Fossil Lake II: The Refossiling

by H. P. Lovecraft

  I had to laugh. That was our final levity that night.

  “Shall we take a look inside the box?” he asked.

  “Yes, that would be interesting. Oh, but, is it safe? I mean, the box won’t just crumble away, will it?”

  “This area is very dry and the wood is most likely cedar, unpalatable to insects, so it should be very well preserved. But, I won’t just wrench it open. If it seems fragile, we’ll leave it.”

  “Okay.” Of course, with hindsight, it should have been our safety that I was worried about.

  He reached into the tomb and gently examined the box.

  “Yes, it seems fine,” he said and carefully lifted it out.

  Carefully, he opened it. To our mutual surprise, the box was empty. There was only a slight hiss as of escaping air as the lid opened, but nothing inside; nothing tangible.

  Maybe there’d been a warning written on it that he’d failed to read, or perhaps a warning placed on the tomb itself, obliterated by the elements. Of course, even had Hulke seen a warning, I doubt we’d have heeded it. Nobody believes in ancient curses, not even when opening out-of-place Egyptian tombs in the outback.

  “Well, that was anticlimactic,” I was saying when I noticed movement in the tomb; the slightest movement on the periphery of my vision.

  I turned to look, thinking that it would be a snake or lizard disturbed by our probing, only to stare in horrified disbelief as the arm of the mummy twitched. I thought I must be imagining it, but then both arms twitched. It was impossible, yet it was happening.

  “Did you see that?” I asked. Hulke had been replying to my remark, but I hadn’t heard a word he said.

  “See what?” he asked, absently, still staring down into the box.

  “The body – it’s moving!”

  “What?” He didn’t even look up.

  “Dammit, man, look!”

  My tone must have caught his attention, as he finally raised his head. I pointed into the tomb where the body had begun to sit up and shouted, “Look!”

  Now, I know corpses can move due to the electricity in nerves and gases of decay, but not after centuries. There was absolutely no rational explanation I could think of for what I was seeing. It was impossible, yet it was real. The halogen glare ought to have made the scene more real – banished imaginary phantoms – yet all it did was put the solid-shadow that was the blackened mummy into stark, horrific relief.

  Hulke began to gibber, pointing uselessly. He’d spent so many years of his life seeking to prove his theories, but had never expected to prove them so spectacularly. Hell, we’d just proved an aspect of the paranormal, as well; even if presenting said proof would be impossible.

  “We’ve got to get out of here!” I shouted at him.

  He didn’t react, which was a bit of a problem, as I don’t drive. Assuming he’d left the keys in the pick-up, I might’ve been able to drive away at a crawl, but could I outpace it? I could probably run fast – but could I even outrun it?

  “Hulke, c’mon!” I tried again. Still no reaction. He was staring in horror at the mummy as it climbed out of the tomb. I tried pulling at him, but he barely moved. Finally, the mummy having stepped out of the tomb, I gave up, turned and ran.

  Behind me, there was a scream. I stopped for a moment and looked back. The risen corpse had gripped Hulke’s head and would have been staring into his eyes, had it possessed eyes. The professor’s jaw hung open and there was a sort of haze between his mouth and the blank black mask of the mummy, as if it were sucking his breath – or his soul – from his body.

  Dropping Hulke’s limp form, it began to advance on me with surprisingly smooth strides. Silhouetted against the halogen lamplight, it was like a figure of pure blackness, a spindly shadow come to life. I turned and ran.

  I kept running through the night, heedless of the dangers of the outback and uncaring of whether it yet pursued me, fearing only that it was, until I finally saw the lights of a house in the distance. I ran to it and hammered on the doors begging to be let in. I doubt I made any sense, but, thankfully, the couple living there let me in rather than turning me away as the raving loony I must have seemed.

