The Phantom Cabinet Page 15

  Her classmates were looking at her now, she realized, not out of concern, but in the interests of mockery. But no one noticed the specter dancing his hanged man’s jig.

  Actually, there was one other student peering in the ghost’s direction. Douglas Stanton, a gaunt near-apparition himself, followed the levitator’s process with avid interest. But where Missy’s countenance bore abject terror, Douglas appeared unfazed. He was like a football fan watching Monday night’s game; all he needed was a beer and a potbelly. It seemed that he’d really been a “Ghost Boy” all along.

  Sensing her appraisal, Douglas turned toward Missy. She glanced away quickly, returning her gaze to the hanged man, figuring him for a slave who’d incurred his master’s wrath long ago.

  Missy had never liked Douglas, and the thought that the two of them shared a secret was worse than the actual haunting. Every sound in the gym ebbed into insignificance, as she grew aware of her own temporal pulse. Her peers faded from the scene, leaving only Missy, Douglas and the dead man. She wanted to run, to scream for attention, but the best she could manage was a low whimper.

  Was the tortured African looking at her, or was he there for Douglas? Had the circumstances of her sister’s death left Missy susceptible to spectral visitations? Was she soon to be stricken with the “Ghost Girl” moniker? These and dozens of similar questions ricocheted within her cranium, and all she could do was gape like a beached dolphin.

  Mercifully, Mrs. Lynch blew her whistle, shattering Missy’s terror shell. The hanged man dissolved into soft green vapor, soon dispersed by artificial air currents.

  “Let’s hit the track!” the instructor called, and Missy couldn’t have been happier to do so.

  ««—»»

  Seventeen days later, Douglas encountered a dining room conundrum. Incongruously, a tablecloth had been spread across the butcher block table, upon which rested a variety of plates and flatware, along with three carefully folded napkins. Even the ever-present ceiling cobwebs had been brushed away.

  Douglas watched his father place a bronze three-branched candelabrum at the table’s center. Inserting a trio of elaborate candles into the fixture, he turned to Douglas. “Throw some decent clothes on, Son. We’re having company tonight, and she’ll be here at five.”

  “Company?” Douglas was confused. Over the years, they’d entertained few visitors, none of whom had required good silverware. In the face of ambiguity, a strange certainty took hold of him, and Douglas couldn’t help but ask, “Is it Mom? Did they finally cure her?”

  Carter sighed deeply. “No, Douglas, your mother is still sick. Our visitor is a stranger to you, although that will be remedied shortly. Now get dressed while I finish dinner. A button-up shirt and some clean slacks should do it.”

  Douglas did as requested, and then collapsed onto the couch, channel surfing, stomach rumbling from migratory kitchen scents. He didn’t know what his father was preparing, but could tell it was a step up from their usual home-cooked fare.

  There was a knock at the door. “Would you answer that?” Carter called from the kitchen. “I’ve almost got everything set out.”

  Thus Douglas came face to face with a tall, attractive Jewish woman. She was dressed in a thin sweater, a flowing skirt, nylons and heels, and beamed down at him expectantly.

  “Uh…hi,” Douglas said awkwardly.

  “Why, hello there. You must be the famous Douglas, whom I’ve heard so much about. You certainly have a way with words…just like your father.”

  Douglas just stared, forgetting all social decorum.

  “Well, don’t just stand there like a mannequin. Invite a gal inside already.”

  Douglas stepped aside, muttering, “Sure, come on in.”

  Crossing the threshold, the woman threw her arms around him, initiating a lingering hug. “It’s so nice to finally meet you,” she purred into his ear, before gifting his cheek with a kiss. Blushing, Douglas leapt back a few feet.

  “Oh…thanks,” he managed to gasp.

  “I am, of course, Elaina Horowitz. I’m sure your father’s mentioned me.”

  “No, not to me.”

  “That man! Well, Douglas, your dad and I are dating. What can I say? He fixed my air conditioner and we hit it off. Women just adore men who know how to repair things, you know. You should remember that.”

  “Okay…”

  Mercifully, Carter stepped into the room, patting Douglas on the shoulder, and then crossing to Elaina. He kissed her passionately, adding to Douglas’ overall discomfort.

