Fossil Lake II: The Refossiling

by H. P. Lovecraft

  Now Cetus (See-tus, named after the ancient beast of Greek mythology and Biblical lore) was just the kind of beast I wanted to see and I asked Big Tuck if it was likely. The man paused and then shrugged, telling me Cetus was old and the old ones get that way by staying smart. There’s something very respectable about that if you ask me, of course, I had no idea of how smart they really were before the trip. It’s one of those you’ve got to see to believe kind of things.

  We’d been out on the boat, a pontoon, for much of the day. We’d seen a bunch of little gators, but nothing that pounded home the prehistoric bloodline. I started to wonder in hope, was Cetus trailing behind, perhaps scouting, hoping for a proper meal of a tourist? I doubted it.

  I was wrong.

  The two boys started tossing bits of their pack lunches, sandwich crusts and then potato chips, in an effort to see more action. I thought a gator would have to be as stupid as it got to snap at such obvious danger. Well I was right that a gator would have to be stupid. A babe, no more than four feet in total, snapped up the chips and we all rushed to the side. Big Tuck warned about throwing food, but the boys ignored and kept on tossing. The little gator came back and snapped again. He didn’t rush back down, just waited and spied the surface.

  A stupid move for a creature in a dog eat dog environment. Even a tourist could’ve nabbed him if natural selection hadn’t come along and showed its teeth.

  It was bubbles at first and then a swish and then a great wave. After that, I saw that jaw and those teeth, another gator just about swallowed the young gator whole.

  Amidst our oohs and ahs, Big Tucks jumped to his feet and his face went pale. “Oh sweet Lordy!” he screamed and throttled down on the accelerator.

  Pontoon boats can be slick and I hadn’t much considered my foot wear from a traction standpoint, mostly just for moisture resistance. My big green rubbers slid and I found myself on the wrong side of the boat in the time it took me to blink.

  I flailed stupidly, everyone screamed and Big Tuck swung the boat back around once he’d noticed my unplanned evacuation. “Hold on!” he yelled (as if I had other plans).

  I saw the bubbles, but the head didn’t come up. I felt teeth sink into my life jacket and the waist of my Levi’s. Despite the awesome buoyancy of foam-filled life jackets, I went down like a rocket. I could hardly see through the muck, but I saw enough to know I was face to face with what I’d always wanted. Suddenly I wished I’d gotten into horseback riding, or skydiving or train dodging.

  It was Cetus; I knew it when I felt his body against mine, he could’ve cocooned me with his pale belly. He spun. I knew a definite start point and remained conscious of one full revolution, but after that first go ‘round it blurred. The act melded together my entire understanding of life and death; I saw what keeps certain beasts around for millions of years (in one fashion or another). There’s the intelligence, it’s always a factor, but there’s more than that.

  We spun and spun, I felt my lungs fill and then the world slowed and my soul crept from my body. I looked back and every second happened in long minutes, slowing further and further, almost pausing for me.

  I heard a metallic clicking and light poured through the murk around me.

  When I turned my focus, I saw the white light. I thought that perhaps it was the afterlife folks that die and come back to explain to scores of unbelieving ears as that white light. I walked on the muddy floor into the light. I didn’t hear any welcoming voices or encouraging serenades, it just seemed the only real option.

  I stepped through and my eyes adjusted.

  It was a small waiting room, like a doctor’s office or a dental clinic. There were two lines. One said New Arrivals and the other said Rematches. I stepped forward to an officious looking box with a sliding glass window. There was a figure, back turned, in a tall office chair. I cleared my throat, got no response, and looked around the room. The Rematches line was long, a dozen or so people of all manner of sizes and ages wearing the same annoyed look on their faces.

  There was something about the whole thing I did not like. Part of me wanted to go back out and try my luck out in the murky swamp water, but when I looked back, the door was gone, dry-walled over in a matter of seconds.

  I cleared my throat again and still got nothing.

  “Ding the bell, dickface,” said a young man smacking chewing gum at the front of the Rematches line.

  I looked and saw the little silver bell. I tapped the button and the chair spun at the sound.

