The Phantom Cabinet Read online

  “See, I knew you’d be interesting to talk to. Tell me, how does someone have a falling out with a ghost?”

  “You can ask, but I won’t tell ya. Let’s just say that Gordon wants me to act against my own best interests, and leave it at that.”

  Esmeralda’s forehead creased. Leaning forward, she practically whispered, “Hey, Douglas, what was the scariest ghost you ever met?”

  He opened his mouth, preparing to describe the porcelain-masked entity and all her multifaceted agonies, when Mike burst into the room.

  “We’ve got margaritas in the kitchen!” he shouted. “Come grab a glass!” Mike could barely clutch his own drink, tilting it to spill yellow sludge upon the carpet, which trailed him through the sliding glass door.

  “Those will be going fast,” Esmeralda remarked. “We’ll finish our convo in a second.”

  Douglas followed her into the kitchen, watching her tight ass swish back and forth in a practically painted-on miniskirt. It was an enjoyable sight, provoking a sudden shift in his nether region.

  He didn’t know what was happening. Did Esmeralda’s sudden interest denote sexual attraction, or just pity? Should he try to kiss her, or at least put his arm around her? Fear and exhilaration battled within his psyche, like Godzilla fighting Megalon.

  In the kitchen, a leaking blender perched upon cracked marble countertop. Shouldering through intoxicated teenagers, Esmeralda grabbed a margarita glass. She salted its rim, and poured out a generous helping of yellow cocktail.

  “Want one?” she asked Douglas.

  “I’m driving.”

  Sipping, she replied, “That’s too bad, it’s really yummy. Anyhow, let’s go back to the couch, and you can tell me more ghost stories.”

  Eye-roving from her heart-shaped face to her breast-swollen halter top, Douglas said, “I can’t think of a single thing I’d rather do.”

  “Enthusiasm, I like it.”

  This time, Douglas led the way to the living room. Noticing someone on the sofa, his heart sank. Realizing the interloper’s identity, he damn near cried. Missy Peterson had finally arrived.

  “I’m sorry, but I promised that I’d talk to Missy tonight,” he whispered confidentially. “She’s been seeing ghosts, too, and needs some advice. Can we finish this later?”

  Esmeralda pouted. “You’d rather talk to that skank than me?”

  “Fuck no! But I’d rather not break my promise, if I don’t have to. It won’t take long.”

  “Okay, Douglas, come find me when you’re finished. Hey, before I go, can I ask one last thing?”

  “Go for it.”

  She asked, “Have you ever seen any ectoplasm?”

  “Ectoplasm?”

  “Yeah, you know, it’s like ghost jism. In movies, they’re always talking about it. Wherever there’s a ghost, it leaves slimy white goop behind.”

  “Sorry, but I don’t think that’s a real thing. At least, I’ve never seen any. There’s been plenty of green fog, though.”

  “Oh,” she uttered, disappointed. “Well, I guess that’s something.” After kissing him lightly on the cheek, she flitted away, taking Douglas’ good cheer as a keepsake.

  Annoyed, he turned to Missy, noting her shabby appearance. Her face was puffy, her nose red and crusted. Her hair looked as if it had gone weeks without water and brush, and she hadn’t even applied makeup. In a baggy sweatshirt and ugly mustard-yellow capris, she exuded misery from every pore.

  Stepping into her wretched miasma, Douglas collapsed onto the sofa, carefully keeping a cushion between them. “You wanted to talk to me?” he asked.

  Sniffing back errant snot, she wailed, “Please, you have to help me. They killed my sister, and now they’re coming to get me. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Who killed your sister?” Douglas asked, fearing that he already knew the answer.

  “The spirits did. I think it was the shadow man. He’s the one who showed me her corpse.”

  “Shadow man? I heard your sister killed herself, that she slashed her wrists open and bled to death.”

  “Then…then why was her hair all white? You, of all people, know ghosts are real. What, you think you’re the only one they visit?”

  Douglas let the question hang for a minute. In the face of her wretchedness, his weed influence abated. Uncomfortably sober, he wished that Missy would just go away, before his entire night was ruined.

