The Phantom Cabinet Page 10

  “Yeah, I’m meeting up with Milo in a little bit, and we’re going to chuck rocks at cars. Last time, we cracked some fruitcake’s window and almost caused an accident. It was hilarious. This other time, we stuck a boulder in the middle of the road, and some dumb bitch ran it over. It tore up her undercarriage, and left motor oil all over the place. She had to have it towed and everything.”

  “Awesome. And you guys never got caught?”

  “Naw. We’ve been chased before, but always got away. With a good hiding spot, we’ll be fine. You in?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Be at my house by ten, and make sure you bring your bike.”

  “Got it.”

  “Later, bitch.”

  — | — | —

  Chapter 6

  “T hat tantalizing tune was ‘The Black Angel’s Death Song,’ performed by those lovable rogues, The Velvet Underground. For this humble DJ, it stands as one of my all time favorites. But forget about Lou Reed and company for the moment, because we’re here to talk about my man, Douglas Stanton.

  “The school year ended with a low-budget graduation ceremony, held in Campanula Elementary’s auditorium. When Douglas’ name was called, he trotted to the stage to receive his diploma. While his fellow students posed for photographs, and fielded hugs and handshakes from enthusiastic relatives, Douglas walked home alone. His father couldn’t or wouldn’t take the night off, so Douglas celebrated with a microwave dinner.

  “Still, he was glad to be rid of the school. The campus had grown too small for him, the classrooms too confining. He much preferred the infinite expanses of the Phantom Cabinet, conjured up in moments of perfect solitude. Reliving the experiences of the deceased helped him to forget his own social deficiencies. Still, he wished he had someone to share the afterlife with, someone still alive.

  “But, as it turned out, Douglas wasn’t quite done with Campanula Elementary. He would return to the school one more time, with results no one could have expected.”

  ««—»»

  “Come on, you guys. Don’t be such pussies!”

  “Calm down, Benjy,” said Douglas. “Just because we don’t wanna get drunk with you doesn’t mean you should start talkin’ shit.”

  “Yeah,” Emmett added. “We’re too young for that, anyway.”

  “Too young? Too young? We’re almost in middle school. We’re practically adults.”

  Whether from Clark’s influence or some other factor, Benjy had grown increasingly belligerent in the past few weeks. From recounting graphic sex acts he’d allegedly performed with Karen to egging a security guard at the mall, he’d become a loose cannon, and no one could predict what he’d do next. Dark bags hung from his eyes, which were always bloodshot. It was like he was becoming another person entirely.

  They stood in the Stanton living room, on the verge of a friendship shattering confrontation. This Douglas couldn’t allow.

  “Aw hell,” he said. “My dad isn’t coming home until late. I guess I could try one beer.”

  Emmett turned on him with ferocity. “Don’t let Benjy pressure you, man. If you ask me, he’s becoming an asshole, just like his buddies Clark and Milo.”

  “Someone’s jealous,” Benjy countered. “What’s the matter, did you want me to be your best friend forever? Should I dump Karen, and give you roses every day? Bitch.”

  “Guys, stop!” shouted Douglas. “We’re friends, aren’t we? One beer won’t kill you, Emmett. You might even like it.” Douglas realized that he was in the strange position of arguing for a decision he didn’t agree with, but he’d do whatever it took to keep both his friends.

  “I just think it’s stupid,” complained Emmett. “Have you ever been around a drunk before? They’re all idiots.”

  “Fine,” sighed Douglas. “We’ll crack open a couple of beers, and you can join in if you want. Is that okay with both of you?”

  “I guess,” said Benjy.

  “Whatever,” grumbled Emmett.

  Benjy pulled two Coronas from his JanSport. The sound of clinking glass affirmed that there were plenty more therein.

  Douglas retrieved a bottle opener from the kitchen, and with it uncapped their brews. Wrinkling his nose, he took a small sip. Surprisingly, it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected.

  “Where’d you get all this, anyway?” he asked, pausing to unleash an impressive belch. “Steal ’em from your parents?”

  “Not this time, no. Actually, there’s this bum Clark took me to. His name’s Barry. He lives in the Vons parking lot, I think. If you give him a few bucks for a forty, he’ll get ya whatever you want. I even went in with him.”