  It would be the understatement of a lifetime to say that what I saw startled me. I was about ready to hide in the corner and start sucking my thumb as I rocked to and fro, tugging on my hair and scratching away at my eyes, but I didn’t. My shock froze me; if I’d still had a bladder at that moment I would’ve released it into my rubber boots.

  It was a small alligator wearing red lipstick, fake eyelashes and a gold watch. What I assumed to be a she looked at her watch and pointed one of her tiny upper legs toward a seat. I didn’t move and the secretary gator shrugged and picked up a nail file. She sharpened her teeth with the file and I watched until a door opened next to the box. A small boy stepped out, looking furious.

  “Exy-lem, what de hell is dat?” the boy asked.

  “Xylem, young man, those X words are tricky,” said an older man at the back of the line.

  “It’s stoopid, triple ledda stoopid!” the boy added and stomped to the back of the Rematches line.

  The secretary cleared her own throat and pointed to the door. I stepped forward past all the sneering faces in line and through the open door. It was dark and a spotlight shone down on a chair. Some impulse deep within, perhaps curiosity, moved me forward. I got to the chair and a voice boomed all around me, “Sit, please.”

  I did and the spotlight grew. I saw a Scrabble board and then I saw my opponent, larger than life, Cetus. He smoked a pipe and winked at me. I tried to speak, but nothing came but a whispered gasp for air.

  “Loose rules, no slang or person’s names, but places and types of supper welcome. First one to one hundred wins. If I win, you go to the rematch line, if you win, you join your body. Let me warn you, if you don’t win your first try, your body won’t be much to go back for. Good luck!”

  I gulped down my nerves as Cetus reached into the satin bag for his letters. He handed the bag over and I took my tiles. I hadn’t played Scrabble in years and the last time I had, I’d lost by a bundle. I remember thinking it was all about luck.

  “House goes first,” he said. Every time he spoke it sounded as if my head my caved in through my ears. “I’ll start light and give you a chance,” he added, puffing the dark wooden pipe between his teeth. His tiny limbs put down the word DOILY. It was worth thirteen points and I thought it that was his version of going easy I was doomed.

  My letters were still a mystery; I hadn’t even looked yet. I watched Cetus pull five letters from the bag and thought about the clothing and the language structures out in the waiting room. Some of those folks would never leave the game. I understood that fate immediately and it scared me as nothing had before.

  “Time’s a wasting.”

  I forced myself to look at the board and then my letters and then the board. I almost hit the roof. My fear washed away with some luck. “Zoic,” I said as I placed the tiles.

  He grunted. We both did the math; the Z found a triple letter score.

  “No more Mr. Nice Scales,” he said and quickly slid four letters onto my Z; AGAZE, thirty-five points, same as my ZOIC. “You need to pick your letters before I do,” he reminded me, and I stuffed my hand in the bag hoping for some tile gold to go along with my K, A, N and J remaining.

  I pulled two Es and a B. Somewhere, someone smiled on my hand and I went to work; YANKEE, double letter on the Y and double word under the first E.

  We did the math again and Cetus’ grunt became a small growl. I thought one more of those (easy right…) and I had the game.

  Cetus fished his letter
s and I eagerly fished mine. It took a few seconds, but then he looked up at me with a grin, smoke billowing through the spot light’s shine.

  “V, E, X, E, D, vexed, double word score.”

  The second E fell onto the sweet spot in the word YANKEE. I looked down at my tiles and wanted to cry.

  “Tick, tock,” he said.

  I bit down and put what I had after I’d gathered a handful of vowels to go along with my consonants. There are better words, especially since I hit another double word score, I know, I’ve checked since, but I put COPE on the end of AGAZE and the battle felt a whole lot closer.

  I was up by only three and I reached into the bag. Cetus had an annoyed look in his eyes. It seemed obvious he wanted to deal the final twenty-point blow. He glowered and then decided to go with it. Three shy of victory, DOWDY ran horizontally from his vertical DOILY, the double letter score just not enough.

