The Phantom Cabinet Page 18

  It wasn’t long in coming: a series of silence-shredding thumps that sent John into motion. He wore a cowboy hat now, with a black eye mask, jeans, blue collared shirt, and a red scarf completing the ensemble. If not for his facial piercings, he’d have been the Lone Ranger’s dead ringer.

  At the door were two Ninja Turtles and a Frankenstein, all under four feet tall. Silently, they stretched their arms forward, clutching empty pillowcases.

  “Great costumes, guys,” John enthused, tossing each child a couple candy bars. The sweets disappeared into a pillowcase netherworld, and the trick-or-treaters faded from sight. Smiling, John closed the door.

  Next came a ballerina, a pretty little thing, provided one overlooked the hole stretching from her cheek to her neck, exposing broken teeth and red musculature. When John tried to pat her head, his hand passed right through it, but the Skittles landed in her plastic pumpkin bucket easily enough.

  As he had for eleven nights straight, John greeted a parade of costumed children. He saw football players, tigers, superheroes, devils, cheerleaders, monsters, clowns, ghosts, Disney princesses, aliens, and others too mangled to distinguish. He doled out handfuls of sugary confections, until his arms started to ache. Still they kept coming, dozens upon dozens of candy seekers.

  It wasn’t even close to Halloween, yet there they were. Most were silent, although a few croaked out “Trick-or-treat,” utilizing vocal cords long disused. All were lost children, gone out past Halloweens never to return. The abuses they bore were enough to curdle his soul, but John kept on a happy face throughout.

  He felt like he was living at the world’s end, caught in an eternal Halloween cycle. He didn’t know where the children came from or where they went after leaving his house, but their presence attested to life beyond death. Some part of a person went on, perhaps only to gather treats.

  Sucking on a Blow Pop, he let the night pass before him. Knowing that the next evening might see a return to grim reality, he savored every moment of his vigil. A sugar buzz kept his eyes open; his throat ached from candy consumption. Do they even eat the treats? he wondered. Or is there a hollow tree somewhere in Oceanside, filled with pounds of it?

  Just before dawn, he received his final visitors. They were the same every night: a trio of cardboard robots, painted dull silver. Of the costumes’ occupants, John could see very little: pallid lips and burst blood vessels glimpsed through mouth and eye slits. The tiny automatons moved on stiffened limbs, trudging forward to claim their prizes.

  They held plastic garbage bags, quarter-filled with fresh blood. Shivering, John tossed them some Smarties and slammed the door. Something about this last group always unnerved him.

  ««—»»

  Two days later, after a boring day of lectures and social isolation, Douglas found two females waiting by his car: Karen Sakihama and Etta Williams, familiar faces from his middle school years.

  “Ladies,” he announced, attempting to sound suave.

  “Hi, Douglas,” Karen replied, shyly avoiding eye contact.

  “What’s up, Doug?” asked Etta.

  “Not much. I’m just glad to get out of here.”

  Etta laughed, fake as a forty-three dollar bill. “I hear that, man. So what’s a big stud like you have planned for tonight? Two dates? Three?”

  Is she making fun of me? Douglas wondered. “No dates,” he admitted. “I’ll probably just watch TV until I fall asleep.”

  Etta gasped in mock amazement. “Come on, Douglas. We both know there’s nothing to watch on Friday nights. Mike Munson’s parents are out of town, and he’s throwin’ a party. Karen and I are going, and we’re wondering if you’d like to come with. Think about how cool you’ll look, showing up with two hot chicks. I hear there’ll be plenty of alcohol, too.”

  “I don’t drink,” Douglas muttered, meeting Karen’s eyes and immediately looking away.

  “Then you’ll be our designated driver,” Etta countered.

  “Why don’t you two just go with Emmett? You know, your boyfriend.”

  “Emmett? We broke up three years ago, dude. Get with the program. I’m tryin’ to have fun tonight, not drown in awkwardness. So what do you say?”

  Douglas pretended to think it over. “Thanks for inviting me, ladies, but I’m gonna have to pass. I’m not really much of a party guy.”

  Etta exhaled, exasperated.

  “Please, Douglas,” Karen implored, so quiet it was almost a whisper. “We invited you for a reason. You remember Missy Peterson? Well…she’s having problems. You know, mental problems. She’s seeing things: ghosts or demons, I’m not sure what. She won’t even answer her phone now.