  “No one at Vons said anything?” asked Emmett, interested despite his misgivings.

  “Not a word.”

  Douglas found himself staring at a couple millimeters of leftover foam. Was he already feeling the alcohol’s effects, or just the power of suggestion? “How about another one?” he asked.

  “Hold up. Let me finish mine first.” Benjy polished off his drink, then fished out twin beverages. Bottle caps flew off with a hiss, and they took their first sips in unison.

  “You forgot the limes,” Emmett pointed out.

  “What?” asked Benjy, grinning stupidly.

  “My dad said that a Corona without a lime is like pizza with no cheese.”

  “Yeah, but what does your dad know? He can’t be that smart if he raised a pansy like you.”

  “I think we have some limes,” said Douglas, once more trying to mediate.

  “If he gets them, will you finally man up?”

  Emmett sighed deeply, torn between wanting to prove himself and wanting to prove a point. Shrugging his shoulders, he succumbed to peer pressure. “Fine,” he said. “But I’m only drinking one.”

  In the kitchen, Douglas produced three limes. Emmett demonstrated how to chop them up and squeeze them into bottles. The beer fizzed upon contact, improving the taste considerably. It was almost like drinking 7UP.

  They consumed their beers, and then opened another three. Even Emmett started to enjoy himself, his thoughts growing pleasantly muddled.

  Suddenly, they heard the harsh grinding of the mechanical garage door.

  “Damn,” Douglas cursed. “My dad’s home.”

  Panicking, they surveyed the living room. There were empty bottles scattered all over, slivers of lime left in the kitchen. Douglas knew that he was courting punishment, but Benjy was already in motion.

  “Grab the bottles,” he commanded, gathering limes. After stuffing all the empties into his backpack, he opened the sliding glass door. “Quick, let’s get out of here. If your dad sees you, he’ll know you’re drunk.”

  Benjy prodded his languid compatriots forward, into the backyard and over its bordering fence. They heard Carter Stanton calling Douglas’ name, but had already passed through the neighbors’ backyard, out to the open street.

  “Whew, that was close,” gasped Douglas. “I don’t know what my dad would have done…if he caught us with all that beer.”

  “There’s plenty left,” Benjy pointed out. “We need to find somewhere else to drink.”

  “I don’t know, guys,” grumbled Emmett. “I’m feeling pretty good as it is. Why don’t we hide the backpack somewhere and go back to Douglas’ house?”

  “Are you kidding? Even if we can act sober, Mr. Stanton will smell the beer on us.”

  “How is drinking more going to change that?” Douglas asked. “I have to go home sometime.”

  “We’ll have a few more, and then we’ll walk on down to the gas station. We can pick up some mints—even eye drops, if we have to. As long as you speak clearly, your dad won’t know anything. That goes for your parents too, Emmett.”

  “But what if the guy at the register knows we’re drunk? He might call the cops.”

  “Have you seen the guy that works there, Emmett? He looks like something from under a bridge. Barry the bum is practically Harrison Ford in comparison.”

  As they
debated, vehicles passed, flashing their headlights. Douglas felt dreadfully exposed. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll go drink some more. But can we get the hell out of here, already?”

  “Wise words,” enthused Benjy, as Emmett groused in the background. “But like I said before, we need a location.”

  “What’s nearby?” asked Douglas.

  “There’s one place I can think of, a place where I’ve chugged beer before without a single problem.”

  “You’re not talking about…”

  “Exactly. Fellas, I think it’s time we paid Campanula Elementary one last visit.”

  “We just graduated from that shithole,” Emmett protested. “Why on Earth would we go back?”

  “You got a better idea?”

  “Yeah, Benjy, I do. We can all go home, or at the very least head back to Douglas’.”

  “I think you really want to keep drinking. You’re just having too much fun arguing to realize it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, the fracturing chum trio stood at the edge of Campanula Elementary’s parking lot. Murky and abandoned, the campus loomed malignant under the star-dappled horizon. Even Benjy seemed to be having second thoughts.

  “Man, this place is spooky,” marveled Emmett. His petulant tone had evaporated.