  “Okay, Missy, let’s pretend I believe you. You’re seeing ghosts. Terrifying stuff, to be certain, but what the hell do you expect me to do about it? Do I look like a fuckin’ Ghostbuster? Am I wearing a proton pack?”

  “I just…I just thought…” Her sentence devolved into sobbing.

  Some small segment of Douglas rejoiced in her misery, reasoning that she’d never been particularly kind to him. But he wasn’t truly malicious, and thus moved to comfort. Placing an arm around Missy—wincing at her pungent clamminess—he said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have put it like that. But the sad fact is, while I am familiar with ghosts, I have no idea how to get rid of the bastards. The best advice I can give you is to stand up to them, to let them know you’re not afraid. Maybe they’ll go away afterward.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” Missy moaned, leaping from the couch to sprint away, sobbing.

  Douglas felt guilty, knowing of his own deception. He knew that courage wouldn’t diffuse a haunting; the very thought was ludicrous. Only one thing would ensure the girl’s peace of mind—his own death—and he had no plans to clue Missy in to that little tidbit. In her mind state, she was liable to come after him with a firearm.

  He set off to find Esmeralda. Unable to locate her in the backyard, kitchen or garage, he was debating checking the bedrooms, when Etta strutted up determinately.

  “What the hell did you say to her, Douglas? She’s in the goddamn bathtub right now—next to a passed out Starla—crying uncontrollably. Missy was better off before she came here.”

  “Yeah…about that. Listen, Etta, I tried to help her, but what was I supposed to say? Was I supposed to tell her that everything is fine and dandy, when it obviously isn’t? If she’s really being haunted, then there’s nothing I can do about it…nothing she can do about it.”

  “I guess there was no reason to invite you, after all,” she hissed. “Anyway, Karen and I will be riding home with Missy, so I’ll see you around. Thanks for nothin’.”

  Douglas watched her stride away, and then resumed his search for Esmeralda. In the scattered face assortment, hers remained elusive. Finally, he pulled Kevin Jones aside and asked if he’d seen her.

  “Yeah, dude, she took off with one of those older guys. You didn’t really think you had a chance with her, did you?”

  With no reason to remain, Douglas left the cacophony behind, driving home with Esmeralda never far from his thoughts.

  As for the girl in question, she emerged from Mike’s parents’ bathroom—which, unlike the other, had yet to be splashed with regurgitant—a few minutes later. Throughout his search, she’d been checking her hair and makeup, and gargling with a bottle of purse Scope. Learning of Douglas’ departure, she could scarcely hide her disappointment.

  ««—»»

  Upon solar winds, a green wisp traveled, emanating from no known point of origin. Against a star-speckled backdrop, it twisted and twirled, sporting features almost recognizable as human.

  The specter glided amidst space junk, floating in a graveyard orbit, a lonely supersynchronous course just beyond operational range. Bypassing spent rocket stages and collision fragments, it passed within a defunct communications satellite, breaching the aluminum shell, spreading its consciousness throughout the structure.

  Solar panels long dormant sprang back to life, converting sun energy into electricity. The on-board processors endured similar revivification, followed by the propulsion, communications, thermal control and altitude control systems. Now only the telemetry and command system remained offline, preventing the earthbound livi
ng from monitoring and guiding the device.

  Unbeknownst to NORAD, the first satellite haunting had proven successful. The dead had new tools with which to spread terror, knocking the existential status quo off its axis. Soon, a green fog was rolling across the cosmos, leaving dozens of similarly resurrected satellites in its wake.

  — | — | —

  Chapter 11

  “In case you were wondering, that eardrum-tickling tune was none other than ‘Ghost Song,’ by those gloomy rock and roll luminaries, The Doors. That’s right, you are still listening to Radio PC, your home for…you know what, I’m sick of this DJ shtick, all this lingo and forced enthusiasm. Maybe I was better off dying early, if this was to be my future.

  “We’re closing in on an ending, Emmett, and this routine is getting old. So I’m just going to be plain old Benjy Rothstein now. That all right with you, buddy?”

