The Phantom Cabinet Read online

  Finally, when he was ready to let the unknown pursuer claim him, the hall dead-ended. Skidding to a stop, Douglas encountered a giant mirror. On the mirror’s surface floated a giant porcelain mask—a mask instantly recognizable—enlarged to elephantine proportions.

  The mask slowly descended, seemingly of its own accord, unveiling a hidden countenance an inch at a time. The revealed face was Douglas’ own, much magnified. His mirror doppelganger radiated pure hatred.

  Unable to cope with the sight, he bashed his fist against the glass. The mirror shattered, and Douglas’ dream voyage followed suit. He awoke to the sound of his own screams.

  ««—»»

  “What’s up, Douglas? This is Emmett. Sorry we haven’t hung out since the bonfire. I’ve been spending a lot of time with Etta lately.”

  “Yeah, I’ve noticed. You guys are like a couple of Siamese twins, like you’re actually growing into each other.”

  “You’re weird. I mean, who says shit like that? Aw, it doesn’t matter. The reason I’m calling is to see if you’re going to the dance. Etta and I are going, and we’re trying to get a group together.”

  “What, people don’t ignore me enough at school? They gotta ignore me to music now?”

  “Christ, bro, could you feel any sorrier for yourself?”

  “I’ll never know until I try. Still, I say that there’s no way in Hell you’ll see me at that dance.”

  ««—»»

  Naturally, when Friday rolled around, Douglas found himself inside the school’s gymnasium, watching his classmates awkwardly shuffling.

  The dance had a tropical theme, which he’d been entirely unaware of. Blue and green metallic streamers hung from the walls, poorly attempting to mimic an ocean’s shimmering surface. Upon these streamers, construction paper starfish and palm trees had been stapled.

  At the head of the gym, there stood a DJ wearing an oversized straw hat and a puka shell necklace. Atop a raised platform, he spun recent pop hits on polished Technics turntables. The man looked bored out of his mind, and possibly stoned, but the music skipped not a beat.

  Douglas’ male classmates wore Hawaiian shirts and swim trunks. Some even sported sandals, which led to foot trampling during slow ballads. Girls wore flowers in their hair, hula skirts, and white cover-up dresses. Douglas wore the same thing he’d worn to school that day: torn jeans and a faded Polo shirt.

  Teachers wandered between the dancers, trying to keep the kids from grinding. The way some students were going at it, it seemed that Oceanside’s strip clubs would be well stocked in forthcoming years. Another teacher—mustached math instructor, Mr. Wilkens—danced dangerously close to a cluster of girls, “accidently” bumping against them again and again. His predatory grin and sickly gleaming eyes were enough to make one shudder.

  Douglas stood in the back of the room, behind a table stocked with fruit punch, fruit slices and fruit snacks. He avoided eye contact with those around him, contemplating another Phantom Cabinet sojourn.

  After Beastie Boys’ “Brass Monkey” ended, Emmett came over and playfully punched Douglas’ shoulder.

  “Douglas…” he said, drawing out the last syllable until the name lost all meaning. “I’m glad you made it, man. Fun dance, huh?”

  Scrutinizing his friend, Douglas saw bright yellow Ray-Bans—hanging uselessly on a tie-dyed Croakie—and a neon green tank top, and knew that any criticism he could conjure would be summarily ignored. Instead, he nodded mutely, trying to appear less miserable.

  “Man, I’ve been dancin’ up a storm. My legs are so sore I’ll be rockin’ a wheelchair tomorrow. You gonna hit the dance floor, or what? I know standing around with your hands in your pockets is exhilarating and all, but getting up close with a female is even better.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The girls here don’t seem all that fond of me.”

  “There you go again, always feelin’ sorry for yourself. Do you cry yourself to sleep every night? Is your tampon uncomfortable? Do you need the number of a good therapist? Can you feel—”

  “Alright, enough of that. If I ask a girl to dance, will you shut the fuck up? I mean, seriously…”

  “I just might, if she actually dances with you. Otherwise, you’ll have to keep trying until you strike gold.”

  “Christ, we could be here all night. Remind me again, why do I let you talk me into these things?”

  “That’s easy. My voice is so silky smooth that it’s impossible to ignore. How can the voices in your head compete?”

