Fossil Lake II: The Refossiling

by H. P. Lovecraft

  I sip my beer and splatter virtual guts all over the screen.

  She’s still staring at me. I’m sitting on the edge of my bed, she’s perched at the top behind me, her body slumped up against the headboard, eyes scowling, her mouth dropped open in an expression of disbelief.

  Like she just doesn’t understand that sometimes, I just want to play Xbox. It has nothing to do with her. I don’t hate her. I don’t even not like her. It’s just I like to play games, too. God knows she plays her own all the time.

  I kill a boss and am treated with a cut scene.

  Instead of tweeting about the level I just completed while the next level loads, I look back at her and force a grin. She just stares back with that empty, incredulous expression.

  I fucking told her I didn’t want to hang out tonight.

  Why the fuck is she here, anyway?

  Oh, that’s right. She texted me that she missed me and then just showed up.

  God, it’s not like I didn’t just see her this morning.

  Why didn’t she bring a book or something?

  Is she testing me?

  I don’t even know why I answered the door. It’s not my fucking job to entertain her. And I told her that, so I don’t feel the slightest bit bad when I turn back to my television screen and let it entertain me.

  I feel her eyes on the back of my skull, hating, judging, not understanding, and finally I can’t take it anymore.

  When she starts playing games with me, which seems to happen every single day, I don’t question. I let her play.

  I let her tell me that she might come over late tomorrow after her ex drops off the rest of her stuff when he gets off work at midnight. Or that she got hit on three times at the bar during ladies’ night on Thursday. I’m not that needy, so I let it go. I’m confident in our budding relationship so I let her play her games.

  Sometimes I even play back.

  So why won’t she let me play mine?

  “Stop fucking staring at me!” I scream. “I just want to play, just for one fucking night. You shouldn’t even be here, anyway.”

  She’s fucking pathetic, slumped back there. Now she’s playing more games, taking her clothes off. Poking me in the lower back with her toes.

  I will not turn around.

  But I finish another part and as the game’s loading, I can’t help myself.

  I turn around and see her naked, legs spread, arms posed to support her breasts, making them symmetrical and perfect. She’s watching me, taunting me, teasing me, beckoning, daring me to put down the controller and play with her body instead.

  I will not.

  She doesn’t understand that the video games I’m playing now are far more enjoyable than the mind games she likes to play. I love her body and I’m sweet as hell on her, but I’m not fond of her head games. Taking hours to answer a text message, ignoring phone calls outright. She reaps some kind of sadistic pleasure as she bats me around like she’s a big cat and I’m a little mouse. Sometimes, I think she’s crazy.

  She can’t handle it when I fight back, and I don’t want to fight back. I don’t want to play her games tonight. I don’t want to read every text message and wonder what she’s doing and how drunk she is and when she’s going to decide that she’s found someone better than me. I don’t want to stare at my phone all night.

  I told her I was unavailable. I told her I wanted to play my own games tonight. Harmless games. Games that don’t induce unpleasant anxiety at every turn.

  Apparently, she took that as a challenge.

  Apparently, she can’t handle it when I have fun that has nothing to do with her.

  Apparently, she’s an even bigger bitch than I thought.

  I’d kick her out, but she’ll refuse to go. I don’t know what she wants.

  Does she really need that kind of validation? To be the only game I’m willing to play?

  What does that say about her, anyway?

  I mean, most girls get all up in arms if you refer to them as entertainment, but the split second you choose a movie or a book or a game over them, suddenly they feel betrayed. Saying things like, “you’re enough for me, why can’t I be enough for you?”

  I think about this as I blow an alien’s brains all over a wall. One of his eyes sticks to the wall and stares at me; crazy how far games have come.

  Now, I’m getting it from the screen and my girl because she’s still fucking staring at me.

  I can feel it.

  I turn and look.

  And she’s naked.

  I throw my blanket over her head. Her body. I don’t need such distractions.

