The Phantom Cabinet Read online

  Thaddeus Constantine, singer and guitarist, had dominated radio and MTV in the late eighties and early nineties. First as part of Avocado Eye Socket, a pop punk quartet, and later as a solo musician, Thaddeus had produced a number of chart-topping singles and platinum-selling records. He’d also played himself in a handful of movies, and recreationally dated models and celebrities.

  His career ended in a trashed Milwaukee hotel suite, amidst a constellation of floor-scattered pills. The overdose of another twenty-seven-year-old rock star had produced quite a media stir, and shot his album sales into the stratosphere.

  On this night, years later, listeners were astounded to hear Thaddeus’ unmistakable stoned drawl pouring from their speakers. When he began playing songs they’d never heard before, many wondered if they were dreaming.

  Instead of a studio band, the dead man sang over ghost voices, aggregated articulations imitating a guitar, bass guitar, keyboard and percussion section.

  While his lyrics had flirted with the topics of death, urban desolation and existential despair during his lifetime, the dead Thaddeus Constantine had a new perspective to share with his listeners. And share he did, delivering a forty-three minute performance so bleak it made Lou Reed’s Berlin sound like the Happy Days theme song. He sang that there was no Heaven, no happy ending for any soul. He sang of the secrets held captive in human hearts, the darkest desires no amount of philanthropy can erase. He sang of abused children, of war atrocities, of self-performed abortions gone wrong. Thaddeus held a stygian mirror up to the human condition, constructed with poetic aplomb.

  By the time Thaddeus thanked his audience, and then allowed the preempted broadcasts to return to par, eighty-nine of his listeners had taken their own lives. Dozens of others went on to commit assorted crimes against humanity—rape and murder being the most prevalent.

  Later, after a recording of his performance was uploaded onto the Internet—to the delight of conspiracy theorists everywhere—the world’s suicide count rose exponentially, along with the number of violent acts committed. Indeed, the porcelain-masked entity’s plan was off to a prodigious start.

  ««—»»

  “Do you feel up to starting your job search today, sweetie?”

  Missy appraised her father—bald, bearded, and seated at the foot of her bed—and tried to smile. “Maybe later, Daddy.”

  With a furrowed forehead, Herbert rose to standing. “You know that your mother and I are here for you, no matter what happens.”

  “I know, Daddy. Thanks.”

  Herbert left the room, taking one last sad look at his bedbound daughter before closing the door. Missy was left alone with her silent guest, invisible to everyone else.

  “What do you want, Gina?” she whispered to the phantom. “Why won’t you leave me alone?”

  White-haired and naked, Gina glowered at her surviving sibling. Blood ran from her slashed arms, disappearing before it struck carpet.

  While they’d never gotten along in life, Missy had never suspected how deep Gina’s hate reservoirs ran. Written across her marble skin was the purest abhorrence, the strongest loathing imaginable.

  Without breaking eye contact, Gina parted the deep gash in her right arm, pulling back epidermis and dermis to reveal the musculature beneath. Whimpering, Missy yanked the covers over her head, hiding the grotesque display.

  ««—»»

  O’Side Video had once been a VHS rental shop, wherein tent-pole studio offerings shared shelf space with lesser-known independent works. Indeed, Douglas had visited the place many times as a child, whenever he could convince Carter to drive him. He still held fond memories of those times, of wandering the aisles and letting his eyes rove over cover art, clues to the films they adorned.

  Later, after Netflix and digital streaming rendered rental shops irrelevant, O’Side Video had shifted into a video retailer, selling the same sort of titles it used to rent out. This allowed the store to survive, and even earn a modest profit.

  Alone in the store, Douglas meandered through aisles of videos, scanning the titles, ensuring that everything was in its proper place. Past romance and horror, new arrivals and used DVDs, he treaded like a sleepwalker, barely conscious of his own actions.

  Familiar beach scenes had been painted across the interior walls: waves, volleyball games, and sunbathers displayed in cartoonish embellishment, reminding each customer that yes, they were still standing in Southern California.

  Back behind the register, racks of candy filled his eye line. Time blinked, and a customer stood before him, clutching a horror DVD and a bag of licorice. Douglas rang up the purchases, counted out the heavyset young man’s change, and bagged the items. Handing them back over the counter, he became aware of the teenager’s overwhelming body odor, a cross between onions and rotting fish.

  “Thanks for stopping by,” Douglas said with false cheer. “We hope to see you back real soon.”

  “We?” asked the teen, glancing over his shoulder. “I don’t see anyone but you here.”

  “It’s just what I’m supposed to say,” Douglas replied with growing impatience. “Let’s not make a thing out of it.” He nodded toward the entrance, silently encouraging a departure.

