The Phantom Cabinet Page 12

  “I’ve been…okay, I guess. I miss Benjy, though.”

  Emmett’s voice coarsened. “So do I. I think about him every day.”

  “Listen…I know that you blame me. I know…”

  “Nah, man. I don’t blame anyone. I was passed out that night, so how should I know what’s what?”

  “But we haven’t talked since he died. I tried to call you a bunch of times, and your parents always said you were out. Obviously, you’re avoiding me.”

  Emmett scratched his chin. “It’s not that, man. It’s just…hard, ya know. Seeing you reminds me of him.”

  “Yeah…”

  “But I don’t want it to be like that. I see you sitting here by yourself, and it makes me feel guilty, like I abandoned you. I think we should hang out again.”

  Douglas grunted, “Sure, Emmett, whatever you want.”

  “Awesome. Hey, there’s a bonfire at the pier tomorrow night. Etta invited me this morning, and it’s cool if you tag along. Her mom’s picking me up at six. If you wanna go, be at my house before then.”

  “Alright. I’ll think it over and get back to you.”

  “You do that. Oh, I almost forgot. Did you hear what happened to Missy Peterson?”

  “No, what happened?”

  Emmett told him.

  “Damn, that’s fucked up.”

  ««—»»

  Douglas arrived at Emmett’s house panting, sweating like a fat jogger. Skidding to a rubber-shredding stop, he found Emmett waiting on the front lawn, indolently picking his teeth with a toothpick.

  “Douglas!” he cried out, dropping his toothpick. “I’m glad you made it, man. Etta’s mom should be here any minute.”

  “Can I put my bike in your backyard? I don’t want it to get stolen while we’re gone.”

  “Naturally.”

  Fourteen minutes later, Mrs. Williams’ blue GMC Safari van pulled to the curb. Its side door swung open, permitting access to the vehicle’s back seats.

  “Look at these two young gentlemen,” enthused Mrs. Williams. A pretty if slightly plump woman, their driver beamed back at them. “You must be Emmett. And what’s your name, son?”

  “Douglas Stanton.”

  “Douglas Stanton. I’ve heard of you. You’re not going to set any ghosts after me, are you?”

  Blushing, he muttered, “No, ma’am.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m just joking around. It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

  “Can we just go?” Etta blurted impatiently from the front passenger seat.

  “Sure thing, my little queen. To the beach we shall go!”

  The other passengers were Karen Sakihama, Starla Smith, and an exotic-looking girl Douglas didn’t know. He’d later learn that her name was Esmeralda Carrere, and that she’d only recently moved to Oceanside.

  “Where’s Missy?” Emmett asked. “She’s always with you guys.”

  “Aw, she’s all messed up inside,” disclosed Starla, almost gleefully. “I heard she’s in therapy, or something.”

  On that somber note, the van’s interior grew quiet, which lasted until they reached the pier. Climbing out the vehicle, Douglas smelled the ocean’s salty tang, heard waves gently slapping the shore. The combination was calming.

  Trying to appear casual, Emmett sauntered up to Etta. “You know this is the longest pier on the entire west coast, right?” he asked. “Yep, it’s nearly two thousand feet long.”

  Etta feigned amazement. From her smitten gaze, it was obvious that she would have given the same response had Emmett declared that he’d built her a new grandmother out of toenail clippings. Wearing a low cut top, she leaned backward, accentuating breasts she’d yet to sprout.

  Darkness had descended, but all was not lost to gloom. Light posts ran the entire length of the pier. A star field shined above, as did a bulbous moon. Douglas could make out the bait shops and restrooms at the pier’s midpoint, and even the outlines of a few brave surfers, paddling for barely visible waves.

  They walked past the amphitheater—the site of numerous eighties-era skateboarding competitions—heading toward a visible flame. Reaching the fire pit, set back some distance from the water, they encountered their fellow students.

  Kevin Jones and Mike Munson were there, passing a bottle back and forth. Justine Brubaker, a chubby girl who’d reportedly already shed her virginity, fed wood shards to the fire. The others Douglas didn’t recognize, but their faces seemed vaguely familiar, as if he’d passed them in the school halls at some point.