  “It sure is,” confirmed Douglas. “Are you sure you want to do this, Benjy?”

  “I…of course I do. If there’s a serial killer behind that fence, all I have to do is outrun the two of you.”

  “Good luck with that. You’re thinner now, but you’re still the fattest of us.”

  “Shut up, Emmett. Our beer is gettin’ warm.”

  They hopped the fence, and made their way to the lunch tables. Each could barely make out the others, glimpsing them as shadow shades overlaying starry firmament.

  “It’s a good thing I snagged the bottle opener,” said Benjy, cracking bottles open, inserting lime slices, and distributing them across the table. “We’d have had to chew the caps off, otherwise.”

  Then they were drinking. The night devolved into gulping, fizzing and belching—even a few scattered hiccups. Douglas’ thoughts grew sluggish, a surprisingly pleasant sensation.

  Empty bottles accumulated. Emmett tried to stand, only to collapse back onto his seat.

  Benjy cleared his throat. “Have you guys…noticed anything strange in Oceanside lately?”

  “Strange…how?” asked Douglas.

  “Well, do you remember that sleepover? When we went toilet papering?”

  “Sure.”

  “That night, I saw a tree turn into a face. When I tried to tell you guys, Emmett made fun of me, so I shut up. Then, when we were all asleep, I swear to God, my sleeping bag lifted all the way up to your ceiling. With me in it.”

  “That’s stupid,” Emmett declared. His face hit the table, and he passed out.

  “What about you, Douglas? Do you think I’m making it up?”

  At that moment, Douglas wanted nothing more than to confide in his friend, to tell him of the Phantom Cabinet and how he’d been linked to it since birth. Instead, he quietly remarked, “No, I believe you.”

  “You do? Well, that’s great, because there’s more to it. I think something latched onto me that night, Douglas. I keep waking up in strange places: in closets, on the driveway, even facedown in the backyard. Sometimes I hear laughter, even though no one’s around. It’s terrifying, and I don’t know what to do.”

  “Benjy…what can I say?”

  “There’s nothing to say, I guess.”

  “Any beers left?”

  Benjy hiccupped. “Just two. It’s good that Emmett passed out.”

  They finished off the Coronas, and then sat in companionable silence. Four eyes turned skyward; two inebriated minds pondered cosmic mechanics. Then Douglas began to retch. His last two meals resurfaced, partially digested passengers in a geyser of suds.

  “Disgusting!” Benjy cried gleefully. “Dude, you’re a lightweight!”

  “I need…to clear my head.”

  “Me too. How ’bout we hit the swings? It will be just like old times.”

  “I don’t know. I might puke again.”

  “We’ll leave a swing between us. That way, I won’t get sprayed.”

  “Should we wake Emmett up?”

  “If the smell of your spew doesn’t bother him, I say let him sleep.”

  “Okay. Let’s go.”

  They stumbled their way to the playground, giggling at their decreased motor skills. Even with the bile taste in his mouth, Douglas felt great, as if he could see his future stretching before him, and it was better than expected. He’d never felt closer to Benjy than he did at that moment, and resolved to tell him of the Phantom Cabinet before the night’s completion.

  Collapsing into his swing, Douglas grabbed the chains to prevent a backwards tumble. He planted his feet in the sand and kicked off, letting muscle memory relieve his beer-fogged brain. As he had so many times before, Douglas shot ever upward, losing himself in the joy of his arc. Swinging with reckless abandon, he realized that darkness provided the act a new level of exhilaration. With everything draped in night, he could pretend that there was no swing beneath him, no school nearby. Instead, he was on a spaceship’s flight deck, streaking across the cosmos like his dead friend, Frank Gordon.

  Douglas figured that he’d never swing again. With middle school would come a new level of maturity, and he’d abandon the swing set as he’d once abandoned rattles and stuffed animals. And so he pumped his legs fiercely, trying to kick the stars from orbit.

  Two swings away, Benjy similarly pushed his arc’s limits. His head spun madly, as if he could actually feel Earth’s rotation. It was a fun, dangerous feeling.

  “Hey, Douglas!” he called out. “I’m going to flip this bitch!”

