was struck by the water and torn from my grip. I was spun around and fell back inside the central hub. Luckily, I landed with reach of the close button. I reached up and slapped it. A motor hummed and then whined under strain as it cranked the door shut.
Fossil Lake: An Anthology of the Aberrant Page 22