The Phantom Cabinet Read online

  Before he could leave the living room, something caught his attention. There was someone on the white leather couch, which had been empty just seconds before. There was a man there, staring with unblinking bloodshot eyes. His hair was long and grey; his attire consisted of long underwear and a flannel shirt. Most disturbing was the fact that he had no lower jaw, leaving exposed tendons clearly visible. Where the lower mandible should have been, a yawning chasm gushed blood over a shredded lolling tongue. The blood evaporated in thin air, leaving the couch unblemished.

  “Uh…sorry,” Milo muttered. He backed away from the man, who just sat there, unmoving. Milo wasn’t sure if the guy was alive or dead, and had no desire to find out.

  Seeking the sliding glass door, he beheld a fresh arrival. She was of obvious African descent, a wiry old broad, hair tied up in a scarf. Carved animal bones were her bracelets and earrings. Her flowing red dress trailed down to simple leather sandals, and an albino python draped over her shoulders. Over her face, a skull design had been painted.

  “What brings you here, my boy?” the woman asked, stepping forward, as her serpent flicked its tongue. “Unburden yourself for Auntie Marie.”

  “I…I have to go.”

  “Don’t be unsociable, child. You haven’t even met my companion.”

  “Companion? You mean your snake? Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not getting any closer to it.” He was perspiring heavily, beginning to hyperventilate.

  “I speak not of the python, child. I’m referring to my servant, standing just behind you. Step forward, Santiago.”

  Milo turned and screamed. There was a grey dwarf, standing scarcely more than two feet high, naked and completely hairless. The dwarf’s arms had been cut off at the elbow, with the forearms of a giant sewn on in their place. The limp, useless limbs dragged across the carpet, as the strange little man advanced.

  Milo’s bladder let go, but he was beyond noticing. The living room filled with spectral figures, each eye blink revealing another. Milo saw a clown wearing a kelp wig, a mother breastfeeding an infant’s corpse. He saw Inuits, Nazis, Iraqis and Romans staring hungrily, coveting his life spark. They surrounded him on all sides, as he revolved around and around, desperate for a getaway.

  Groped by disgruntled spirits, forgotten victims of a malicious world, Milo cried freely. His tears evoked no sympathy, not an ounce of respite.

  The gropes turned to scratches, which evolved into punches and kicks. Milo collapsed under the fusillade, attempting to curl into the fetal position. He beseeched his persecutors, pleading for mercy with each fleeting breath. But the dead offered no mercy. When Marie the voodoo priestess finally gouged Milo’s eyes out, it almost came as a relief.

  ««—»»

  With one indifferent arm, Rick Vaughn ushered his wife into their residence. His back was acting up again, demanding three or four Advils.

  “That restaurant was terrible, don’t you think?” Rita asked, before answering her own question. “Sure it was. The waiter took forever to bring us our pasta, which wasn’t even warm. I’m telling you, it’s time to contact the Better Business Bureau. My stomach is so upset, I can barely concentrate.”

  “You’re right, dear,” Rick replied. Personally, he’d found the food quite succulent, but knew that expressing a contradictory viewpoint would send his wife into hysterics. “Do you want me to grab you a couple Tums?”

  “No, those things never work. Why don’t I lie down on the couch, and you can massage me for a while?”

  “If that’s what you want, honey, I’d be happy to.”

  In the living room, a disturbing tableau awaited. A child’s body, torn limb from limb, was spread from the couch to the closet, pulped organs nestling in shallow crimson puddles. Contusions and fragmented bones were all that remained of his torso and face. A mass of intestines dangled from his slit abdomen.

  Rita shrieked, her high keening wail drawing neighbors from their homes. Rick, his back pains forgotten, ran for his Ruger P89, loaded it with practiced efficiency. From room to room he traveled, gun extended, sweeping his gaze left to right. But he found no intruder, not in the bathroom, bedroom or garage. He checked closets, under the bed, and even in the tub, but the butchers had absconded.

  At last, he gave up and called the police. “Don’t bother with the body bag,” he told the call-taker. “You’d do far better with a mop.”

