The Phantom Cabinet Read online

  He thanked the couple, politely declined their beverage offer, and began trudging home. A small part of his mind chastened this choice—pointing out that Douglas could use his support now more than ever—but Emmett chose to ignore it.

  Back at Campanula Elementary, flashing lights and shrilling sirens held sway. An ambulance pulled up, flanked by police cars, as neighbors poured from their homes to identify the disturbance’s cause.

  Having unlocked the school gates, EMTs located Benjy’s body, and determined that he was indeed deceased. They wheeled him out in a black body bag, the unoiled stretcher squeaking all the way.

  They found Douglas near the body, cross-legged, eyes closed. He was breathing slowly, consistently, and it was theorized that shock had rendered him catatonic.

  The truth was quite different, however. Douglas’ consciousness was in the Phantom Cabinet. Within its wispy expanses, he searched desperately for Benjy’s spirit, pouring through soul fragments and discarded experiences with grim persistence.

  He wanted to find his friend and apologize. He would dedicate his life to fulfilling Benjy’s last wishes. But the search was futile; the Cabinet was enormous, completely bereft of fathomable geography. For all he knew, the spectral foam had already consumed Benjy, had already redistributed his every component. Still, Douglas remained, as EMTs shined light into his corporeal retinas.

  Roughly forty-seven hours later, he emerged from the spirit realm to find himself sprawled on a hospital bed. His first sight was of his sleep-deprived father.

  “Thank God,” Carter croaked hoarsely. “I thought I’d lost you.”

  “I couldn’t find him, Dad. I couldn’t find Benjy.” Douglas began to sob, heart wrenching moans stretching out several minutes. An officer arrived to take his statement.

  ««—»»

  The death being accidental, Douglas was allowed to return home. His father was reticent during the drive, unsure whether to comfort or punish.

  They hit a fast food drive-through on the way, as Douglas hadn’t eaten in over two days. He listlessly consumed his cheeseburgers, fries and soda, and then went to his room, wherein he studied the ceiling ’til daybreak.

  The next morning, there was a knock at the door, barely audible. Shifting awkwardly on the doormat stood Karen Sakihama, dressed in all black: a long black dress with black leggings beneath it, trailing down to a pair of black flats. The girl looked pale, even thinner than usual.

  “Hi,” Douglas said.

  “Hi.”

  Douglas waited for Karen to say something, anything. When she finally did, her words flew out in rapid succession, as if she couldn’t wait to flee.

  “Benjy’s funeral is today.”

  “Oh…I didn’t know.”

  “Well, it is. Anyway, Benjy’s parents wanted me to tell you not to come. They said that you got Benjy drunk, and that you killed him on purpose. I’m not sure if that’s true. Bye.”

  She hurried to an idling van, of a familiar make and model. In the driver’s seat crouched Mrs. Rothstein, fuming silently.

  ««—»»

  Fallbrook’s Lehrman Funeral Home adjoined a cemetery: simple plots spanning acres of rolling green slopes. Emmett was early. Solemnly, he explored his surroundings, reading names off of headstones, tracing engraved Star of David symbols with his fingertip.

  He located a yawning rectangular hole: Benjy’s final resting place. The lonely pit made him shiver. Checking the time, he realized that the service was about to begin.

  Under his father’s old coat and tie, Emmett’s body itched, sweating profusely. Stepping into the funeral home, he received a yarmulke, and was directed to the chapel, wherein dozens of mourners sat patiently, conversing in low voices. He claimed an empty pew. In sunlight diffused through stained glass windows, he surveyed his surroundings.

  He saw Benjy’s parents in the front pew, Mrs. Rothstein sobbing against her husband’s shoulder. Near them sat Karen Sakihama, motionless as a statue, speaking to no one. His schoolmates were spread throughout the chapel. Even Clark and Milo were there—uncharacteristically well-behaved—just two rows afore Emmett. The remaining mourners were strangers, most likely relatives and family friends. Douglas’ absence was glaring, but understandable. In his position, Emmett would have stayed home, too.

  The coffin was an unadorned pine box. Emmett was thankful it wasn’t open casket.