  My relief was obvious and I needed but sixteen. My tiles seemed to spin beyond recognition; I no longer understood English or board games. The pressure crushed me and forced my mind back to past games, flipping through my imagination, picturing things that may or may not have ever happened during a game of Scrabble. I saw my siblings, my parents, they taunted and laughed, three letter word, huh, good luck with that one!

  “Quick, I’ve got the finishing touch,” Cetus said, a smile in his voice.

  What I had wasn’t enough, but I’d run out of time. I put down a J and a B around the O in COPE. I was done, my body would die and I’d be in the waiting room at the back of the line. It wasn’t hard to imagine my parents crying over my empty casket after I’d just imagined them laughing at my stubby word choice. I then began to imagine eternity.

  Cetus slumped back and I lifted my head and waited for him to take his turn. “Well…?” I said finally.

  “It’s been many years since I lost first round. That time was to a stupid boy that got lucky with the word quiz.” He sounded so sad and angry, I didn’t understand until I noticed my B fell on a double word score.

  “I won? I won!”

  He growled, grunted and then softened. “You did, good game, now off you go, before your body dies,” he said.

  For a second I wanted to shake his hand, but those claws didn’t look so sporting and the entire situation was so far beyond asinine that I threw nicety out the window. I tore out into the waiting room and slowed, hiding my smile. It was like smiling during a wake; those in line looked at me with jealous and sullen eyes, grieving for their lives, their afterlives.

  I didn’t really care enough to force a complete emotional check. With an undeniable excited bounce, I bounded past.

  “Hey, you ’dere, ya ev’ meet a boy named Lil’ Tuck, tell’m I ain’t wanna skip no damn rocks in de firss place, shud be him in’ere.”

  I smiled at the boy at the back of the line despite his anger and took another step toward a dark opening. It sucked me through like a vacuum and shot me back into my body. I felt Cetus let go of my body. He winked and swam off, the bubbles staying in view long after he’d gone. It was only a second before I found my way back to the lighter shades of muck. I heard yells and an engine coming to a stop.

  Big Tuck eyed me suspiciously as the others pulled me into the pontoon. It was there, the knowledge of intelligence under that scaly skin, but something more, the stuff making up the gods and demons of the universe. Big Tuck knew about it and I pondered him even as I choked out muck from the swamp.

  “Your brother says it should be you in there,” I said. The other tourists gawked, likely thinking that I’d lost my marbles somewhere in the filthy water.

  Big Tuck shook his head, “He still ’dere.” It wasn’t a question, but a solemn statement. “He jus’ ain’t got de luck. S’times ya jus’ get lucky. Quiz is a good’un on trip’ word.”

  Now, given the man’s manner and speech, I assumed I drew a longer straw in the brains category, but it didn’t mean that he wasn’t right.

  Sometimes you just get lucky.

  THE UNSPEAKABLE CONFESSION OF DICKY RASHONE’S DOG

  Lorenzo Passion

  What follows may be my last words. I implore you to read them as warning. Take heed lest you be condemned to my fate.

  I have known Dicky all my life, his grandparents having adopted me as a puppy. Although the old humans were kind to me, their grandson lived in a dank subterranean room I dared not enter. Even from my dog bed on the second floor I recoiled at the stench of whatever was down there. Remember, I’m a dog, so I am not unfamiliar with licking my own butt or sniffing other dogs’ excrement, but there was something about his odor that made my stomach turn.

  As I mentioned earlier, the old humans showed me nothing but kindness since I was a puppy. They took me on walks and played fetch with me as long as their health permitted, but, as their strength diminished, they began asking Dicky to walk me. He never had much interest in my welfare, and I suspect he even hated me—resenting his grandparents’ attention as he did. But, since he was living in their home rent-free, he had little choice but to comply.

  At first, the infrequent walks, though brief, were only mildly unpleasant. We passed those times in silence, he barely stopping long enough for me make the occasional bowel movement before he yanked my leash and practically dragged me back home. When we returned, he refused to make eye contact with either me or his grandparents. Even now I shudder at the thought that his behavior may have had less to do with his loathing for me than with his secret urges.

