Fossil Lake II: The Refossiling Read online

  Fossil Lake II:

  The Refossiling

  Copyright © 2015 Sabledrake Enterprises

  All rights reserved

  1st Edition – Spring, 2015

  Cover Design by Stephen Cooney Copyright © 2014

  Dinosaur images by KeithBishop © 2007

  Published by Sabledrake Enterprises

  Edited by Christine Morgan

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  * * * * * SMASHWORDS EDITION * * * * *

  Thank you for downloading this ebook. Kindly observe that stories and poems contained herein are copyright of their respective creators as indicated and are reproduced here with their permission. They may not be reproduced, scanned, or distributed for any commercial or non-commercial use without permission from the respective author. Quotes used in reviews are the exception. No alteration of content is allowed.

  If you enjoyed this book, then encourage your friends to purchase their own copy. Your support and respect for the property of each author is appreciated.

  * * *

  Dedication

  For the dinosaurs.

  Don’t be an extinction-denier

  Copyrights ©

  Foreword by Brian Keene, © 2014

  The Lake, by Edgar Allan Poe, © 1827

  Ricky’s Summer Vacation, by A. Stinky Cat, © 2014

  Fetch!, by Ken Goldman, © 2014

  Perfect Ten, by Scott R. Jones, © 2014

  Bruce Too, by Jodi Lee, © 2014

  Dark Operator, by Clayton Chandler, © 2014

  Blind Date, by David Neilsen, © 2014

  Music Hath Charms, by Mark Orr, © 2014

  Leviathan, by Richard Leavesley, © 2014

  The Tub and Takahashi, by Gregor Cole, © 2014

  Signs, by John M. McIlveen, © 2014

  Hellhole Fishing, by Stanley Webb, © 2014

  Returning Magic to the Kingdom, by Brian M. Sammons, © 2014

  The Author as Fossil, by James Ebersole, © 2014

  The Surface Beneath, by Michael Burnside, © 2014

  Beyond the Boneyard Gate, by Alicia Austen, © 2014

  Critter Marrow, by Patrick Lacey, © 2014

  My Beloved, by J.M. Northwood, © 2014

  Bloodbound, by William Andre Sanders, © 2014

  Trapper Keeper, by A. Stinky Cat, © 2014

  Lady Ghost, by Edward Martin III, © 2014

  Innocent Passage, by Randy Attwood, © 2014

  Frozen in Stone, by Doug Blakeslee, © 2014

  The Body in the Lake, by Peter Sutton, © 2014

  Gods and Mice, by Bruce Boston, © 2014

  The Sea is in my Blood, by Deborah Walker, © 2014

  Harmless, by Uncle Don, © 2014

  Retirement Home, by K.H. Koehler, © 2006; formerly published in the collection

  Tales for 3 O’Clock in the Morning.