  “Last night, her mom called me. She’s afraid that Missy is a danger to herself, but I don’t know what to say or do. I cornered her at lunch, and she barely recognized me. She just kept saying, ‘Only Douglas Stanton understands.’ To convince her to attend tonight’s party, I promised that you’d be there, that you’d talk with her.”

  “Missy wants to talk to me? Bullshit. That girl’s never liked me. She tried to trick me out of Benjy’s birthday party, for Christ’s sake.”

  “That was in fifth grade, Douglas. You don’t think that a person can change in seven years? She found her sister dead, remember?”

  “What am I supposed to talk to her about? I doubt she wants to hear about my comic collection, or even my top ten movies of all time. She’s probably planning some prank on me, and you two are helping her do it.”

  “You’re wrong, Douglas. It’s nothing like that. Can’t you just…help?”

  Karen’s eyes filled with waterworks, threatening to spill down her face. Even through his shell of cynicism and misanthropy, Douglas couldn’t help but be moved by her sorrow. Against all better judgment, he said, “Fine, I’ll go to the stupid party.”

  Karen hugged him, a lingering expression of gratitude. Etta stepped behind Douglas, and then she too was embracing him, her ample breasts pressing his back. With two soft females smushed against him, Douglas grew awkwardly aroused. Thankfully, contact was broken before his penis could pass beyond semi-solidity.

  With a permanent marker, Etta scrawled an address across his palm. “Here’s where I live,” she said. “Pick us up at eight.”

  ««—»»

  Following Etta’s orders, Douglas reached a townhouse at the edge of Oceanside, just before the Vista border. An ugly two-tone cracker box, it appeared ready to collapse at the first strong breeze. Loud hip-hop bass thumps rattled its walls. A handful of celebrants stood in the driveway clutching beer cans.

  “This is the place,” Etta said. “Look, there’s a parking spot two houses up.”

  Unfortunately, the space was fire hydrant adjacent, and they ended up parking a block over. After double-checking his SUV’s locks, Douglas trailed the girls to the party.

  They crossed a dead lawn, to rattle a steel security screen. It swung open before them, and there stood Mike Munson, the festivity’s host. His eyes were bloodshot and his posture was slumped, but he brightened in the females’ presence.

  “Etta and Karen,” he slurred. “Great to see you. And who’s that you brought with you? Is that…Douglas Stanton? Ghost Boy? You actually brought Ghost Boy! That’s classic!”

  “Good to be here,” Douglas muttered sarcastically, but Mike had already turned away. “Follow me, you guys. We’ve got a keg of Newcastle in the backyard.”

  As they navigated through the townhouse, Douglas saw his fellow students clustered in the dining area, kitchen and living room. Some pointed him out to other revelers, mocking him in subdued voices. He’d have to devise an escape plan, he decided, before their mockery segued into drunken bullying.

  Half-remembered faces, thinned from shed baby fat, turned to regard him. Douglas saw Marty McGuire and Kevin Jones, who’d both transferred to Vista High School rather than East Pacific. He saw Justine Brubaker and Esmeralda Carrera, the latter of whom stood surrounded by potential suitors. Trampling over cigarette butts and s
pilled-beer puddles, in a fetid atmosphere redolent with vomit, he absorbed every detail.

  On an afghan-covered sofa, two chubby girls tongue-wrestled, cheered on by an audience of drooling jocks. Two shirtless Samoans wrestled on the floor below them, unnoticed by most. Douglas even saw a few men in their mid-thirties, clinging to youth delusions as they propositioned underage teenagers.

  In the backyard, Mike pulled three plastic cups from a keg-proximate bag. “Ladies drink free,” he announced. “That’ll be five bucks, Douglas.”

  “I’m the designated driver,” Douglas muttered, waving the cup away.

  “Designated bitch is more like it,” Mike sneered.

  The keg nestled in an ice-filled trashcan, surrounded by dazed celebrants. Etta and Karen found their cups quickly filled, and began to sip politely. Douglas knew that soon they’d begin circulating the party, abandoning him to his own devices. Before they could leave, he lightly touched Etta’s elbow, and asked her when Missy was coming.