  “You’d be surprised.”

  Etta pranced over, her oversized gold earrings matching her sun top. She appeared so full of energy that she might vibrate through the floor.

  “There you are,” she said, lightly slapping Emmett’s arm. “I was wondering where you got off to. Did you forget about me?” As an afterthought, she added, “Oh…hi, Douglas.”

  “Hi.”

  “So, what are you two gentlemen talking about?”

  “Douglas is going to ask a girl to dance.”

  “Alright! That’s what I like to hear! Which girl caught your eye, Dougie? I can put in a good word.”

  Douglas mumbled, “No, that’s okay. I’m…evaluating my options.”

  “Playing the field, huh? That’s respectable.” Grabbing Emmett’s hand, she dragged him back to the dance floor.

  Reluctantly, Douglas scanned his surroundings, searching for an unoccupied female with a friendly face. Spying Starla Smith—hair pinned up, wearing a flowing floral print party dress—Douglas glanced away quickly. If forced to choose between asking Starla to dance and wearing sandpaper underpants for a week, he’d have chosen the underpants.

  Next, he spotted Karen Sakihama, swaying alone. He probably still reminded her of Benjy, Douglas figured. No way would she dance with him.

  And then he saw her: a tall gangly girl, vaguely familiar, whom he’d likely passed in the hall many times without registering her presence. She was neither beautiful nor ugly, but could drift into either realm given time. She leaned against her own wall, clutching an empty plastic cup, staring at nothing in particular. The girl looked as miserable as Douglas felt.

  Her eyes were too close together, above a disproportionately large nose. Her dirty blonde hair was frizzy, in need of a brushing. Her posture was less than exemplary. Before Douglas knew what he was doing, he’d crossed the hardwood.

  Registering his presence, the girl’s azure eyes widened. “Hi…” she said awkwardly, looking anywhere but at Douglas.

  “Hello there. I don’t mean to bother you, but I saw you standing here by yourself, and thought you might like someone to talk to.”

  Her face reddened. “Yeah, a boy asked me to meet him, but he never showed up.”

  “What a dick,” Douglas said with false sympathy.

  “I want to get out of here, but maybe he’s late or something. I don’t get asked out much, you know.”

  “Sure… Oh, by the way, my name’s Douglas Stanton.”

  “Sandra Olson. My friends call me Sandy.”

  “Sandy Olson, I like it.”

  “Who said you’re my friend?”

  “Okay, Sandra then.”

  “I’m kidding. Gosh, I suck at introductions. Maybe we should just dance.”

  Wow, that was simple, Douglas thought, as he replied, “Hmm, that could be fun.”

  Arms linked, they stepped amidst the dancers. It was just Douglas’ luck that the DJ chose that moment to play a slow tune, Aerosmith’s “Don’t Want To Miss A Thing.” Douglas hated both the song and the band passionately, but was in too deep to back out.

  Arms wrapped around each other, they shifted from left to right. Their cheeks were almost touching, and Douglas’ palms grew uncomfortably sweaty.

  There was too much perfume and cologne in the air, forming a toxic cloud that made his eyes itch. He enjoyed the feel of a girl pressed against him, but the act of dancing seemed an archaic mating ritual. When the song finally ended, it came as a relief.


  Sandy drew away. “That was…fun,” she said. “Thank you, Douglas.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “You wanna dance again, next slow song?” she asked, as a neutered version of 2Pac and Dr. Dre’s “California Love” played in the background.

  “I’d like to, but I told my dad I’d be home early. Maybe I’ll see you around school some time.”

  “Maybe you will. See ya later, Douglas.”

  “Bye.”

  With that, he was gone, fleeing the gymnasium without a second glance. He’d hated lying to Sandra, sure, but an introvert’s school spirit only stretches so far.

  ««—»»

  The next morning, Emmett came to visit, smiling broadly under a Red Sox hat.

  “What’s up, player?” he asked, playfully slapping Douglas’ shoulder, just a little too hard. “I saw you dancin’ last night, with a girl and everything. You ducked out before I could congratulate you, but nice work.”

  “Thanks…I guess.”

  Emmett pushed past Douglas, into the Stanton living room. Douglas had no choice but to follow.