  “The food’s ready,” he announced.

  ««—»»

  Surveying the tabletop, Douglas saw a spread of grilled tilapia, roasted potatoes, brown rice and garlic spinach, with filled water glasses encircling an uncorked wine bottle. There were only two wine glasses set out, which he was fine with. If he never touched alcohol again, it would be entirely too soon.

  After pouring a bit of wine out, Carter raised his glass for a toast. “To family and new acquaintances,” he declared cheerfully. Elaina raised her own glass, and clinked it against Carter’s. Douglas stared at his napkin, grunting disdainfully.

  They filled their plates. Douglas took generous portions of everything, aside from the spinach, which he pointedly ignored. Without prayer or preamble, he began eating.

  Everything tasted great. The tilapia was mild, presenting a flavor not overly fishy. The rice and potatoes complemented it wonderfully. Still, awkwardness enveloped him, as he wasn’t sure what he was expected to say.

  Luckily, the adults excluded Douglas from their conversation, speaking of films and literature from before his time. Thus, he was able to clean his plate in relative peace, tuning out their vapid pleasantries with expert precision. Tossing his napkin to the tabletop, he asked to be excused.

  “Not just yet, young man,” Carter said, midway through his second helping. “You wouldn’t want to miss dessert. There’s a freshly baked pound cake waiting in the wings.”

  “Isn’t your father a great cook?” Elaina prodded. “I’m going to be tasting this meal days from now.”

  “Yeah, he’s pretty good,” Douglas admitted. “He’d have to be, with my mother locked in a nuthatch.”

  “Nuthatch?”

  Carter broke in, protecting the carefully cultivated ambiance. “I’ll tell you later, Lainey. It’s not exactly appropriate dinner conversation.”

  After the adults finished their meals, the pound cake made an appearance. Douglas consumed his slice with a minimum of chews. Finally, he was able to leave the table.

  “It was so very nice to meet you, young Douglas,” Elaina cooed to his retreating back.

  “Yeah, you too,” he said over his shoulder, with no pause in his stride.

  ««—»»

  He flossed, brushed and gargled—a deeply imbedded routine. Engulfed in monotonous repetition, his mind returned to Elaina Horowitz.

  He’d never thought of his father as a romantic type, had never speculated on the man’s sexuality. But the appearance of a girlfriend wasn’t completely surprising, as even Douglas understood the need for companionship.

  While he was still technically a virgin, Douglas had experienced countless acts of physical love, from both gender perspectives, encompassing all shades of sexuality. The Phantom Cabinet was useful that way. In its airy expanses, he’d sampled practices that would make even a porn star blush, so he couldn’t begrudge his father’s burgeoning relationship.

  Exiting the bathroom, he glimpsed something macabre on his closed bedroom door: four streaks of blood, a fingernail embedded in the second trail from the left.

  Douglas blinked and the blood disappeared, along with the nail. Just another case of the afterlife trying to superimpose itself over reality, he reasoned.

  Reaching beneath his bed, Douglas retrieved a random comic from a sprawl of Mylar-encased titles: Superman number 75, wherein the eponymous character entered into a brief death, which lasted until his rebirth by regeneration matrix the
following year. Douglas remembered giving his friend a copy of the very same issue for his birthday. He realized that he could now think of Benjy without drowning in grief guilt.

  The comic was a brief but entertaining read.

  Later, in the pitch-black, he ruminated upon the nature of comic book deaths. While many superheroes and villains had followed Superman’s example—taken off the table just long enough to stimulate fan interest, before enduring some farfetched resurrection shenanigans—others had found their demises quite permanent. Rorschach, Thunderbird, and the Kree Captain Marvel had never been resurrected, and it seemed that they never would be. Did fictional characters have their own Phantom Cabinet, wherein they were broken down entirely, to have their components recycled into dozens of super powered champions? Were there fragments of Perseus in Invisible Kid’s DNA, splinters of Gilgamesh suffusing the Hulk? Douglas hoped so.