  “Yeah, I called her earlier. It turns out she’s staying in tonight.”

  “What?”

  “I’m only kidding, man. You should’ve seen your face just now; it was like I kicked you in the scrotum. Missy will be here any minute, don’t worry. Meanwhile, why don’t you relax a little? Want me to ask around, see if anyone thinks you’re cute?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Are you sure? Some girls are actually attracted to quiet loners. It’s not like you’re hideously deformed, or anything.”

  “I’m alright.”

  “If you say so.” Etta took a long gulp of Newcastle, and then said, “Anyway, it’s been fun talkin’ with you—fun like a case of chickenpox—but it’s time for Karen and me to mingle. You wanna make the rounds with us?”

  “No…that’s okay. I’ll catch up with you gals later, I guess.”

  Etta dragged Karen into the house, beer sloshing over their cup rims to splatter the back patio. Douglas shuffled his feet, stared into the sky, and shrugged his shoulders, wishing to be anywhere else. Then Kevin rushed into the backyard, face flushed under vibrant red hair.

  “Dude, has anyone seen Corey Pfeifer?” he called out. “Starla’s in the bathroom puking, calling his name over and over.”

  “He’s not back here,” Mike responded, slumped over the keg. “I think he went to pick up some weed. Please tell me that bitch is at least making it into the toilet.”

  “Mostly, but there’s definitely some side spray. She’ll be passed out on the floor any minute.”

  “Then we’ll have our way with her!” Mike shouted, eliciting cheers from most of the assembled males. “I don’t care if she’s got puke running down her ass crack, that chick is fine as fuck!”

  Since his arrival, Douglas had been uncannily aware of the vox populi judging and belittling him. Now he heard the voice of the people change its target, shifting its crosshairs toward Starla. Male, female, and less identifiable vocalizations converged, making sport of the nauseous beauty:

  “She’s such a whore.”

  “I heard that her cousin molested her.”

  “I fucked her last year, and she didn’t even remember me two days later.”

  “And she has the nerve to be so stuck up. Get over yourself, girl.”

  “Dude, I’d drink her bathwater.”

  Douglas wondered if he should be glad they’d forgotten him—if only momentarily. Starla had always been a bitch, and it seemed that karma had finally circled around to bite her on the ass. But all that he could muster was resigned melancholy.

  Stepping back into the house, a new odor met his nostrils: a sweet skunky fragrance. He saw a cloud-like haze drifting beneath the ceiling, heard harsh coughing emanating from the living room. Intrigued, he followed the cannabis aroma.

  The possible lesbians had left the sofa, as had their audience. Wilting upon it now were Corey Pfeiffer, Marty McGuire, Etta, Karen, and some guy Douglas didn’t recognize. On the coffee table, a freezer bag two-thirds filled with marijuana yawned. Drawing closer, Douglas saw orange and purple hairs interspersed throughout each weed nugget.

  Karen sat frigid, arms crossed, shoulders drawn up to her earlobes. It was obvious that the weed made her uncomfortable, and only Etta’s presence kept her rooted in place. The other couch-dwellers displayed none of this averseness, however, with easy grins and lidded eyes being their predominant facial features. Among them, a tall glass bong circulated, pausing only for intermittent bowl refills.

  Corey blew out a lungful, registered Douglas’ presence, and peppered his cough attack with laughter. “Holy shit,” he managed to choke out, elbowing Etta playfully. “You said he was here, but I thought you were fuckin’ with me. Get the fuck over here, Douglas, and shake my hand.”

  Warily, Douglas approached. He found his hand engulfed in Corey’s massive paw, pumping vigorously up and down.

  “Do you smoke, man?” Corey asked. “My cousin just brought this shit down from Humboldt. Dude, you won’t find anything better in all of SoCal. If you’re already seein’ ghosts, who knows what it’ll make you see?”

  The couch-dwellers burst into laughter paroxysms, knocking against each other like glass bottles in a backpack. When they finally subsided, Douglas told Corey, “I don’t usually smoke, but I could give it a try.”

  “What?” Etta cried out. “Really? You?”

  “Sure. It’s only weed. Don’t act like you four are living on the edge.”

  “Big words,” Marty chimed in. “Load him up, Corey.”