  Standing at the kitchen counter, with a coffee mug in one hand and a beer in the other, Emmett nodded. He was on his forth cup of coffee and his umpteenth beer, their thick amalgam churning malignantly within his stomach. His eyes were bloodshot and his skin had gone ashy. His ears ached, bookending a skull-splitting headache, and he no longer knew if it was night or day. Sleep deprivation made reality dreamlike, a thin gossamer curtain just waiting to be yanked aside.

  “We left off on quite the cliffhanger, I must admit. When ghosts crawl into nonoperational satellites and bring them back to life, a story could go anywhere. It could turn into a romance, with dead spouses reconnecting with their grieving partners. Or it could shift into comedy, provided that the spirits are pranksters. It could even become a political thriller, for crying out loud. Imagine that, a murdered senator preventing the election of his assassin. Hell, I’d see it. Without the porcelain-masked entity’s influence, anything could have happened. But that bitch had planned for everything, and so we’ll keep our genre horror. Wielding specters like puppets, she kicked her efforts into high gear.

  “But that’s getting ahead of ourselves. I’m guessing that you have some questions about the haunted satellites, and so I’ll try to explain the phenomenon. Bear in mind that I’m no scientist, so I can’t tell you the exact physics.

  “To begin with, I should elaborate a bit on the nature of ghosts. Ghosts are just energy, you know, an intelligent force acting over a length of space. Our spectral form is malleable, however, capable of acting mechanically, thermally and electrically. Because of this, we can cause a room’s temperature to lower one moment, and make the lights flicker the next. We can even set objects into motion, once we’ve learned the ability.

  “Our energy forms keep us insubstantial, and generally invisible. It is possible to solidify into solid matter, but eventually even the strongest specter will revert back into its energy state.

  “When the good ship Conundrum breached the Phantom Cabinet, it attracted much spirit attention. As the only solid object in the land of the incorporeal, it was an anomaly, one worthy of intense examination. Of particular interest was its communications system. Phantoms who’d never dreamt of advanced technology were able to study it at leisure, to figure out its capacity for near-instantaneous communication. Data could be sent across thousands of miles, as long as there was something positioned to receive it.

  “Now, transmissions from inside the Phantom Cabinet were impossible, as it exists just outside of ordinary time and space. But beyond the Cabinet, that’s a whole nother story.

  “As mankind’s worst enemy—its darkest reflections given form—the porcelain-masked entity knew of satellites, and how a ghost could shift itself into pure data if properly instructed. From there, it could send pieces of itself from satellite to satellite, or even back down to Earth, utilizing the devices’ transceivers and antennas. This allowed her spirit recruits to visit anyplace there was reception. Later, after my own Phantom Cabinet escape, I used these methods for a more benign purpose…this little radio broadcast.

  “Haven’t you wondered how your satellite radio is still running, when you haven’t charged it once since we began? That’s me. At one time, I could even manifest physically.

  “Like I said before, the ghosts could only manifest near Douglas, although their radius of activity was steadily expanding. So how, you might wonder, could they possess satellites thousands of miles away? The answer might surprise you.

  “You see, Emmett old pal, there were effectively two Douglas Stantons: the earthbound introvert we used to hang out with, and the portion of his spirit he’d left behind in the Phantom Cabinet. Just as manifestations could spiral out from his earthly body, they could do the same from his spirit body, which propped the Phantom Cabinet open just outside synchronous orbit. From any nearby satellite, they could project part of their consciousness wherever, while still remaining within range of Phantom Douglas. By keeping a toehold in that Cabinet-adjacent satellite, they benefitted from a cosmic loophole, allowing them to operate globally.

  “I hope that exposition cleared things up some, because I don’t know how to state it any clearer. Besides, it’s time to revisit the star of our story.

  “The rest of senior year passed uneventfully for Douglas. He wasn’t invited to any other parties, and Etta and Karen never spoke to him again, but at least he wasn’t bullied.