  “You want some rum?” Kevin asked Emmett. Reminded of Benjy, Emmett waved the bottle away.

  “Fine, more for us then,” declared Mike, punctuating the sentence with a hiccup.

  A pair of hands fell upon Douglas’ shoulders. “Well, well, well,” boomed a familiar voice, accompanied by a cloud of rancid breath. “It’s Douglas the Ghost Boy. Shouldn’t you be in jail right now? You did kill Benjy, after all.”

  As Karen winced, Douglas turned to confront the speaker. Unsurprisingly, it was Clark Clemson.

  “Hey, Clark,” he said. “Where’s Milo? Are you two seeing other men?”

  Laughter erupted. Clark drew back his arm, face creased in anger. Then he shook his head, letting the appendage fall to his side. “Good one,” he growled menacingly. “Keep it up and I might drown you.”

  A guy in a sideways visor strode up. “Chill out, you guys. We’re here to have fun. This isn’t a pissing match.”

  “And who the hell are you?” asked Clark.

  “I’m Corey Pfeifer, and I’ll whoop your ass without breaking a sweat. So calm down or find a different fire pit.”

  Clark glared for a moment, but Corey was several inches taller, and looked as if he spent all his free time weightlifting. Reluctantly, Clark dropped his eyes.

  “That’s better,” laughed Corey. “Now let’s have some fun.”

  A boombox materialized from the shadows. Soon, crappy pop punk tunes spilled forth, and exuberant conversations filled the night. Corey lit a cigarette and sidled up to Starla, favoring her with a well-practiced smirk.

  “How ya doin’, sweetheart?”

  “I’m doing fine. It’s nice to have a couple of days without school.”

  “Yeah, I hear that. You go to Hilltop?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Me too. Sixth grade?”

  “Yep.”

  “I’m in eighth.”

  “So…you’ll be in high school next year. That’s so rad.”

  Douglas wandered from their earshot, knowing that Corey and Starla would soon be making out. One day, he decided, he’d have to master the art of idiocy, if only to land a girlfriend.

  He stared into the fire for a moment, seeing flickering faces in the flames. Their mute torments troubled him not; they were practically old friends. Around the pit’s perimeter, he heard his name spoken in low tones, signifying quiet mockery.

  Emmett was a few yards off, conversing with Etta, leaving Douglas adrift and exposed. He decided to take a walk.

  Following the shoreline, one could walk from Oceanside Pier to Oceanside Harbor, should they be so inclined. Douglas set out in that direction, figuring he’d turn back well before the jetty. The conversations of his classmates faded, as Douglas plodded through loose sand.

  At Oceanside’s beaches, daytime belonged to surfers, body boarders, swimmers, Frisbee tossers, volleyball smackers, joggers, sunbathers, and families on multicolored beach towels. At night, however, a different type of beachgoer emerged: vagrants, gangbangers, dealers and miscellaneous weirdos. One could lose their wallet, sobriety, or even their life, if proper precautions weren’t taken.

  As Douglas walked, figures materialized in his peripheral vision. Some shouted threats; some muttered to themselves. He pretended not to hear them.

  Kicking sand, he stumbled upon a half-buried trench coat man—bearded, reeking like an open sewer.“Uhhhh…” groaned a sludgy voice. “Whaaa? Timmy, is that you?”

  Douglas hurried
off. He didn’t know who Timmy was, and had no desire to find out.

  Further up the beach, two flashlights swept across the sand. The beams playfully frolicked from shore to surf, never quite meeting.

  Passing a lifeguard tower that resembled a futuristic outhouse on stilts, he heard low moans and panting. In the twilight, he could just discern two dark figures rolling across the deck platform. He accelerated his pace, lest the lovers mistake him for a voyeur.

  Suddenly, Douglas tripped. Something had grabbed his ankle, although he saw no one proximate. Brushing sand from his slacks, he blurted, “What the heck was that?”

  Douglas’ fight-or-flight response kicked in. He widened his stance, and curled his hands into fists, striving to appear intimidating. Two flashlight beams met his eyeballs, swallowing the world in blinding white radiance.

  “What do you want?” he asked menacingly. “Enough with the damn flashlights, I can’t see.”