  ««—»»

  That night, as rain washed away roof grime and thunder sent canines to cowering, Douglas stood before an open refrigerator, hands clenched at his sides. Since Emmett’s departure, he’d paced the house relentlessly, seething with silent rage. Desperate to leave, but with nowhere to go, he’d muttered for hours, wanting to break plates and kick holes in the walls.

  His aimless aggression had left him parched, with dried-out lips and an arid throat. Reaching for a water bottle, Douglas blinked, and the fridge’s interior shifted. Where fresh food and beverages had been, mold reigned supreme. Leftover hot dogs sprouted white fuzz. Bread, carrots, and deli chicken drowned in phosphorescent blue mold. In its carton, the milk had turned lumpy yellow.

  Another blink erased the fungi. Quickly, Douglas snatched a water bottle and slammed the door shut, lest their sustenance once more shift to spoiled.

  He chugged the entire bottle in three gulps, and then perambulated until he had to urinate. After voiding his bladder, he washed his hands, staring into polished mirror glass.

  “I know you’re there,” he said, “one of you bastards. Why don’t you show yourself, you fuckin’ pervert? Do you get off on watching young boys pissing, or what?”

  There was no reaction. “Show yourself!” Douglas screamed.

  His reflection dissolved, revealing an old woman: a balding crone smiling with rotted teeth, a quarter-sized mole bulging from her cheek. Her rheumy eyes glistened with morbid merriment.

  “You think that’s funny, you old bitch? You think I’m funny? Well, how do you like this?”

  Douglas struck the mirror, cracking its surface into a spider web. He battered it until the crone’s face shattered, and blood gushed from his lacerated fist. Even fragmented, her displaced mouth grinned; still her amputated eyes twinkled.

  Douglas stood there panting, cradling his wounded hand. He felt the bathroom growing frigid.

  Suddenly, he was upended, pulled to the ceiling. Blood rushed to his head, as he struggled in empty air. Déjà vu brought him memories of a porcelain mask.

  “Is that you, you fucked-up hag? Was the face in the mirror yours, before it got all burnt?”

  As Douglas’ blood splattered the tile, a familiar whisper sounded: “Not my face, no, but a reflection of one I hold within me.”

  “Why are you bothering me again? Wasn’t this day bad enough?”

  “I’m here as your teacher, boy, to demonstrate your helplessness. You are just a marionette, Douglas. Always, I hold your strings.”

  Douglas snickered. “If I’m so insignificant, then how come you’re stalking me? I’m the one keeping you here; I’m the one propping the Phantom Cabinet open. We both know you can’t kill me, not if you want to stick around.”

  The entity said nothing. Instead, every door, drawer and cupboard in the house burst open. Every window shattered outward, sprinkling glass across the lawn and back patio. Douglas, still upended, found himself yanked outside, into the howling night.

  Soaked by the freezing downpour, he watched the ground grow increasingly distant. Cars shrank to the size of insects, homes to the size of matchbooks. Still he ascended, thousands of feet above sea level and rising.

  “You pretend that death is the worst of all fates,” the hideous voice murmured in his ear. “Should you choose to oppose me, life will prove far more oppressive.”

  “I hate you!” Douglas screamed. Over 20,000 feet above sea level, his thoughts were rapidly losing coherence. Lightning flashed from all angles, illuminating the city miles below.

  25,000 feet above sea level, hypo
xia hit, and Douglas fell unconscious. He awoke some time later, soaked and sneezing upon his sodden front lawn. The ground felt unsteady, ready to fall out from under him.

  Thunder boomed cannon-like, followed by a violent lightning burst. The electrostatic discharge expanded into a giant white oval, unmarked save for two eye hollows. It filled the sky, eclipsing stars and comets, silently appraising the shivering child. In the depths of his despair, Douglas glared right back.

  — | — | —

  Chapter 8

  “We return on wings of pure platinum. In case you’re wondering, that last number was ‘Back from the Dead,’ by England’s own Babyshambles. Does the song remind you of anyone, your humble DJ perhaps? At any rate, we’ve far more ground to cover…on the one, the only, Radio PC.”