  Playing Games, by Kerry G.S. Lipp, © 2014

  The Incident in Central Village, by Doug Rinaldi, © 2014

  Forest of Borth, by Claire Smith, © 2014

  Nickolaus Passionate and the Children of Ereshkigal, by John Goodrich, © 2014

  Red Ochre, by Mary Pletsch, © 2014

  Dollmaker, by Alan Loewen, © 2014

  Secrets in the Soil, by E.S. Wynn, © 2014

  First to One Hundred, by S.L. Dixon, © 2014

  The Unspeakable Confession of Dicky Rashone’s Dog, by Lorenzo Passion, © 2014

  A Far Southern Land, by D.J. Tyrer, © 2014

  They Say Gloria’s Still in the Lake, by Michael Penkas, © 2014

  Blessedly Offended, by Shaun Avery, © 2014

  The Nightmare Lake, by H.P. Lovecraft, © 1919

  Table of Contents

  Foreword by Brian Keene

  The Lake, by Edgar Allan Poe

  Ricky’s Summer Vacation, by A. Stinky Cat

  Fetch!, by Ken Goldman

  Perfect Ten, by Scott R. Jones

  Bruce Too, by Jodi Lee

  Dark Operator, by Clayton Chandler

  Blind Date, by David Neilsen

  Music Hath Charms, by Mark Orr

  Leviathan, by Richard Leavesley

  The Tub and Takahashi, by Gregor Cole

  Signs, by John M. McIlveen

  Hellhole Fishing, by Stanley Webb

  Returning Magic to the Kingdom, by Brian M. Sammons

  The Author as Fossil, by James Ebersole

  The Surface Beneath, by Michael Burnside

  Beyond the Boneyard Gate, by Alicia Austen

  Critter Marrow, by Patrick Lacey

  My Beloved, by J.M. Northwood

  Bloodbound, by William Andre Sanders

  Trapper Keeper, by A. Stinky Cat

  Lady Ghost, by Edward Martin III

  Innocent Passage, by Randy Attwood

  Frozen in Stone, by Doug Blakeslee

  The Body in the Lake, by Peter Sutton

  Gods and Mice, by Bruce Boston

  The Sea is in my Blood, by Deborah Walker

  Harmless, by Uncle Don

  Retirement Home, by K.H. Koehler

  Playing Games, by Kerry G.S. Lipp

  The Incident in Central Village, by Doug Rinaldi

  Forest of Borth, by Claire Smith

  Nickolaus Passionate and the Children of Ereshkigal, by John Goodrich

  Red Ochre, by Mary Pletsch

  Dollmaker, by Alan Loewen

  Secrets in the Soil, by E.S. Wynn

  First to One Hundred, by S.L. Dixon

  The Unspeakable Confession of Dicky Rashone’s Dog, by Lorenzo Passion

  A Far Southern Land, by D.J. Tyrer

  They Say Gloria’s Still in the Lake, by Michael Penkas

  Blessedly Offended, by Shaun Avery

  The Nightmare Lake, by H.P. Lovecraft

  A Preview of Fossil Lake III: Unicornado

  About the Contributors

  NICKY AND THE UNICORN

  (AN INTRODUCTION)

  Brian Keene

  Came the day Nicky had sex with a unicorn.

  It didn’t end well. At least for Nicky. The unicorn had a grand time.

  But I’m not here to talk about that. Instead, I’m here to talk about this book, and tell you a bit about how it—and its predecessor—came to be.

  The Internet is a wonderful thing. Some of you who are reading this may have grown up with it all your lives, running in the background. As a result, perhaps you take it for granted, the way the generations born after the invention of electric light or refrigeration the automobile or pasteurization did with those benefits. For you, the Internet is always there. It’s always been there, running in the background. Some of the rest of you, like myself, probably remember when the Internet first became available to be. I sure do. Windows 2.0 running on a Magnavox 286 with a dial-up modem. It took about twenty minutes for a single website to finish loading, and there were only four dedicated to horror fiction—Horror Net, Gothic Net, Masters of Terror, and Chiaroscuro.

  Obviously, things have improved since then.

  We turn on our computers, phones, video game consoles, or (increasingly) televisions, and the Internet is there, connected as surely and quickly as the illumination that comes with the flicking of a light-switch. It allows friends and family to stay in touch instantly, no matter how many miles separate the
m in the real world. It provides information to anyone who needs it—a wealth of information; health, politics, history, geography, pop culture. It allows us expression and creativity. It is used to form friendships, businesses, and even love. It aids commerce, wealth, and human understanding.

  But it also allows assholes into our lives.

  Bullies, trolls, sociopaths, and assholes existed before the Internet came along, of course, but it was never so easy for them to infect our lives. Before the Internet, maybe you dealt with them at school or at work, but they were localized—confined to a geographic location. With the Internet, they can abuse anybody, regardless of the physical distance between them.