  Once I was inside, I calmed down enough to realise just how crazed my story would sound and chose to edit what I would tell them. I claimed we’d been attacked by some lunatic in the bush, that I’d managed to get away and that they should call the police. When they arrived shortly after dawn, I repeated my half-truth and they set out to search for Hulke; they located his desiccated corpse the next day.

  What should’ve been the find of the century went unreported; the police had no interest in the tomb, which, from what little I was told, was apparently totally empty when they located it and Hulke’s body. I had other worries than the preservation of his memory: unless I’d hallucinated the entire episode – and Hulke’s death told me I hadn’t – there was still a walking sacred corpse out there that wanted me dead.

  If I had any doubts on that last point, they were swept away when I saw it from the window of the hotel in which I was staying afterwards; I immediately called a taxi and fled, heading for the airport and taking a flight right across Australia – I couldn’t leave the country whilst Hulke’s death was being investigated, being the only witness and a possible suspect.

  Whilst waiting there, I was informed that Hulke’s place had burnt down, taking with it all the evidence of an Egyptian presence in the region. I also picked up rumours of mysterious deaths in the area of Neversay Creek, initially thought to be the work of the same killer, only to be dismissed as due to the bite of one of Australia’s many venomous creatures.

  I had a hope that it might give up or lose my trail, but there was a report in the news of a mysterious shadowy figure spotted in a nearby town that I was certain was the mummy seeking me.

  Perhaps I was being paranoid, but I took a flight to the UK as soon as I could. I was reasonably certain that the hideous tar-coloured monstrosity couldn’t swim and I doubted it would be able to book passage here, even if had some way of tracing me to the far side of the world, so home seemed the safest place to be, even if I couldn’t escape the guilt that I was partially to blame for what had happened.

  More recently, though, I saw a brief article online about a New Age cult in Perth, Australia, drawn from Egyptian beliefs and led by a man called Neterbyagoona, who is never seen in public. I couldn’t help but recall that Hulke has said the priest’s name began with an N and began to wonder if this was the risen priest. Did he have plans to rebuild his lost domain in the west of Australia?

  Although I tried to ignore the possibility, I could do so no longer when I learnt that the cult plans to preach in the UK and that their priest would be flying over to inaugurate their first temple here.

  Could it be a coincidence or was he coming for me?

  I believe that he is – and I won’t let him drain me as he drained Hulke…

  THEY SAY GLORIA’S STILL IN THE LAKE

  Michael Penkas

  I wasn’t looking for Gloria Swedon. I knew she wasn’t in the lake, no matter what everyone else was saying.

  The police had dragged it twice and turned up nothing. They’d searched every one of the properties surrounding that lake. They’d searched the woods surrounding the properties. That should have been enough for anyone.

  But people still thought she was down there. Some of them even said they could see her hand reaching out of the water some nights. During the day, they saw something shimmering in it that could have been bleached skin. What had been the wind howling between trees last summer had become her ghostly voice this summer.

  It was the first Friday in October and, for the first time in six years, my cottages were not all reserved for next summer. Nearly half my regulars had already informed me that they wouldn’t be renting again. So there I was, sitting in a boat filthy with dust, pouring gasoline into a motor that hadn’t been used in two years, just to see what was in the middle of the lake. I owned twenty-eight of the
properties surrounding it and losing half my rentals was a seven-figure problem.

  My clothes were soaked from dragging the boat into the water and my hands slipped on the gas can, leaving gasoline on my ruined sweatshirt and jeans. It was a good thing I’d changed out of my suit before coming here. I started up the motor and was surprised, with my luck, that it caught on the first try.

  It was past ten and there was a full moon, but I saw nothing as I looked at the lake. I headed out slowly, searching for the piece of driftwood or plastic or whatever it was that had scared off a small fortune over the summer. I saw the moon reflected in a distorted oval, lumps of white and black shimmering so that, if I wanted, I could see a face there. Gloria’s smiling face, looking just like it did in the photograph that appeared in every newspaper this side of the state for about three months.