  Finally, he slipped into a dreamless slumber, uncorrupted by ghosts or anxieties. Thus, he was spared the strains of a bedspring concerto, drifting from his father’s bedroom.

  ««—»»

  “Wake up, you little shit!”

  Clark Clemson turned bleary eyes to his bedroom door, rattling in its frame as if battered by a heavyweight champion. Thankfully, he’d thought to lock himself in.

  “I’m up, I’m up!” he called.

  “Open the door, or I’m kicking the fuckin’ thing down!”

  Brutus barked in the background, contributing to the tension.

  “Alright, Dad! Hold on a second!”

  Clark wriggled into crumpled jeans and a Chargers jersey. Then, muscles tensed, he allowed a human rage cloud to gust into his room.

  Marshall Clemson was a large man, perpetually red-faced and bulge-veined. His arms were tree trunks, framing a potbelly that could stop a cannonball midflight. He exuded a potent animal musk, which no cologne could tame.

  Clark considered his father’s bloodshot, bedraggled countenance—dried nosebleed crusting the man’s mustache—and felt his bladder threaten to give out.

  Marshall slammed Clark against the dresser. “You’ve been at my whiskey again, haven’t you? You think I wouldn’t notice, boy? I marked that shit with permanent marker!”

  Blistering breath assailed Clark’s nostrils. Somewhere, he knew, his mother was blissfully ignoring the confrontation, as she had countless times prior.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he protested. “You probably drank some and forgot about it.”

  “Bullshit! Don’t you dare lie to me, not with that faggot mouth of yours!”

  “I’m not lying, and I’m not gay!”

  Marshall shot a quick jab into Clark’s abdomen, causing him to double over in pain. “If you’re not gay, then how come I’ve never seen you with a girl? I hear you on the phone everyday, always giggling with your boyfriends like a couple of teen bitches, probably gossiping about each other’s buttholes. We need to get you to church!”

  Clark ignored the hypocrisy of the statement, as any further argumentation could lead to a busted lip. But had he been prone to dissent, he would have pointed out that, aside from funerals and weddings, his father never stepped within sight of an altar. Instead, he spent most Sundays in various shades of hungover.

  Barreling out the way he’d entered, Marshall shouted, “I’m driving you to school in twenty minutes! Be ready or I’ll fuck you up!”

  With no time to shower, Clark snuck into the kitchen for a glass of orange juice and a banana. He then retrieved a plastic bottle from his dresser, containing a few inches of sludgy brown substance.

  It burned going down, and left Clark’s stomach suffused with pleasant warmth. Now he was ready for the drive.

  ««—»»

  Later, Clark sat in the campus quad, pecking at pizza between Cherry Coke sips. He’d spent his morning classes fuming, dreaming of some indeterminate period in the future, when he would no longer have to endure his father’s abuse. Clark’s powerlessness sickened him, left his stomach churning with conflicting emotions.

  And then, like a gift from the heavens, came a familiar figure, walking with his face downcast. A spotlight visible only to Clark cast its glow upon none other than Douglas Stanton.

  He’d nearly forgotten about “Ghost Boy,” as the two shared not a single class. Seeing him now, all the old abhorrence came rushing back. Visions of past bullying swam across his mind’s eye: dozens of elementary and middle school encounters.

  Clark remembered a recess years past—Irwin and Milo pinning Douglas down, while Clark forced a cockroach into his mouth. Both Irwin and Milo were dead now, having perished of mysterious circumstances.

  Clark jumped to his feet. “Hey, Ghost Boy!” he called. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

  Clusters of students parted, forming a path between the bully and his intended victim. Anticipating violence, Clark licked his chapped lips.

  Walking quickly, Douglas left the quadrangle, heading south toward the library. Clark didn’t want to run, so he let the distance between them grow, trudging forward like a loyal but decrepit canine.

  When Douglas stepped into the library, Clark smiled. His prey was trapped now, like a butterfly in a killing jar. No student would lift a finger to help Douglas, and to the librarian, Clark was a stranger. If he moved quickly, he could break Douglas’ nose, and be seated in class with his teacher none the wiser.