  There is one asshole in particular, a sociopathic little troll well-known to writers, editors, publishers, and some readers of horror, bizarro, and science fiction. This individual—we’ll call him “Nicky”—fancies himself a writer, but he is not. What he is is vile, loathsome, repugnant, incoherent, racist, sexist, homophobic, misogynistic, abusive, unhygienic, incompetent, and many other adjectives, none of which are complimentary. For almost two decades, this individual has stalked, harassed, threatened, slandered, libeled, and abused a vast number of professionals, including but not limited to myself, Ramsey Campbell, Poppy Z. Brite, Clive Barker, Cherie Priest, Darren McKeeman, Mary SanGiovanni, David Niall Wilson, Janrae Frank, Nick Mamatas, Angelina Hawkes-Craig, Michael Rowe, Monica J. O’Rourke, Kevin Lucia, Ellen Datlow and dozens—literally dozens—more. His various offenses have included false allegations of “plagiarism” against his perceived enemies, as well as threatening to burn their homes down, have them beat up by imaginary street gangs, and, in one particularly heinous case, threatening to kidnap their children.

  What was their crime? What did these individuals do to deserve such rancor? Simple. They were female. Or gay. Or rejected one of his stories. Or refused to buy one of his self-published books. Or suggested that he shouldn’t threaten to rape people.

  Despite his Internet infamy, he still manages to prey on the unsuspecting, particularly minors. In addition to fancying himself a writer, he also plays at being a publisher. He has a long track record of accepting submissions from young, novice writers—often teenagers—and then not paying them or outright publishing them without permission. When called on it, he responds with more vitriolic threats and abuse.

  But a strange thing has happened over the last decade. Strangers whom might never have interacted with each other have been brought together by this individual’s retarded reign of terror. Partnerships have been formed. Friendships have been forged. Careers have been kick-started. All because people found out they shared a common denominator—they’d ended up on an asshole’s radar.

  This anthology, and its predecessor, the original Fossil Lake, were also birthed from that chaos. Both books came about because a number of their contributors, as well as their editor and the publisher, had been among the asshole’s targets.

  You’ll note I didn’t say victims. That’s because to be a victim, one must be victimized. One must give in to terror, and bow to abuse. But despite the number of people who have indeed been terrorized and abused by this diseased munchkin, every one of them has triumphed and come out the other side better for it. Logically, he should be a reverse Midas. Everything he “touches” should turn to shit. That’s his intent and his hope. But instead, most of the people he’s touched have instead spun gold out of the slime he left behind.

  And that’s more magical than any unicorn.

  Welcome back to Fossil Lake. I hope you enjoy your visit.

  Brian Keene

  December 2014

  THE LAKE

  Edgar Allan Poe

  In spring of youth it was my lot

  To haunt of the wide world a spot

  The which I could not love the less—

  So lovely was the loneliness

  Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,

  And the tall pines that towered around.

  But when the Night had thrown her pall

  Upon the spot, as upon all,

  And the mystic wind went by

  Murmuring in melody—

  Then—ah, then, I would awake

  To the terror of the lone lake.

  Yet that terror was not fright,

  But a tremulous delight—

  A feeling not the jewelled mine

  Could teach or bribe me to define—

  Nor Love—although the Love were thine.

  Death was in that poisonous wave,

  And in its gulf a fitting grave

  For him who thence could solace bring

  To his lone imagining—

  Whose solitary soul could make

  An Eden of that dim lake.

  Ricky’s Summer Vacation

  A. Stinky Cat

  FETCH!

  Ken Goldman

  Look at him watchin’ me, like that canine understands every word I say. Probably feels what I’m feelin’ too. I’d put my last dollar on it.

  “Do ya understand what I’m sayin’, Giddy? Hey, do ya , boy?”

  He’s a real good dog, my Gideon is. Call it a cliché if you must, but these fourteen years my yellow Lab has been this old man’s best friend. More than any two-legged creature I know, Giddy understands fidelity ain’t only what comes outa fancy stereo speakers. This dog would lay down and die for me if he believed that’s what I was askin’ of him. ‘Course I’d never ask that of a companion what’s meant so much for so long. That fidelity thing, well, it goes two ways, you know. And there ain’t much left besides my Giddy I can truly call my own.

  “Ain’t that right, boy? There’s a good dog ...”