  Her car had been found, abandoned, half a mile up the road from here on Valentine’s Day. Gloria Swedon had been the kind of girl who was so perfect that her life could only end in tragedy. A seventeen year-old head cheerleader at the local high school, dating the captain of the football team and slated to be valedictorian. The week after her disappearance, it was learned that she’d been granted a full-ride scholarship to one of the Ivy League colleges out East. It was the kind of story that reporters pray to get.

  The general consensus was that her boyfriend must have killed her. Probably while drunk. Probably after having his sexual advances spurned. He’d spent six weeks under a media spotlight, having every facet of his relationship to Gloria exposed, before it was proven beyond a doubt that there was no way he could have killed her or even seen her that night.

  Of course, I was the only one who had known all along he hadn’t killed her. Just like I was the only one who had known all along Gloria Swedon’s body was not at the bottom of the lake.

  Eight months ago, I’d been on my way to check out one of the cottages. The road between the highway off-ramp and the lake was little more than dirt and there were no lights. It had begun to rain and I’d been tired from a long day at work. She’d been dressed all in black. My truck was going at least fifty miles an hour. She’d probably died instantly.

  So there I was, fingers on the throat of the Homecoming Queen, not getting a pulse.

  I knew that the police wouldn’t care about the dark dirt road or the rain or the fact that she was dressed all in black or the fact that no one was supposed to be out there that time of year anyway. All they’d care about would be the test showing I’d had three beers earlier in the evening. That’s all the press would need to know and there would go the business I’d built over the last twenty years. And, likely, my freedom. All gone, because Gloria Swedon went wandering where she shouldn’t have been one Friday evening. She should have been home studying or out playing hard to get with her boyfriend. This hadn’t been my fault.

  I’d buried her in a patch of woods a hundred miles away . I had a friend out of state who worked on the front of the truck, no questions asked. The rain had washed away whatever blood had been on the grille.

  Eight months later, here I was near the center of the lake. The moon’s reflection seemed to focus down to a point on the water and then pull out of it. Ten feet in front of me, something pure white stretched up from the surface. I slowed the motor and just drifted towards it.

  It was a thin hand, chalk-white except for the nails. The nails were blue. It didn’t flex or fidget, just held itself out of the water, like a statue of a hand instead of an actual one. Water dripped from each slender finger. I had no idea what I was going to do.

  The boat bumped against the hand. It was solid. Not a ghost that could be ignored.

  The hand fell against the edge of the boat, grabbing on and tilting it. A second hand, just as white, joined it after a moment, pulling.

  I heard the head emerge before I saw it. I knew it was coming, but where could I go? She wasn’t letting go of the boat and there was no way I was jumping into the water to swim away.

  Short black hair was plastered against an angular, almost elfin, face. Her eyes were sunk so far in that I couldn’t even tell if they were opened or closed. The sweater she wore was tattered and covered with so many holes that it seemed ready to fall away from her body. Water splashed into the boat as she fell in, scrabbling with legs in blue jeans that had fared better than the sweater. She was barefoot and, as she pulled herself into a sitting position across from me, I noticed in the moonlight that her toenails were blue just like her fingernails. Then she just sat there, her expression blank. I caught a flicker of white from her shadowed eye-sockets that suggested her eyes were open. After a minute or two, I finally spoke to her, stating what was obvious to both of us.

  “You’re not Gloria Swedon.” Gloria had been a busty blonde, a full head taller than this woman, whose hair reached down well past her shoulders. She wasn’t even dressed like Gloria had been dressed that night. I’d never seen this woman before.

  She looked at the floor of the boat, perhaps observing how much water she’d brought in. Her voice was harsh and choked, with a trace of some Eastern European accent that I couldn’t quite identify. “Drew.”

  We sat for a while in silence after she’d said her name. Her chest was rising and falling. I wasn’t sure if she was breathing or crying. I was about to reach for her when she finally spoke again.