  A rabbi—white-bearded, dressed in a dark suit—stepped behind the pulpit. He recited psalms in a monotonic delivery, so boring that Emmett’s eyelids grew heavy. Then it was time for the eulogy.

  “As we celebrate the life of Benjy Rothstein and bid him farewell,” the rabbi began, “it behooves us to speak of the child’s actions and ideals.”

  Mourners sat up taller in their pews, beginning to pay attention.

  “I’ve known the Rothsteins for over two decades now. I was there for Benjy’s brit milah, and have spoken with him countless times since. Of late, I’ve watched the boy diligently studying Hebrew, in anticipation of a Bar Mitzvah he’ll sadly never see. Let me tell you, I’ve seldom met so fine a young man.

  “Wiser than his brief lifespan, kinder than the majority of his peers, with what words can we encapsulate this boy’s life? The truth is, we cannot. Only HaShem has that ability. We can only remember Benjy Rothstein, remember him in times of joy and sadness, and share these recollections with one another.

  “Benjy loved to play video games, as children do. He enjoyed shopping at the mall and riding his bicycle. His grades were exemplary and his friends were many. He touched so many people, as is evident from today’s large turnout. Benjy has loved and was loved, and we will miss him dearly.

  “We won’t forget Benjy’s charming smile, his quick wit and affable nature. Though no longer with us, in truth he remains in our hearts. Remember this in times of sorrow.

  “According to his parents, Benjy had planned to attend the University of Southern California, to study broadcast journalism. His dream was to become a radio DJ. So next time you listen to your radio, take a moment to imagine Benjy’s voice coming through your speakers. In this way, we fulfill his dream.”

  — | — | —

  Chapter 7

  “Do you get it now, Emmett? I’m not just your ever-entertaining disc jockey. I’m Benjy Rothstein, broadcasting live from the other side.

  “After my death, I spent a long stretch floating through the Phantom Cabinet, just a confused spirit struggling to maintain cohesion. At first, I was ignorant of my demise, believing the Phantom Cabinet to be an inescapable dream. In green fog, I drifted in and out of others’ memories, reliving experiences both exultant and macabre.

  “Eventually, I encountered half of Douglas’ soul, the portion trapped in the afterlife. Quantum entanglement linked it with the earthbound half. By interfacing with it, I found that I could tap into our buddy’s memories. Thus, I kept tabs on him throughout the years, and can tell you his story now.

  “Post-death, I’ve encountered many victims of Phantom Cabinet fugitives. Like me, they resisted soul breakdown. I’ve experienced their last days many times over, and they’ve lived mine.

  “As I’ve explained, the last year of my life was filled with terror. Something latched onto me at that sleepover, some terrible entity. I tried to drink it away, but it was always waiting. Maybe it pushed me in front of Douglas’ swing that night, just to isolate him further.

  “But enough speculating. To reach the end of Douglas’ story, we must keep plowing forward. But first, here’s The Raveonettes with ‘Gone Forever.’”

  ««—»»

  Hilltop Middle School’s name was misleading, as the campus perched upon no hill. In fact, it rested half a mile downhill from Campanula Elementary, just down Mesa Drive.

  A two-story brick building, Hilltop had survived fires, a lightning strike, and even an aborted student riot since its fifties-era construction. The eastern end of campus featured an unconventional running track spiraling around fenced-in tennis c
ourts. Past rows of bike racks, its western edge displayed an expansive student garden: marigolds, hydrangeas and daises coexisting with tomatoes, peppers, radishes and onions.

  The building’s first floor contained a gymnasium, performing arts rooms, administration rooms, a kitchen, and an impressive library/media center. On the second floor, sixth, seventh and eighth grade classrooms were clustered according to grade level.

  There was an open courtyard, where a food line stretched alongside sun-faded lunch tables. Delicacies filled self-serve cabinets, leading to a sour faced cashier. Each grade level had its own lunch period.

  Having consumed a tray of chicken strips, John Jason Bair headed to his afternoon science class, taught by the effeminate Orson Hanlon.