  “Hey, I’m making omelets,” Carter called from the kitchen. “You boys hungry?”

  “Sure thing, Mr. Stanton,” Emmett responded. Then, in a subdued tone, he turned to Douglas and asked, “So, did you get her number? Should we set up a double date?”

  “No dice.”

  “You didn’t get the digits? Man, I swear there’s something wrong with you. Did you at least get her name?”

  “Yeah, yeah. It’s Sandra Olson, a.k.a. Sandy.”

  “Sandy Olson, I can work with that. Grab your phone for me, would ya?”

  Douglas squinted, growing suspicious. “My phone? Who do you need to call?”

  “Oh, I need to hit up Etta and ask her something.”

  “Fine.” Douglas fetched the cordless.

  Emmett dialed a number from memory. “Hey, Etta, you know who this is? Yeah, it’s me. What up, baby girl? Yeah, last night was fun, wasn’t it? Actually, that’s why I’m calling. You remember when we saw my boy Douglas dancing? Remember that girl? Her name’s Sandy Olson. Oh, you do know her. You wouldn’t happen to have her phone number, would you? Hold on, let me get something to write with.”

  Emmett made a scribbling motion, sign language for “grab me a fucking pencil.” Douglas shook his head no.

  “You know what, Etta? Our pal Douglas is being a bitch right now. Just read me the number and I’ll try to remember it. Yeah, I got it. Sure, it was good talking to you, too. I’ll call you later, girl.”

  As Emmett punched in the new number, Douglas raised his palms in supplication. “Really, you don’t have to do this. I’m not trying to be set up right now.”

  “Hush up, son. You’ll thank me later.”

  “Emmett, come on…”

  Emmett held up a finger for silence. “Hello, is Sandy Olson there? Oh, this is Sandy. Hey, you don’t know me, but my name’s Emmett Wilson. I’m going out with Etta. Yeah, your history class study buddy. She says ‘hi,’ by the way. Anyhow, the reason I’m calling is to speak with you about our mutual friend. You know, Douglas Stanton. Douglas Stanton, the boy you were dancing with last night. Yeah, him.”

  Douglas cringed, helpless in the face of well-intentioned meddling. He wanted to snatch the phone away and smash it against the wall, but the damage was already done.

  “Douglas had a lot of fun last night. In fact, he had so much fun that he wants to take you to dinner sometime, or maybe a movie. Why am I calling? Well, you see, Douglas is a shy dude. He’s a great guy when you get to know him, but sometimes he needs a little help in the socialization department. You know how it is. So…whatcha think? Are you down to spend more time with him?”

  In one moment of supreme hatred, Douglas wished his friend’s head would explode, in grisly replication of that famous Scanners scene. It didn’t, of course.

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Let me know if you change your mind. Goodbye, Sandy. I’ll see you at school, I’m sure.”

  Clicking the phone off, Emmett turned to Douglas. “I’m sorry, buddy,” he said consolingly. “I put in a good word for you, but she’s just not interested. We’ll find you a different girl, don’t worry.”

  Carter ambled into the room holding two plates of omelets. “Here you go, boys,” he said. “Eat right at the couch if you like.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Stanton,” said Emmett, already digging into his eggs. “Ooh, this is good.”

  Douglas’ hunger had abated, replaced by seething rage. In all his years of being bullied, he’d never felt so angry, like a coiled spring awaiting release.

  Eleven minutes later, after Carter left for work, Emmett considered Douglas’ untouched omelet. “If you’re not hungry, I could eat that,” he suggested.

  Douglas’ rage finally boiled over. “What the fuck was that?” he bellowed. “Did I ask you to call Sandy? Fuck no, I didn’t! You come here and embarrass me, and now you want my eggs? I’d rather throw them out!”

  Emmett held up placating hands. “I wasn’t trying to embarrass you, man. If anything, I was trying to help you. I know we don’t hang out much anymore, so I thought I’d set you up with someone. It’s not healthy to sit by yourself all the time.”

  “Now you want to tell me what’s healthy? Who the fuck do you think you are? You date one girl, one girl, and all of a sudden you’re Mr. Know-It-All. Well, I got news for you. As far as I’m concerned, we stopped being friends the night Benjy died.”