  She doesn’t respond.

  Whatever. At least I can’t feel the stares anymore.

  When she stares, I feel like she’s judging me; critiquing my game performance. Being critical even though I’m kicking alien ass. I feel like she accusing me of something. Accusing me of liking games more than her even though I’ve only been playing for an hour. She’s been playing with my heart for months.

  I ignore her.

  I turn back to the screen and move down the hall, away from that alien eyeball that’s still stuck. I make a right turn. Aliens ambush me in the next corridor. I pump them full of lead. I don’t think I miss a shot.

  Finally, she can’t take it anymore.

  “You’re fucking pathetic,” she says and throws off the blanket. I can feel her moving around on the bed trying to find her clothes.

  I pause the game and set down the controller.

  “I’m pathetic?”

  “All you care about is that fucking game.”

  “I just asked for one night,” I start, and then realize that’s not going to work. “At least this game is harmless,” I say.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The games you play mess with my head. Mess with my heart. You don’t answer text messages. You tell me about how many guys are hitting on you while you’re drunk at a bar. I don’t think you have any idea what that does to me. I bought this game solely to distract me from that shit, but you won’t let me have that either.”

  She doesn’t answer. But her wide eyes blink at me. Even now, they are pretty. I can’t tell if she still doesn’t get it or if my aggressive honesty is helping her to put the clues together.

  She doesn’t have her clothes on yet.

  I stare at her beautiful body. I glance back at the game on my screen, glance down at the controller in my hand. Look back at her.

  “Yeah, that’s right, come play with me. You know you want to,” she says, and bats her eyelashes.

  And I do.

  I’ve had enough.

  I like my violent games. And I don’t like her bullshit games.

  But if she wants to play, then I’m happy to play.

  She wears me down.

  I come at her so aggressive that she starts screaming.

  More games.

  At least, she thinks they are.

  Behind me, on my Xbox and my television screen, the aliens are attacking.

  I hear my character taking damage and then dying in the background.

  Her eyes are staring at me, as if she can’t believe how I’ve reacted. Like she can’t believe that I’d wrap my hands around her throat.

  But then she smiles. And nods. Lets out a sexy moan.

  “I think I like this game,” she rasps.

  Her cell phone chirps from a pocket in her jeans. I reach for it. She tries to stop me. I slap her across the face. I pull it out. Look at it.

  This text message proves that I’m not the only person she’s playing.

  I look back at my screen.

  My character is dead.

  The game is loading.

  She stares at me, eyes now fearful instead of annoyed.

  I squeeze.

  I wonder how long it takes to choke someone.

  It takes longer than I think.

  Her eyes.

  So wide.

  So scared.

  So pret
ty.

  My character respawns in the midst of battle. I hear him take damage, and then die.

  Her face is purple but her eyes still blink.

  Shit.

  Fast as I can, I take one hand off her throat and hit the start button on the controller.

  The game loads while I strangle.

  My character dies again.

  And then she follows suit as I win this game.

  She will not respawn. She is out of continues.

  She liked to play her games and I liked to play mine.

  Looks like I’m better.

  I turn back to my screen and press start.

  I wonder how far I am into the game and think that maybe I can finish this one tonight since I won’t have any distractions.

  I check my phone while the game loads.

  No messages.

  Then I throw it across the room.

  It’s time to play.

  I am reborn with twin pistols in my hands and I start blasting more aliens.

  Lost in the game, I don’t think about her anymore.

  Everything’s cool for a while.

  But even in death I can feel her playing games, naked, legs still spread, eyes still wide, body still slumped up against the headboard.

  She’s staring at me and she won’t fucking stop.

  Every now and then I look back at her, and she’s still naked, still dead, still fucking staring. I cannot allow her games to continue because they interrupt mine.

  I decide to put a stop to things.

  I have to pee anyways.

  And get more beer.

  I ask her if she wants anything.

  She doesn’t answer. She just stares.