  When the grandmother was in ill-health, the grandfather thought it best that I stay in the basement with Dicky. Though I howled and barked in protest, Dicky pulled me through the door and down the rickety wooden stairs to what my nose told me must be the very bowels of Hell.

  The elderly humans had forsaken me! How could the people who had once loved me subject me to such torture—such horror? For hours I howled and scratched at the door, but the old man would not rescue me. I wept until there were no tears left to cry. I howled and whimpered until I had no voice. Finally, having abandoned all hope of salvation, I surrendered myself to my fate. It was then a soft, staccato clicking from the opposite corner of the room attracted my attention. Though the stench of place burned my eyes, I peered through the darkness to just make out Dicky’s crouched form silhouetted against the cool light of a computer screen.

  Now, it is a little known fact that dogs and cats can read and understand English even if our vocal chords do not permit us to speak the language. You might be asking how it is that—with neither fingers nor opposable thumbs—I am writing this account (a question you probably should have asked a few paragraphs ago), but I think we’ll all enjoy this a lot more if you merely suspend your disbelief rather than require me to come up with some ridiculously implausible explanation. So for the purpose of this narrative, I can understand English, and you can read Canine or whatever language it is my kind speak.

  Anyway, I followed the sound to discover (as you might have already guessed) Dicky typing furiously. Nobody could be more shocked by this than I, since I’d always just assumed he was illiterate. What I saw next made me wish he were. Out of curiosity, I glanced at the screen.

  “Cum guzzling faggots!”

  Those three words caught my attention, and, as much out of interest as out of self-torture, I decided to read more.

  “Piss off you AIDS infested sperm guzzler. Quit trying to fuck me over when it comes to getting submissions because I don’t want stories that glorify faggotry.”

  He was certainly an angry young human. I continued reading only to suffer a headache from the general incoherence of it all. Although I’d never considered him either clean enough or well-dressed enough to be gay, he was obviously well-versed in homoerotic literature because he was able to name several homosexual writers in what was apparently a blog entry.

  When not spewing the vilest hatred in his blogs, he googled his name and commented on any other blog that happened to mention him—even ones that had been posted
a few years earlier. He went all night typing without sleep or food. Why shouldn’t he stay up all night? It’s not like he had anywhere else to be. His grandparents were taking care of the house and bills while he got to live off the government dole thanks to a little disability fraud.

  He especially hated some writer named Rian Eene, who had somehow managed to ruin Dicky’s life by preventing anyone from buying his self-published diatribes. I may be just a dog, but I’m fairly sure it was Dicky’s writing that prevented him from being able to convince anyone to pay for his rambling, nonsensical prose. I can imagine few tortures worse than reading his word vomit about the Loch Ness Monster in Lake Michigan.

  At this point, I was tempted to pity the dim-witted, delusional human until I read, “Kindly rape a dog.” One could almost overlook such a thing until he wrote, “Go guzzle horse cum.” “You couldn’t write if you had a horse’s dick up your ass.” “Rape a dog up the ass!” With each entry I became even more convinced he felt some overwhelming desire to perform horrible, nonconsensual sex acts on animals.

  Now it all made sense. His refusal to speak to me – or even look me in the eye – was not a reflection of hatred so much as embarrassment over his latent bestiality.

  My terror escalated with each increasingly vivid description of man-on-animal rape. Unable to sweat (because I’m a dog after all), I panted frantically. I ran up the stairs, scratching and howling in vain at the door, even struggling to turn the doorknob. I threw myself against the door. I chewed the knob. I howled and barked until I once again lost my voice. Pausing to catch my breath, I realized that the typing had stopped. Dicky was no longer at his desk. He was standing over me, and I shuddered to discover his bloodshot eyes fixed on my tail. With neither the voice nor the strength to resist, I cowered against the door and prepared for the worst. His smelly hands grew closer, encircling me. Then, in an instant, I peed on the steps in hopes that it would distract Dicky from his dreadful plans. It didn’t work. I emptied my bowels as if the smell would repel him, but he apparently couldn’t smell it over the general stench of the room.