  “Sadly, during these last few high school months, a romance with Esmeralda never blossomed. Although they shared a mutual attraction, it went unvoiced, leading to aching glances and nothing else. Each felt that the other had snubbed them, victims of a misunderstanding. Esmeralda ended up dating the football team’s star fullback, while Douglas…I’m sure you can guess. If he wasn’t drifting through the Phantom Cabinet, he was staring into a book or television screen.

  “When graduation rolled around, Douglas didn’t even bother to walk. It seemed so pointless at that point, parading past rows of people who couldn’t care less about him, dressed in a ridiculous cap and gown. He doubted that there’d be any applause when his name was called, even if his father actually bothered to show up. Instead, he popped by East Pacific High’s front office a week later for his diploma, ignoring the secretary’s pitying gaze.

  “With humanity’s future being so grim, Douglas knew that college applications were pointless. Either he would die, or the world would soon swarm with ghosts. Both options made higher education unnecessary. Instead, he took a minimum wage job at O’Side Video: working the register, putting DVDs in their proper places. Comfortable in his dull routine, he held no dreams or greater aspirations.

  “So let’s swing back into the final portion of our tale—just a few months after graduation—and learn what happens when spectral satellites go proactive.”

  ««—»»

  Donner’s Malfunction was a popular half-hour XBC sitcom, aired at eight o’clock Thursday nights. Telling the story of an IT programmer whose body shifted genders at random, it had bypassed the scathing reviews of critics to gain millions of American viewers. Its stars, a brother and sister from a prominent acting dynasty, earned half a million each per episode, enough to support their growing cocaine and OxyContin addictions.

  The sitcom’s current offering, detailing Donner’s attempt to win a beauty pageant as a man, had gone from the TV studio to the uplink station as per usual. From there, it was beamed spaceward, into the antenna of a three-axis stabilized communications satellite.

  The program downlinked back to Earth, where it entered the cable TV network’s dish antenna, for distribution to its many subscribers. Simultaneously, the signal beamed directly to the private dishes of satellite TV subscribers, passing into their televisions’ receivers. This was especially true in the rural areas where cable had yet to gain a foothold.

  While the majority of satellite TV subscribers were able to chuckle along with the intended program, dozens of viewers were subjected to something entirely unsuspected: a face half forgotten, nearly unrecognizable from putrefaction.

  Shera Stevens had been quite the celebrity from the fifties to the
mid-sixties. She’d started out as a department store model, before discovering a latent singing talent and starring in a number of acclaimed Broadway productions. From there, she’d signed to a major film studio for a series of romantic comedies, wherein she’d acted opposite many of the era’s leading men. The last of these was War in Spandex, an insipid piece of fluff she’d practically sleepwalked through.

  As many celebrities do when they grow too timeworn to continue as romantic leads, Shera had slowly drifted out of the public consciousness, eventually retiring from acting. Relocating to Paris, she’d spent her time shopping and learning to paint.

  Still, she grabbed a few more headlines when her body was found outside the Paradis Latin theater—deep in the heart of the city’s Latin Quarter—still bleeding from sixty-seven separate stab wounds. She’d died in the arms of a stranger, gasping blood onto his custom leather jacket. Her purse was intact, still filled with loose currency, and the murderer had never been apprehended. Concerning their identity, speculation still abounded.

  On this night, her dramatic return to viewers’ transfixed retinas, Shera had a few things to say. In fact, she went on a thirty-five minute tirade, bemoaning the state of popular entertainment and issuing a call to action, a plea for studios and actors to reconsider traditional values and well-written repartee. She closed by naming her killer, demanding that he be brought to justice.

  Later, an XBC spokesperson would declare the whole broadcast a joke, one in especially poor taste. He promised that the matter would be investigated and the responsible parties disciplined. No charges were filed against the alleged killer, an eccentric cabaret performer known for feigning epileptic seizures.

  ««—»»

  The next night, minutes before two A.M., hundreds of satellite radio subscribers were treated to a similar experience. Galactic Radio’s ground station beamed its digital data signal up to geostationary satellites as per usual, but something changed the signal as it bounced back down to Earth. Dozens of channels found their programming superseded with the warbling of a long dead rock star.