  Now Emmett grew angry. “You mean when you killed him, right? Yeah, that’s what I thought. Benjy was my best friend—since kindergarten, goddammit. Then you came along and caved his fucking skull in, smashed it like an old jack-o’-lantern. We should have never let you hang out with us!”

  Simple as that, their friendship was irrevocably severed. They scowl-dueled for a few moments, and then Emmett barged out the door.

  Dark clouds perched malignantly atop the horizon, harbingers of a coming storm.

  ««—»»

  Milo Black smiled at the darkening sky, his intentions far from noble. Standing in the well-kept backyard of his neighbors’ home, he discovered the sliding glass door unlocked. Wasting no time, he slid it open, stepping into the domicile of Rick and Rita Vaughn.

  Milo had drifted from Clark’s orbit. The sovereign bully had built himself a new friend circle, leaving Milo by the wayside. With hours of newfound free time, Milo had been forced to find new diversions.

  His parents were not wealthy, and couldn’t afford video games or movie outings. Hell, they didn’t even have cable television. What Milo did have, however, was a number of neighbors who left their homes vacant during the day.

  Some worked full time jobs; others ran errands for hours. So Milo had devised a little game for himself: sneaking into their homes and seeing what turned up.

  He did not consider himself a criminal, and so limited his home invasions to places with unlocked doors, or open windows he could crawl through. First, he’d wait for a vehicle to depart one of the surrounding residences. After ensuring that the coast was clear, Milo would creep his way over. He’d check every point of possible ingress, and vacate immediately when finding them locked.

  But sometimes the homes proved accessible. That was where the real fun began. Milo would explore drawers and cupboards, closets and attics. Sometimes, he’d discover money stashed away. Other times, he’d come across caches of pornography, cigarettes or hard liquor. Those treasures found their way under his bed, to be enjoyed at leisure.

  When unearthing money, nudie magazines or adult substances, he would never steal the entire stash, so that the theft wouldn’t be immediately observed. Since he’d yet to see a patrol car in his area, he assumed that he’d been successful.

  While he enjoyed the stolen items, the real thrill came from being in someone else’s house without permission. When invited into a residence, a visitor sees exactly what the homeowner wishes them to see. Certain rooms may be of
f limits, indefensible objects will have been stashed away, and some manner of cleaning will have gone down just prior. Only through secret entry can one see a home’s natural state, with all of its dirt and blemishes. One can learn a lot about its owner that way.

  For instance, Milo had recently entered the Bavitz residence. Their walls were adorned with photos of their children and grandchildren; their coffee table proudly displayed the latest issues of Better Homes and Gardens and Variety. In the couple’s bedroom, however, Milo chanced upon quite a scene. Upon cum-stained bed sheets, a cornucopia of bondage gear had been arrayed: slave harnesses, zippered facemasks, whips and restraints—all of black leather. Likewise, their dresser drawers had been filled with incongruous outfits: postman, Catholic priest, cheerleader, Boy Scout, nurse, schoolgirl, and what appeared to be an adult-sized Cabbage Patch Kid outfit, complete with pigtailed wig. It had been quite the eye-opening experience.

  Over the course of Milo’s excursions, he’d sampled refrigerated leftovers, strummed acoustic guitars, and even sniffed the unwashed panties of Shawna, his attractive teenage neighbor. Occasionally, in his more malicious moods, he’d leave something behind: dead rodents, rotted fruit, sometimes even a urine puddle in the back of a closet. Of what possessed him to do these things, Milo had no idea. He’d never been one for psychoanalysis.

  It was his first time in the Vaughn residence. He didn’t know what he’d find there, but his mind swam with possibilities. Maybe they kept a room filled with exotic snakes, or a chest stuffed with vintage Spanish coins. Maybe they had a homeless man in a cage.

  The kitchen was unremarkable: white orchid wallpaper, dishes stacked carefully in the sink, a small oak table. The refrigerator was filled with health food, none of which looked appealing. There was not a drop of liquor in sight.

  Bored, Milo moved into the living room, finding a large television perched atop a hardwood stand. Within the stand, there was a VCR, flanked by videocassettes, mostly boring historical dramas. Perhaps he’d have better luck in the Vaughns’ bedroom.