  Yeah, he’s old, I know that, and probably not long for the world. I try not to think about that ‘cause I’ve suffered more than my share of loneliness. Since Mattie passed on I could do a chapter or two on solitude, ‘specially livin’ in Jasper’s north woods by ol’ Fossil Lake. When the snow flies in Jasper you may not see a living soul for weeks on end, and those whisperin’ pines offer up their own brand of seclusion. But I won’t bore you with no sob stories, being fortunate to live so many years with one fine woman. Ol’ Gid, he misses her too, that’s a fact. More than one occasion I found him whimpering in his corner after sniffing around Mattie’s side of the bed.

  “Yeah, Giddy. I know, I know. I loved her too.”

  Now, Gideon’s being a Labrador, what he knows best to do is fetch. That can mean anything and ever’thing he finds ‘long the lakeside, if you know the retrieving ways of canines. He certainly recollected enough from back when we two hunted quail before my damned arthritis kicked in. It ain’t unusual for this dog to bring into my cabin some dead sparrow or maybe a ‘coon he’s discovered sloshing inside my trash. So, one afternoon he carries in what I believed were a dead squirrel. ‘Cept the damned thing weren’t dead, not dead at all, and once out of Gideon’s jaw that rodent near tore my place apart, darting about the cabin like some creature possessed. But I couldn’t reprimand my dog, not when he was merely followin’ what instinct God give him. Fact is, in the midst of the chaos that squirrel caused before it finally crashed through my front window to freedom, in the midst of all that, I laughed ‘til I was near hoarse. For the good time he provided that day, Gideon earned himself a steak dinner. Understand, laughter don’t come ‘round too often, so these days I take it wherever I find it. Gideon, he’s got this knack of fetching me a good many smiles.

  “But then a few weeks ago you brung in somethin’ just plain crazy, didn’t you, boy ...?”

  “What you got there, pal?” I asked when Giddy delivered his bounty right at my toes. At first I’m thinking here’s just some discarded piece of rubbish ‘cause it weren’t alive nor moving. But when I give her a closer inspection my blood near froze.

  It was a bone. A large bone. All intact, too, like maybe someone’s arm or what used to be an arm but with no hand ‘tached. ‘Course, if it was an arm that meant it were human. So I asked, “‘Where’d y
ou find this, boy?’”

  His tail’s wild motion indicated Gideon had himself a secret he intended to keep.

  That was the end of it, or so I thought. Don’t ask me why, but I decided to hold on to that shank of bone, believing I’d discover just where it come from if I did. So I put it in my freezer like last winter’s supply of venison, not really certain what else to do with it. I might’ve forgot about it entirely had Gideon not kept sniffin’ around where I’d placed it, as if that animal known more than he was letting on. But the Lord, He chose to keep most of his creatures inarticulate, and at least for the time being I decided to include myself in that particular category. See, I’d no intentions sharing Gideon’s find with no one, and since no one was pretty much who I talked to in Jasper, that presented no headaches.

  Next day Gideon brings me the second of his gifts, his tail in full spin like he had some revved up motor inside his ass. Dropping this new treasure again at my feet, he’s jumping all over me to assure I give his latest discovery the once over right then and there. There was no denying it now. This latest chunk of remains was once someone’s hand, five fingers all present and accounted for, but the meat on them digits had been licked clean.

  Human ...

  “Is this the Twelve Days of Christmas, then?” I asked my companion. only half joking. Evidently Giddy had been to a spot near the lake he knew and remembered well. I carried that skeletal hand over to the freezer, held it against the first bony chunk Gideon had retrieved.

  “My furry friend, I do believe we have ourselves a match.”

  Sometimes a man finds himself doing what he knows others would consider more than a little odd. But a man what lives alone long as I have, he learns how his instincts owe damn little to what other folks might think. I pulled my nail gun from the shelf, dug out a couple of long thin pegs that wouldn’t do much bone splinterin’, and I fastened them two bony bastards together at the wrist. Laugh if you want, but I always like to sing while I work ‘cause it takes the edge off that moment.