  “Gloria Swedon killed me. Steve was going to ask me to the prom, so she killed me.”

  One of the rumors stirred up by the press was that Steve had been seeing someone else. I’d ignored it. There’d also been rumors that Steve was gay, HIV positive, a drug addict and even a twin. I gave the press no credit for guessing until they accidentally got something right.

  “How come no one knew?” I asked. With all the ruckus stirred up by Gloria, it would seem that someone would have connected a second girl disappearing around the same time.

  Still looking at the floor, the dead girl said, “I was from out of town. Ran away from home. Waitressing. No one notices. Steve was my only friend.”

  “He’s okay,” I offered, not sure if she’d still care.

  “I know.” I thought I saw a bit of a smile. The night sky seemed to be getting even darker. “I know he’s all right. He thinks that I killed Gloria and left town. But he never mentioned my name. He protected me.” She began shaking again.

  I almost reached out, almost forgot that this sad girl had been at the bottom of the lake for the past eight months.

  I kept my hands to myself, though, and instead offered her a simple, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t,” she snapped back. “Gloria was crazy. She laughed when she pulled the rope around my neck. She smiled when she brought me out to the lake. She weighed me down with sacks of rocks. I was still alive when she threw me over and, as I sank, she waved.”

  The sky grew even darker. “I’m not ... why are you ... still ...?” I wasn’t sure how to word it, what exactly I was trying to ask.

  “I needed to thank you,” she answered. “I needed one person to know I was gone. Don’t feel guilty for what you did.”

  Guilty?

  “Thank you,” she said again. Then she slumped over. I didn’t need to check to know that whatever was inside her was gone now. The thing that had been haunting the lake all summer was gone now.

  Well ...

  Not gone.

  The body was still in the boat. It just wasn’t moving any longer.

  So ...

  Damn.

  I guessed that I could wrap her in the tarp that I’d kept the boat in. There was a shovel in the shed next to where I kept the boat. It was still early enough that I could drive her out of the county to bury in some patch of woods far from my property, preferably a hundred miles in the opposite direction from where I’d buried Gloria. At least there wouldn’t be any work done on my truck this time.

  I wondered if anything else could go wrong tonight, when the dark skies cracked with thunder and it began to rain.

  BLESSEDLY OFFENDE
D

  Shaun Avery

  I lie in wait for the comedian when the show is done, my hacksaw hanging loose but ready in my hand.

  The crowds have long since gone by now, their faces happy and contented. I pinned the same look on my face for the duration of the performance, but inside the usual rage was burning.

  It’s time to set that anger free.

  As if prompted by that thought, the door to the club opens and the man of the moment emerges.

  The man.

  The filth-monger.

  The offender.

  I step out of the shadows, step into his path, and the first thing he seems to see is the hacksaw.

  He tries to go for a joke then, saying, “This is a little far to go for an autograph, isn’t it?” But with no mob there to lap up the smut that he is peddling, I can see the fear in this so-called comedian’s eyes.

  “I didn’t come,” I say, “for an autograph.”

  I take a step nearer to him.

  I bet he’s thinking that in weeks to come, all of this stuff will be a thing of the past. There’ll be no more stepping alone out of small-time comedy clubs; no, it’ll be the big time all too soon. The painful thing is, I know he’s probably right. That’s the way it goes for his type these days. The offenders.

  How I wish I could stop that happening.

  I take another step towards him.

  Placing myself between him and the nondescript car that will soon be a limo.

  “I bet you didn’t see me,” I say, “in the crowd tonight.”

  “Sure I did,” he replies, his eyes straying uneasily to the hacksaw by my side.

  “No you didn’t,” I tell him, and I believe every word. “I was just another face, enjoying the show.”

  His hand is straying towards his inner coat pocket now.

  Reaching for his phone.

  No doubt thinking that he’s in danger.

  “But you see, Mr Funny-Pants, I was actually keeping myself a little list.”