  The double doors had windows in their upper quadrants. Currently, they were papered over with flyers—advertising everything from an upcoming cheerleader carwash to the glee club’s next performance—but enough glass remained to arouse Clark’s suspicion. He squinted and crouched, but a green vapor muddled all inside visibility. Perhaps the drama club was practicing in the library, using a fog machine to belch colored smoke. If so, assaulting Douglas would be even simpler.

  The doors swung shut behind him. The fog was so thick that Clark could scarcely discern his own hands. There was no drama club practice, either. In the preternatural quiet, Clark heard his own respiration, coming out wet and ragged.

  His anger ebbed, confusion rushing in to supplant it. Perhaps the vapor was a poisonous gas, he reasoned, and he was the only one left alive in the library. He’d confront Douglas at a later time, if the guy wasn’t dead already.

  He battered at the doors, voicing his frustrations with a yelp. They wouldn’t budge.

  A cold finger tapped Clark’s shoulder. Turning, he beheld a strange figure—churning shadows topped by a white mask—clearly visible despite the mist. The shadows coiled and undulated incessantly, forming appendages and tendrils that dissolved seconds later. Amidst the obscurity, a female form floated, her mutilated body exposing internal organs.

  Before Clark’s horrified eyes, the porcelain oval swam forward, until it hovered just inches from his ear. Inhaling the charnel house stink of a living nightmare, he found himself unable to move.

  “Are you familiar with vivisection?” her mangled voice whispered. “The agony is incredible—white heat slowing time to eternity. Beyond the torment, however, lies understanding, information known only to cadavers. Would you take on the burden of such knowledge?”

  Her shade tendrils brandished tools of cutting and examination. Clark saw t-pins, hooks, razors, prongs, teasing needles, scalpels, scissors, thumb forceps and dissecting pans, all pointed in his direction.

  “Leave me alone,” he moaned, shivering in the growing chill.

  The tools made contact, tracing shallow cuts along his face and exposed arms. From these scratches, blood like artic water flowed.

  He blinked and the instruments were gone, returned to some shadowy netherworld. The mask remained. Clark glimpsed charred, suppurating flesh around its edges.

  “I’ve known many like you, Clark, perpetrators of brutality. I’m built from the terror and hatred your kind engenders.”

  A portion of her shadow shroud dissolved, becoming dozens of malformed arachnids, which fled into the library’s deeper
depths in jointed leg frenzy. At the sight of them, Clark’s legs gave out, leaving him slumped against fastened doors.

  “Do my pets frighten you, child? My poor, poor boy, can you not stand upright? I contain many wonders within me, fragments of my essence, which I send into the world when complete manifestation is impossible. Perhaps you’d care to meet another.”

  “No…no,” Clark protested, but it was already too late. The shadows shifted again, forming and discharging a humanoid form: a slim man in a top hat. Untethered to wall or floor, the shadow man removed his headwear. Like a well-trained magician, he turned the hat upside down and passed a hand over its brim: once, twice, three times. Then he reached inside it.

  Slowly, the pale, freckled face of Irwin Michaels emerged. His features were just as Clark remembered them. Eyes bulging, mouth contorted into a voiceless scream, Irwin gawked at Clark, before being returned to the hat’s interior.

  “Yes, your suspicion is correct. You stand in the presence of Irwin’s killer. This silhouette can crawl inside of you, shading your hair frostlike as it pervades your mind with vileness. From there, suicide or fright-fueled death becomes inevitable. Would you welcome the shadow’s caress, boy?”

  Mutely, Clark shook his head, denying the entity in all her components. Still the shadow shroud shifted, revealing a fresh monstrosity with each passing moment. Bats and scorpions, hunchbacks and misshapen giants—Clark found himself crowded by a horde of troubling silhouettes, with the hideous white oval floating at their apex. Her laughter was gargled razor blades, promising no mercy.

  “Do our surroundings trouble you, Clark? Would you prefer a change in scenery?”

  The entity’s cloak reabsorbed all silhouettes. Green mist evaporated. Clark found himself not in the library at all, but in his own living room. Recognizing his father’s grimy La-Z-Boy and their late model television, he could almost dismiss it all as a dream. But the porcelain-masked bitch remained.