  The beams dropped to the shoreline. There were no figures behind them, no hands clutching the thin metal tubes. Like fireflies, they hovered, illuminating sand circles with no apparent pattern.

  The beams merged, freezing just a few feet rightward. Douglas was reminded of a stage spotlight, awaiting an actor’s arrival.

  The illuminated sand began shifting. An oval formed and collapsed inwardly, creating eye sockets and a nasal cavity; grains rearranged into a horribly grinning jaw. Soon, an entire skeleton had been perfectly replicated, from cranium to metatarsals.

  The sand skeleton pushed itself to a sitting position. It stared at Douglas, and Douglas stared right back, neither attempting to communicate.

  The flashlight beams broke apart. More sand skeletons formed, dragging themselves atop the beach from states of nonexistence. Soon, a couple dozen stood upright, aimlessly shifting their bony frames.

  “Are you just going to stand there, or did you want something?” Douglas called out. No response. “Fine, then I’m going back to the bonfire. Enjoy yourselves, assholes.”

  Douglas jogged away. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the skeletons waving farewell.

  ««—»»

  Curtis Larroca pushed himself upright, shaking sand from his trench coat. His throat was dry, and his beard itched terribly. For a moment, he was unsure of his surroundings—expecting to arise in a half-remembered bed—before familiar wave thuds brought him back to reality.

  The night was warm. Curtis debated wading into the Pacific, to rinse away weeks’ worth of grime. “Maybe later,” he said to no one. He took a swig from his flask, paused, and took another. Liquor sweat oozed from his pores, as he ran his tongue over gaps where teeth had once rooted.

  Curtis’ belly rumbled. He tried to determine the last time he’d eaten: two days ago, maybe. His pocket change wouldn’t even cover a loaf of bread.

  Fortunately, there were many restaurants and bars in the area, and it was easy enough to panhandle a few bucks, provided that he avoided belligerent Camp Pendleton Marines.

  He noticed figures approaching, staggering silhouettes. There had to be at least twenty of them, crossing the sand in perfect silence.

  “Maybe they have some cash,” Curtis muttered to himself, stepping to meet them. Nearing the hushed procession, he called out, “Hey there, friendly people! Can you help a guy down on his luck? I’ll take change, cash, or even food stamps! C’mon, guys, my stomach’s growling!”

  There came no reply. The figures continued advancing.

  “They must be foreigners,” Curtis remarked. “Hopefully they don’t give me pesos or yen…or something.”

  Closing the intervening yards, the figures spread out, forming a circle around Curtis, pressing upon him from all angles.

  “Hey, what gives? If you’re robbers, you’re after the wrong guy. What’s wrong with you people? Oh, God…you’re not human.”

  The sand skeletons were grasping now, plucking flesh and garments with grit fingers. Dissolving back into the beach, they pulled the vagrant along with them.

  Struggling to breathe through millions of throat-scraping grains, Curtis thrashed toward the surface. But he was too far under, and his arms were weak. Soon, he’d entered the Phantom Cabinet, drifting from a shallow grave.

  ««—»»

  In the realm of sensory perceptions, few sounds are as petrifying as a child’s laughter in an empty room. Merriment that would ordinarily provoke no discomfort becomes a disturbing portent, forecasting a brush with the uncanny.

  Margo Hellenberg sat in her Hilltop Middle School classroom, hands in constant motion—cutting construction paper, coloring poster board—designing a game for her seventh grade special education class. Once completed, the board would provide a lesson on synonyms and antonyms. She’d give her students one word at a time, which they’d attach to the poster board, under “Synonym” or “Antonym,” using Fun-Tak.

  Without her pupils, the classroom was a lonely place. Still, she often stayed late into the night, as she had no husband, no family in the area. She didn’t date or socialize, barely even watched TV. Stated simply, her job was her life.

  Ms. Hellenberg had one of those faces, equally innocent and ancient. She could have been thirty or seventy-five, but had actually survived for forty-six summers. Her clothing was drab, her makeup sparse. Her tight ponytail emphasized a severe widow’s peak.

  When the giggle sounded, all concerns fell away. The hilarity was young and asexual, a high-pitched titter of no immediate origin.

  “Hello?” Margo gasped. “Where are you? Who are you?”