  I come back into the room with an empty bladder, a fresh beer, a knife and a spoon.

  She’s still dead and I still have no messages on my phone. Hers keeps beeping though.

  I check her phone.

  Damn.

  Either I wasn’t enough for her, or she was a lot thirstier than I ever saw.

  She’s staring at me while I check her phone, but I’m judging her now, for her games, and not the other way around.

  She was good at playing them, but not good enough.

  She’s fucking dead.

  I sip my beer and before I start my game again I go to work.

  With my spoon I dig her eyes out and with my knife I cut them free. There isn’t as much blood as I thought there might be. I put her eyeballs on a towel and go wash my hands.

  I don’t want to get blood on my controller.

  When I come back, I put her eyes on top of my television. I look back at her body, only empty black spots where her eyes used to be. Two black pools of nothing. They see nothing, they judge nothing, but their absence says it all.

  She looks prettier without her judging eyes, and her naked body doesn’t hurt either.

  Her phone rings again.

  Bitch.

  I ignore it. I’m done. Now it’s time to play.

  I press start and start shooting.

  On top of the screen her eyeballs are staring at me and they won’t fucking stop.

  But now, I’m starting to like it.

  And that bitch behind me?

  I might play with her later. Probably will in fact.

  Spoils of war.

  Might even put her eyes back in.

  We’ll see.

  But for now, I’ve got a rocket launcher, grenades, body armor, and I just upgraded my stealth skill.

  Her game is over, but mine is just beginning.

  THE INCIDENT IN CENTRAL VILLAGE

  Doug Rinaldi

  I ignited a blazing trail of velocity in my descent down Kinney Hill Road, but in front of me, the windy day kicked up enough road dust to sandblast my face. Being that it was my first week on a ten-speed bicycle, I figured, what would be the worst that could happen?

  Watching all the other kids in the neighborhood whiz on down the mammoth hill with skill and ease, I knew that accepting such a challenge would put me on the cool kid radar for sure . . . as long as I didn’t end up repeating the embarrassing hyperventilation episode from a few days ago. Apparently, dropping the bike into the lowest gear and then trying to pedal up an incline was not how one got it done. Dad had to come get me as I sat on the side of the road defeated and barely able to breathe, fearing death.

  But that was all in the past as I heard mighty Kinney Hill calling my name and challenging my budding manhood.

  The scenery continued flashing by me in color-streaked blurs; the rushing wind pounded against my eardrums. My smile beamed ear to ear and I didn’t care at all about the road spitting dirt up into my mouth. It felt immense. As I quickly, yet sadly, neared the end of the asphalt giant’s path, I felt triumphant, like a genuine badass. First week riding a ten-speed—take that!

  At the bottom of Kinney Hill, I merged onto River Street and applied my brakes. I guarantee it would’ve been the smoothest stop ever had I squeezed the correct hand brake. Before I realized what had happened, my soft head made swift and painful contact with the hard and unforgiving blacktop. By applying the wrong brake, I managed to somersault with the grace of a buffalo on a trampoline right over the handlebars and embed gravel and chunks of dirt into my forehead.

  I collapsed into a pitiful pile right in the middle of the intersection of River Street and Sachem Drive, screaming and crying for help. Of course, no one came to my aid as I bled all over myself and the poor street, probably due to everybody being over at the Ram’s field watching the high school’s big rivalry game today. Just my luck. . . .

  Despite not seeing anyone around, I hoped that nobody sat staring out his or her window in stitches over my mishap. I quickly got to my shaky feet and dusted myself off. My head pounded and spun in agony. As I wiped the trickling blood off of my face and out of my eyes, flicking it off my fingers and onto the road, I felt all the little bumps and indents from where face met gravel. I’m sure it read Braille for ’dumbass.’