  John was a punker, as anyone could see. His hair was dyed bright red. Numerous patches adorned his jean jacket, bearing the logos of Operation Ivy, Minor Threat, Bad Brains, The Germs, Reagan Youth, and half-a-dozen other bands. His ears were pierced, as was his nose and eyebrow. He greeted the world with a perpetual sneer.

  Claiming a seat beside Douglas Stanton, he beat his hands against the desk. John liked Douglas, though they’d never spoken. Maybe it was because everyone else avoided the kid like the plague. Douglas barely talked at all, in fact, but always had the correct answer when the teacher called upon him.

  “Welcome back, class,” Mr. Hanlon enthused, his hands fluttering as if endeavoring to escape. “I hope you all studied for today’s plate tectonics quiz.”

  John hadn’t. Beset with multiple-choice questions concerning continental drift, strike-slip faults, the lithosphere and oceanic plates, John answered at random and let his pencil fall to his desk.

  Eventually, the monotony grew oppressive. The susurruses of shifting paper, scribbling lead, and frantic erasers merged into a lullaby. Lowering his forehead to the desk, John closed his eyes, letting his respiration slow.

  There exists a certain state of being, halfway between consciousness and slumber. It strikes all corners of the globe, every single night, yet none are able to recall it come morning. No one remembers the exact moment they fell asleep; one minute they’re laying there restless, the next they’re wiping sleep from their eyes, morning sunrays spilling through the blinds. John found himself teetering toward this state, but then something happened to make him instantly alert.

  He felt the desktop shifting—bulging and receding as something moved within it. His pencil and test fell to the floor, but John barely noticed.

  As he watched, the desktop took on a humanoid appearance: a man’s head and upper torso shaped from wood laminate. The apparition appeared middle-aged, with close-cropped hair and a large forehead wart. He seemed a sufferer, bearing many deep slashes, torn flesh hanging like party streamers.

  John looked to his classmates, but no one noticed the afternoon phenomenon. He wondered if he should say something, but perhaps he was just hallucinating. When the ragged face turned toward him, voicing a silent scream, John jumped from his seat and asked the teacher for a bathroom pass.

  The men’s room was at the end of the hall. John hurried into its unpleasant confines, finding that someone had urinated on the floor, midway between urinals and sink. Careful not to touch the puddle, John splashed his face with water, searching his reflection for signs of insanity.

  “Get a grip on it, Johnny Boy,” he admonished himself. “You didn’t see anything, especially a desk monster. You’re tired, that’s all.”

  John was glad to be alone. His face was fearful, his body trembling. His eyes were pregnant with unspilled tears.

  A wet noise sounded. Turning, John saw something thrashing on the floor. It wasn’t the classroom apparition, as was his first thought, but something infinitely worse.

  The horror slithered across the urine, a limbless obscenity devoid of gender. Where its arms and legs had been, only ragged flesh remained. Large suppurating sores covered its entire torso, steadily oozing dark viscous fluid.

  Its upper face was melted, leaving both eyes sheathed in burnt skin. Its nose was a gaping pit. Frankly, it looked more like a naked mole rat than it did a human being.

  “What…what do you want?” John barely managed to gasp. The strange organism managed to crawl forward, until just a couple feet separated them. Fortunately, John rediscovered his legs then, sprinting into the hallway like a bipedal cheetah.

  Back in the science classroom, he retrieved his backpack and brought his test to the teacher.

  “What are you doing, John?” asked Mr. Hanlon. “Class isn’t over yet.”

  “I’m…sick. I have to go.”

  “You…you can’t just…” the teacher sputtered, but John was already out the door.

  From that day onward, John could never again enter an empty public restroom. In fact, he’d often relieve himself in bushes or behind trees, rather than risk another visit with the limbless floor flopper.

  ««—»»

  “So I was with this little chick the other night,” declared the tweed-suited man on the television, standing before a painted backdrop depicting an alleyway. “I don’t know if she was a midget, dwarf, munchkin or leprechaun, but the bitch was small. Go ahead, ask me how small she was.” Awaiting a response, the man moved the microphone between his hips, imitating a large black phallus.