  In lieu of answer, the laughter returned. With it came suppressed memories of Margo’s childhood, when everything about her—her clothes, her hair, even the way she talked—had earned only peer ridicule. It became an amalgamation of every chuckle at her expense, every snicker, decades of mockery manifested.

  “Stop it!” Margo cried. “Leave me alone, goddamn you!”

  She eyed the door, preparing for a freedom dash. It swung open of its own accord, then shut, then opened again.

  The lights went off, as the door slammed forcefully. The laughter grew deafening, threaded with inhuman tones. Overwhelmed, Margo fainted into merciful oblivion.

  ««—»»

  Carter cracked his bedroom window open, craving fresh air. There was something incongruous about the next-door residence, that of Angus Capovilla and Walter Sanborn.

  Angus and Walter were both octogenarians, and were purportedly the best of friends. But to anyone observing their furtive, loving glances, it was obvious that they were far more than that. As the two generally kept to themselves, Carter was shocked to see a woman in their second floor window.

  She pressed naked against the glass, built like a slab of beef. Unblinking, she glowered down at him, standing perfectly still, arms hanging limp at her sides.

  Carter shivered under the woman’s scrutiny. Her physical features were supernaturally defined—from her sagging breasts and abdomen to her loose golden hair, it was as if she were standing right in front of him. He saw a bulbous nose framed by acne scars, set in a vacant face. Her pubic thatch was wild and untrimmed.

  What does she want? he wondered. Why won’t she look somewhere else?

  If her intent was seduction, she’d failed miserably. Looking at her was like glimpsing an elderly relative in the shower, a shameful and embarrassing sight. With her constant stillness, she could have been a wax museum sculpture. Perhaps she was mentally disabled, or experiencing a break from reality.

  Their uncomfortable eye contact continued, drawn out for what seemed an eternity. Carter felt trapped by her gaze, like a deer facing Mack truck headlights.

  “Hey, Dad, guess what?” Douglas called from the hallway. “Battle Beyond the Stars is on! Do you wanna come watch it?”

  With that, the spell was broken.

  ««—»»

  Resisting the ravenous drag of expatriate souls, Commander Gordon manifested. From Douglas’ living room he drifted, passing through walls and fence, seeking
the home next-door.

  In the geriatrics’ shared bedroom, he beheld a wide cellulite-stippled backside, which he’d last glimpsed inside a doomed orbiter. “Melanie Sarnoff,” he greeted. “Looks like I’m not the only crewmember to make it back.”

  The specter gave no response.

  “Melanie, I know you can hear me. Turn around so we can talk.”

  She turned slowly.

  “Commander Gordon…is that really you?”

  “It’s me, sweetheart. Even death couldn’t keep me down. Speaking of death, how are you handling yours?”

  “Oh…well, you shouldn’t worry about me. I’m just tired, is all, and having a hard time remembering things. What were we doing on the Conundrum, Commander? What was the point of it all?”

  Choosing his words carefully, Gordon answered, “We were chasing a phantom transmission, my dear, from somewhere in outer space. The rest is a blur. I think that the Phantom Cabinet fragmented our memories, leaving us incomplete. I’ve been doing some detective work, though, with the help of some other spirits. The launch involved secret politics, they tell me, stretching all the way to the White House.”

  “Maybe it’s best not to know,” Melanie replied. “Sometimes the truth is just too much. But, it’s like…what do we do now? I’m so confused.”

  Gordon scratched his chin. “Well, you can stand here until the sun burns out, or you can return to the Phantom Cabinet, and dissolve into the next generation of souls. I’d recommend the latter.”

  “And you, Commander? What keeps you here?”

  He pointed at the Stanton home.

  ««—»»

  In his dream, Douglas walked alone, traversing a slender hallway. The walls were dirt-faded yellow, flaking paint onto a torn, stained carpet. Along them, moldy wainscoting trailed. Something was chasing Douglas, its identity a mystery.

  Douglas pressed forward intently, accelerating to a full-blown sprint. Following the hall’s twisted path, he turned left and right, encountering neither door nor window. The ceiling pressed downward, its stucco bumps sprouting into jagged stalactites, dripping milky fluid.