  I grabbed the collar of my shirt and dried the tears from my face. A faint, almost sizzling, sound reached my ears and I quizzically glanced around. I saw nothing until I looked down at the bloodied pavement. Like an egg hitting a hot frying pan, my blood sizzled as it filled in the road’s cracks. The ground rumbled softly beneath my feet. Birds that had been perched high in the tops of some neighboring trees by the river squawked and cawed as they took quick flight in the opposite direction.

  Again, I looked back down, but my blood was gone. My head swiveled, looking for any sign of where it possibly went. It was as if the road had sucked it all up. “Screw this shit,“ I said, hobbling over to my fallen bicycle.

  I lifted the bike to its tires and noticed that the fall bent the front wheel to all hell. “Dad’s gonna kill me!“ I hopped on anyways. Whatever was going on started freaking me out and the faster I got home, the better. Pumping and pumping, I pedaled with all my strength up Water Street with the bent front wheel wobbling in protest. The ground rumbled again, this time from behind as if the sound followed me home.

  I ditched the bike behind some bushes in the yard. Dad was gonna kill me either way, so I figured I’d hold off as long as possible from bringing him the bad news. Everyone’s cars were in the driveway, but I heard nothing but a spooky kind of silence as I walked inside through the back door. A weird moaning followed that silence.

  Then the screaming started.

  Sam, my stepbrother, was home in bed sick with some flu thing, so I immediately thought it was him screaming. I ran down the hallway to his bedroom. Sweat covered and dripped from his whole body as he sat cowering in the corner of his bed, hysterically crying and pointing at the wall.

  “Get them off the wall!“ he wailed. “Don’t let them get me!“

  I looked up to where he pointed and saw nothing. “Sam! What’s wrong? There’s nothing there.“

  “DON’T LET THEM GET ME!“

  “Stop freaking out,“ I said, not knowing how to help. “I’m gonn
a get Dad.“ I bolted out of the room, looking into every bedroom and finding no one at all. “Dad?“ No answer. I ran to the kitchen and looked out the side window. “His car is still here. Dad!“

  I looked out the other window to the back yard. My father and my little sister, Anna, were walking through the neighbor’s yard toward the pond in the woods. “Dad!“ I shouted one last time, but between the thick window and Sam’s yowling, the call went nowhere. “Shit cakes.“

  Sam’s crying subsided, only to return to that strange moaning chant. “Sam, what’s going on?“ I asked as I headed back to his room. “I can’t understand—“

  He stepped out into the hallway in nothing but his underwear, hiked up over his stomach like a miniature Sumo wrestler. As he moaned, he held out his arms towards me and stomped his feet in a slow beat. Blood trickled out from his eyes and ears, mixing with the sweat covering his pasty skin.

  “What the heck, man!“ I said. “Get back in bed. You’re sick. I’m gonna go get Dad. He went outside.“

  Though Sam didn’t listen, he just kept stomping his feet and chant-moaning some gibberish. I swallowed hard. What’s going on? What do I do? Sam freaked me out, and when his stomping became steps toward me, I took off.

  I ran down the hall, through the kitchen, out the back door, and jumped over the deck railing into the backyard. Behind me, I still heard Sam stomping and chanting. I looked back to the house and a chill shook my body. Sam stood at the window, staring out at me, grinning like a lunatic, rocking back and forth.

  Dad! I had to find Dad. When in doubt, find Dad.

  I broke into a sprint across my yard and through my neighbor’s to the pond in the woods in the center of our properties. Not a big pond, just enough for skipping stones and practicing our line casting. I would never swim in it or eat anything I caught from there because it’s kinda gross, but usually it was just a neat place to hang out. Except today.

  I finally reached the pond and stopped short behind an old tree. My lungs burned, screaming at me for more oxygen, but I didn’t dare move or make a sound. Standing all around the small body of what used to be murky green water, a bunch of people from my street held hands. They all swayed in unison to some rhythm that I wasn’t able to hear. The dirty pond water, now a gross shade of red, bubbled from the center outwards to the shore. The faster it bubbled, the faster they all rocked.