  Adrift in memories, Emmett had barely heard the music. He remembered his last quarrel with Douglas, remembered badmouthing him for weeks afterward, spilling secrets only a friend could know. His spiteful tongue had birthed a dozen rumors. Soon, Emmett found a new circle of friends.

  “When Carter came home that night, drunk and relatively cheerful, he found all the windows blown out, his son trembling in the rain. Douglas tried to explain events.

  “‘It’s okay, Son,’ Carter slurred. ‘I’ll take care of it in the morning. Let’s keep this between us, though. Should anyone ask, just say we were vandalized. I’ll handle the rest.’

  “Carter was as good as his word, replacing all the windows posthaste. Time passed, as Douglas trudged his way through middle school, keeping his grades up, avoiding bullies. There were no more bonfires or dances, barely any social interaction at all. His time was spent on homework, television, comics and science fiction novels—little else. Occasionally, Carter took him out to dinner.

  “During the eighth grade graduation ceremony, Douglas saw his father in the audience, beaming proudly, idiotically slapping his palms together. They celebrated with chocolate cake and a pile of video store rentals: R-rated comedies mostly. It was nice, though Douglas knew that the majority of his classmates were out partying.”

  Emmett remembered his own middle school graduation night: a small gathering at Starla Smith’s house, her parents exiled to their bedroom. He’d escorted Etta into a closet that night, for a steamy make out session and some fumbling foreplay attempts. If Corey Pfeifer hadn’t burst in with a video camera, drunk and belligerently lecherous, who knows how far they would’ve gone?

  He’d been obsessed with Etta then, had spent many anguished evenings conjuring her shape, smell and taste to fill his empty bed. But they’d never gone all the way, had in fact broken up during their freshman year of high school. Emmett wondered what she was doing now, and what she looked like. Perhaps he’d try to contact her, if the broadcast ever ended. He was freshly single, after all.

  “Much of Douglas’ summer was spent in the afterlife, living vicariously through the memories of the deceased. Spirits continued to swarm his neighborhood, causing the Calle Tranquila death rate to skyrocket. Heart attacks abounded there. Embolism and asphyxiation cases were off the charts, leaving medical officials baffled. Many corpses displayed white hair. Rumors of half-seen faces and disconnected whispers ran rampant, contributing to a rapidly curdling atmosphere.

  “Anyhow, Douglas enrolled at East Pacific High School. The place stood at the western edge of Oceanside Boulevard, overlooking the ocean. Most of his classmates ended up there, spreading tales of Ghost Boy throughout the student population. Even instructors learned of the death-shrouded freshman, gossiping openly in the teachers’ lounge.

  “In the interest of brevity, let’s skip ahead a bit. Our purpose is not to note the boy’s every bowel movement, his every awkward encounter. Instead, like a good reality television producer, we’ll cut right to the good stuff: the drama, action and terror.

  “We ease back in a couple of weeks after Douglas’ sixteenth birthday. He was a sophomore at this point, and had just received his driver’s license.”

  ««—»»

  “How’d you like to drive to school today?” Carter asked, peering over piles of toast and waffles.

  “You mean by myself? How will you get to work?”

  “Don’t worry about it, I’ll take the day off. A boy only gets his license once, and he’d damn well better enjoy it. I even bought you a parking pass.”

  “But last time we drove together, you said that I wouldn’t know parallel parking from a horse’s rectum. You said that I needed decades’ more practice.”

  “Just stay off the freeway for a while, and you’ll be fine. You obviously knew enough to pass the driving test, albeit on your second try. Do you really need me backseat driving the whole way?”

  “I guess not.”

  ««—»»

  Along much of Oceanside Boulevard, lines of lofty palm trees stood spaced within median strips. When one drove fast enough, the trees bled together, eliminating the intervening spaces to form a long organic corridor, a bark mosaic. An eye-pleasing illusion, to be certain, one Douglas had often marveled at.

  During his first unaccompanied drive, however, the palms moved past at a snail’s crawl. Traffic was backed up from a collision at the El Camino Real intersection, which resulted in Douglas arriving sixteen minutes late.