  “How small was she?” cried the overly enthusiastic audience.

  “She was so tiny that I could wear her like a condom while fuckin’ another bitch, you know what I’m saying?” He began thrusting his hips forward and backward, over and over, mimicking sexual gymnastics.

  Laughter, groans, catcalls and scattered applause greeted his exhibition, but Missy Peterson was not amused. She didn’t understand the joke, and wasn’t sure that she wanted to. She’d once found a pornographic magazine in her father’s study, and perusing it had left her flushed and queasy.

  She changed the channel to a Spanish station, wondering if she could learn a new language through osmosis.

  Drip…drip…drip.

  The sound was coming from the kitchen; obviously someone hadn’t twisted the faucet all the way. Since Missy’s parents were out for the night, leaving her in the care of her older sister Gina, the list of suspects was relatively short.

  “Gina! Come turn the sink off!”

  Her sister made no reply. A high school sophomore, Gina was probably locked in her bedroom with the cordless phone to her ear, breathlessly flirting with some imbecilic jock.

  Drip…drip…drip.

  Gina left dirty plates on the sofa, used Kleenex on the floor. She littered the bathrooms with crumpled towels, still damp, while her cigarette butts soaked in half-empty milk glasses. For such a beautiful girl, Gina lived like a filthy swine.

  Drip…drip…drip.

  Missy trudged into the kitchen, and therein discovered that the faucet had been shut off completely. The aerator’s underside was entirely dry, as was the basin’s interior. Confused, Missy let her gaze roam the kitchen, searching for an upended soda bottle or leaking ceiling. She found nothing.

  Then something caught her eye. It started on the wall behind the refrigerator, and then moved onto the floor. A dancing shadow, untethered to anything living, executed a rough jig across the tile, making Missy giggle while she questioned her own sanity. Removing a shadow top hat, the silhouette bowed.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Shadow,” Missy said. Confronted with the inexplicable, she’d decided she was dreaming, and might as well enjoy herself.

  Sliding onto the ceiling, the shadow began to pirouette, arms extended stiffly to its sides.

  “No fair! Come down and dance with me!” Missy gyrated gracelessly, pumping her arms like an angry gorilla. She began humming a made-up tune, trying to match her movements with the melody. She considered calling Gina down to share in the fun, but immediately abandoned the idea. One can’t share a dream, after all.

  The shadow slid down from the ceiling, motioning for Missy to follow it.

  “Where are we going?” she
asked, but the figure was already in motion, passing from the kitchen, jogging up the stairs.

  “Slow down, you’re goin’ too fast!”

  The shadow flowed down the hall, pausing before Gina’s room. Fluidly, it slid under her door.

  “Gina, open up! You’ll never guess what’s happening!”

  There was no answer, so Missy tried the knob. Discovering it unlocked, she stepped into a stuffy room heavy with cloying perfume. Perfume and…something else, something sharply metallic.

  Gina reclined in bed, open-eyed, drooling. Her arms dangled off the mattress, slashed from wrists to inner elbows. Blood trickled between her fingers: drip…drip…drip. She’d apparently been lying that way for some time, as the carpet was a sodden mess. Inexplicably, her proud blonde hair had turned white.

  The shadow loomed on the wall, pantomiming silent applause behind Gina’s corpse. It spun a cartwheel, which took it to the adjoining wall, closer to Missy’s position.

  Dream or no dream, Missy knew a bad scene when she saw one. She fled down the stairs, and sprinted four blocks over to the Williams residence, wherein she relayed her story first to Etta, and then to her friend’s parents.

  Pinching her arms hard enough to leave welts, she attempted to awaken. By the time the authorities arrived with their questions, Missy had begun to suspect that she wasn’t really dreaming at all.

  ««—»»

  “Hey, Douglas. What’s goin’ on?”

  Douglas looked up from his Tater Tots, surprised to see Emmett standing tableside, nestled in a padded sweatshirt.

  “Uh…hey.”

  Emmett looked at his shoes, and then back to Douglas. “How have you been, man?” he asked awkwardly.