  Fear clamped Douglas’ heart. He remembered hurtling face-first to the ground, saved only by supernatural intervention. Preparing to holler a warning, he heard a rightward thud. Benjy had already left his swing, twirling backwards too forcefully, ending up on his ass. A sand cloud billowed around him, to be inhaled with every breath.

  Tears swam in Benjy’s eyes; he’d bitten his tongue upon impact. Somewhat disoriented, he stumbled forward, hands thrust before him like a blind man. Under the stygian sky ocean, he might as well have been blind, with the moon and stars his only reference points.

  Benjy’s legs were unsteady; his inner compass spun madly. Drifting diagonally, he staggered into his friend’s trajectory. Douglas, still urging himself higher and higher, glimpsed a boy-shaped shadow only at the last moment, when nothing could be done to brunt the impact. Two feet met the side of Benjy’s cranium, and the impact was such that Douglas nearly lost his grip on the chains. Arresting his motion with two sand-planted legs, he hopped from his seat, and approached Benjy’s crumpled form.

  “Benjy!” he called. “Are you okay? I couldn’t see you, man! Can you get up?”

  He trailed his hand along Benjy’s body, trying to ascertain which end was which. At last, he felt a nose and a pair of lips, through which air no longer passed. Douglas found the point of impact: a crater in Benjy’s skull, a deep crumpled bone concavity filling with blood.

  “Benjy, get up! You can’t die!”

  The form remained inert, limbs spread at awkward angles, like a doll tossed from a window. Panicking, Douglas ran to Emmett, slapping him about the shoulders until the boy regained consciousness.

  “Why…are we still at school?” he slurred.

  “Benjy’s hurt! I think he’s dead!”

  “Benjy’s…” It took a moment for the words to register, and then alertness dawned. “You think he’s dead? Where is he?”

  “Over by the swings! He walked in front of me, Emmett! I…I couldn’t see him!” Douglas was bawling now, his words barely comprehendible.

  “What did I say? I told you guys this was a bad idea. I told you…”

  “Listen, man. You need to run to the nearest house and call 911.”


  “Why can’t you do it? I didn’t even do anything.”

  “I’m going to try something.”

  “What? You’re not a doctor. Do you even know CPR?”

  “There’s no time to explain. Please…just go.”

  “Fine. But I’m telling everyone that you guys made me drink. I’m not going to juvie for this.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ. Benjy is probably dead…and you’re worrying about juvie? What’s wrong with you?”

  “Fine. I’m going, I’m going.”

  Emmett ran, hopping the fence with nary a pause. Jogging a downward incline, he entered a cul-de-sac of unobtrusive paneled houses, a realm of flickering streetlamps.

  The neighborhood was strangely silent. No dogs barked; no cats yowled at the bloated moon. Perhaps the world was already in mourning. A horrible certainty arose within Emmett’s mind. Without having seen the body, he knew without a doubt that his friend was dead. He felt a void in reality, wherein Benjy had previously dwelt.

  At the first house, his knock went ignored, even though the interior lights were on, and a sitcom’s canned laughter could be heard faintly through the door. At the second house, the door swung open to reveal a weathered crone clad in a scanty chiffon bathrobe. Her thin grey hair was up in rollers. She clutched a cigarette with one veiny arthritis-curled claw hand.

  “Hello there,” she purred, coyly shifting to expose a drooping breast. “Here I was feeling lonely, and a strapping young man shows up my door. Come inside, why don’t you?”

  The woman winked, and Emmett’s skin crawled. “I’m suh…sorry,” he stammered. “I thought…uh…that someone else lives here. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

  “No trouble at all. Could I interest you in something to eat before you disappear back into the night? I have cake.”

  “No thanks, ma’am. I really should be going.”

  Making sad kitty sounds, she closed the door. Fighting a dizziness spell, Emmett moved on to the next house.

  There, a friendly middle-aged couple greeted him: the woman plump and radiant, the man balding and bespectacled. Upon hearing his tale, they immediately fetched a cordless phone, listening sympathetically as he repeated himself to a 911 dispatcher. When the dispatcher asked for his name, Emmett terminated the call.