  Where Hilltop Middle School had been one massive brick building, East Pacific High took a divergent approach to campus construction. A massive quadrangle comprised the center of the campus, filled with lunch tables and planters. Instead of one solitary food line, a variety of kiosks orbited the area, offering everything from pizza to vegetarian cuisine.

  The classroom layout was divided according to subject. Foreign language classes shared a single one-story building, as did science, mathematics, history, and every other discipline. These buildings, with their dirty stucco exteriors and graffiti-afflicted interiors, surrounded the central quadrangle on all sides, with lines of lockers stretching along their perimeters.

  The library was at the campus’ southern end, close enough to the band room that students caught muffled rhythms as they studied. Beyond it stood a row of portable classrooms, as the school’s population had outgrown the original campus construction. Cursed with substandard insulation, air quality and lighting, these meager rectangles were reserved for special education classes and foreigners, students unlikely to raise a fuss.

  At the northern end of campus, boys and girls locker rooms flanked the gymnasium, which hosted well-attended basketball games and less-attended wrestling matches.

  Encircled by a four hundred-meter track, there was a football field, upon which the school’s main attraction chucked pigskin. The East Pacific Squids had made it to the National Championship thirteen times in the school’s fourteen-year history, bringing home the number one title on five occasions. The stands could hold up to 14,000 fans—mostly on the home side, facing the ocean. During regular school hours, students smoked weed beneath the bleachers, as the area often went unmonitored. A baseball field and a couple outdoor volleyball courts were erected in the stadium’s shadow.

  Douglas pulled into the school’s eastern lot, groaning at his own tardiness. Luckily, his social studies class was watching a movie for the day—Steven Spielberg’s Amistad—and he was able to slip into the darkened room unnoticed. Seeing his fellow students taking notes on the film, presumably for an upcoming quiz, he grabbed a sheet of paper and began scribbling.

  ««—»»

  Since the shadow man claimed her sister, Missy Peterson had drifted out from her social circle, into a realm of therapy and dark reflection. Still attractive, she dated occasionally—letting her panting suitors do whatever they wanted to her—but took care to avoid relationships. Thus, she’d developed the reputation of a slut.

  Rumors of her sexual escapades abounded, oftentimes including people she’d never met. Not that she cared anymore, with that horrible entity still running free.

  Ever alert, she constantly surveyed her surroundings, searching for even a hint of the su
pernatural. Even during P.E., in the middle of an interminable set of jumping jacks, she scanned the gymnasium thoroughly.

  As she idiotically jumped up and down—amidst a couple dozen students dressed in matching purple and grey outfits—Missy stared off toward the bleachers, considering the wall behind them. Stretching across the wall, a giant purple squid was painted beneath the school’s logo, smiling broadly through its anthropomorphized face. The smile seemed off somehow, as if the creature was conspiring within its complex cartoon brain.

  Their instructor, a well-built woman named Mrs. Lynch, blew her whistle and shouted encouragement. “Only twenty more to go, class! You’re doing great!” The panting jumpers groaned, their muscles more suited for leisure.

  A figure materialized above the uppermost bleacher, a crooked-necked African dressed in coarse clothing. He hovered in the air untethered, dangling from an invisible noose. Terrified and fascinated, Missy continued performing jumping jacks, even after Mrs. Lynch’s whistle sounded.

  “Peterson, are you hard of hearing?” the instructor shouted. “It’s time to rest for a minute, and then we’ll head on over to the track!”

  Missy allowed herself to fall motionless. But she kept her eyes glued to the apparition, who slowly drifted forward, closing the intervening distance.

  Whether it was his spasmodically kicking legs propelling the man forward, or whether some omniscient being nudged him toward Missy, the girl had no clue. She saw unclosing eyes clouded with cataracts, a face and neck covered in twisted scars. His broken neck left the man’s head tilted at an odd, almost humorous angle.

  Now the man was dangling above Mrs. Lynch, his unshod feet almost touching her curly brown hair. The specter’s chapped lips moved, voicing silent agony. His cloth pants were stained with dried excrement, leading Missy to gag aloud.