  A fresh nugget went into the bowl. Douglas found himself staring into a resinous glass tube, at fragrant black water churning malignantly. Karen disappeared toward the bathroom, and so he claimed her vacant sofa space.

  “Here’s to the ganja deities,” the stranger declared, lifting his index toward the ceiling. Douglas wrote him off as just another blowhard playing at profundity—the latest in a long succession stretching back to time’s dawning—but the others cheered.

  Shrugging, Douglas placed his mouth to the glass, flicked the Bic, and inhaled. The herb became a miniature inferno, a lovely little fire blossom. He drew deeply, held it for half a minute, and exhaled without coughing.

  “I never thought I’d see this,” Marty commented, reaching out for the bong. In a giggly drawl, Etta seconded the statement.

  But Douglas had some familiarity with drugs. He’d treaded in the memory forms of many users, deep in the Phantom Cabinet’s dream wisps. Therein, he’d experienced the whole gamut of intoxicants: weed, amphetamines, smack, Ecstasy, cacti, LSD, and the fever visions of government lab rats, whose mad, later abandoned drug strains left them drooling vegetables, or sometimes killed them outright. Though his own lungs were unscarred, Douglas wasn’t as sheltered as his peers liked to imagine.

  The bong circulated for a while, with Douglas lingering in the rotation. Despite his earlier reservations, he was beginning to enjoy himself, sinking into a loose camaraderie he hadn’t felt since those bygone days with Emmett and Benjy. He no longer cared who made fun of him, or if Missy ever actually showed up. Instead, he became absorbed in the stereo-blasted hip-hop, head bobbing to its bass-heavy beat.

  Time blinked, and he realized that the others were gone, along with their glassware and weed. In their place was a beautiful girl, whom he slowly identified as Esmeralda Carrere. Sporting an unreadable expression, she sat mere inches away.

  Douglas had never spoken to Esmeralda, had been content to admire her from afar, stolen glances across campus hallways and classrooms. With her smoky green eyes turned upon him, he found himself drowning in desire, confusion and outright terror, grasping for words to say.

  At last, he managed to choke out, “Nice party, isn’t it?”

  “You could say that,” she replied, somewhat sarcastically.

  “My name’s Douglas, in case you didn’t know.”

  “Of course I know you. You’re practically a celebrity around these parts. Just tonight, I’ve heard all kinds of stories
about you.”

  “So they were talking about me. I knew it.”

  “Boring people love to denigrate others. Why do you think I broke away to come visit you?”

  “Denigrate? That’s a big word for a pretty girl.”

  “I’m in Advanced Placement; there’s no need to stereotype me.”

  “Sorry.”

  “You seem a little twitchy, Douglas. Do I make you nervous?”

  “A little bit,” he admitted sheepishly.

  “Good. That means you won’t bullshit me when I ask you this question—not if you know what’s good for you.”

  “What’s the question?” he asked, responding to her brazenness.

  “I was wondering if it’s true what they say about you. Do you really see ghosts?”

  After a protracted pause, Douglas answered, “If I did, why would I tell ya? You’ll just laugh about it with your friends later.”

  Her face contracted in mock annoyance. “No, I won’t do that. My grandma used to talk about ghosts all the time, how she’d been visited by loved ones weeks after they died. Whatever you tell me will be our little secret, I promise.”

  Douglas exhaled deeply. His thoughts were in disarray: half of them wanting to trust Esmeralda, the other half marking her as an enemy. Against his better judgment, he said, “Yeah, it’s true. I’ve been seeing ghosts all my life. They appear in mirrors, puddles, and sometimes in three-dimensional space. Sometimes I can’t even see ’em, just objects moving by themselves. Occasionally, they talk to me.”

  “Wow. What do they say?”

  “It depends on the ghost. Most of them just want to bitch about the coldness of the grave, or whine about their deaths. You know, Ghost Whisperer-type shit. I’ve only known one who could hold a decent conversation. He was an astronaut, if you can believe that.”

  “An astronaut. Now you’re just messing with me.”

  Douglas held up an open palm. “Hand to God, I’m telling you the complete, unvarnished truth. His name was Commander Frank Gordon, and he died on a freakin’ space shuttle. I thought he was my best friend, until we had a falling out.”