  And still the guy lingered, his corpulent face smirking, gawking at Douglas as if expecting standup comedy. The arms of his sweatshirt were streaked with dried snot trails, while its shoulders displayed a fine dandruff layer. His complexion was even lighter than Douglas’, a pale, nearly transparent shade of white.

  “Is there something else I can do for you?” Douglas asked pointedly, now fully creeped out.

  Smiling, the customer tapped a forefinger against his bag. “Have you seen this movie yet? It’s so cool.”

  “Yeah, I saw it.” The movie, titled The Toymaker’s Lament, examined the morbid existence of a former toy mogul, now living in a Bavarian castle. Its plot revolved around the toymaker luring visitors to the castle, drugging them, and turning them into half-mechanized playthings.

  Douglas had purchased the feature for himself a couple weeks prior, lured by its cover art and tantalizing back text. He’d been hoping for profound sci-fi horror, but had instead been subjected to a poorly acted piece of torture porn, a tedious exercise in graphic violence. Needless to say, he hadn’t revisited the film since.

  “Remember when the toymaker pulled that guy’s eyeball out and squished it? That must have gone on for five minutes. Man, my mom almost dragged me out of the theater when they showed that. I had to buy her a large popcorn just to calm her back down.”

  “Yeah, I remember. They sure didn’t leave much to the imagination there, did they?”

  “No way, man.”

  With that sad bit of male bonding accomplished, the customer strode out, leaving Douglas alone with his thoughts. Unfortunately, he had nothing new to contemplate, and his deliberations spun in long-familiar orbits.

  Minutes became hours, with the infrequent customers blurring together into one featureless consumer, leaving Douglas craving closing time.

  Yawning, he counted down his last couple minutes of shop drudgery. Normally, Paul, the store’s manager, would be responsible for locking the place up, but he’d bestowed that task upon Douglas, so as to attend to a family emergency. Only a dim sense of moral obligation kept Douglas from checking out early.

  When he heard the little bell above the door tinkle, signifying the entrance of yet another customer, Douglas’ thoughts grew murky. From past experience, he knew that whoever it was would beg him to stay open for just a couple more minutes, which could turn into a half-hour as they methodically perused each title. They’d lay some guilt trip on his shoulders—how it was their son’s birthday and they’d just gotten off work, or maybe that their cat had died and they desperately needed a pick-me-up—and Douglas, being a generally nice person, would pretend that he was in no hurry to get home. Sometimes, he wondered if their claims contained even a grain of truth.

  But the newcomer ignored the aisles, in
stead making a beeline straight to the register. “Hey, Douglas. Remember me?”

  Staring into the olive-complexioned face of Esmeralda Carrere, he tried to hide his astonishment. She’d put on some weight in the few months since graduation, but not in a bad way. Instead, the added twelve or so pounds made her appear more womanly, with wider hips and fuller breasts. Frankly, he’d never found her more attractive. In her low-cut top and skintight slacks, she could’ve been a celebrity on her day off, or maybe some oil mogul’s trophy wife.

  “Hi, Esmeralda. You lookin’ for a movie…or something?”

  “Nah, stupid, I’m here to see you. I heard you were working here, and thought I’d come say hello. Oh, I bought you a present.” From her purse, she pulled a Beanie Baby ghost, a cheerful-looking specter with an orange ribbon around its neck. “I was shopping for my niece’s birthday, and saw this on the shelf. It reminded me of our one conversation, back at Mike’s party. Don’t you just love it?”

  Self-consciously, Douglas stuffed it into his back pocket. “That was…nice of you. I just hope your boyfriend doesn’t find out, and come beat the shit out of me.”

  “Oh, I broke up with Marcus right after graduation. The University of Hawaii offered him a football scholarship, and of course he accepted it. I was proud of him and all, but what was I supposed to do, fly to freakin’ Hawaii every weekend? It would never have worked.”

  “Yeah, it would’ve been tough. Still, I’m sure that Oceanside’s entire straight male population is glad that you’re single again.”

  “The entire straight male population? Does that include you?”

  Breaking eye contact, his cheeks reddening, Douglas nodded.

  “That’s good to know. It makes it easier to tell you my real reason for stopping by. You see, I’ve been thinking about you lately…kind of a lot.”

  “About me? Why?”

  “Oh, come on, Douglas. You have to realize how interesting you are. You see ghosts, for cryin’ out loud, tangible proof of life beyond death. Dude, I came here to ask you out.”

  “On a date?”

  “No, I’m asking you to come out of the closet.”

  “Huh?”

  “Yes, I’m asking you on a date. In fact, you’re the only guy I’ve ever asked out. Usually, it’s the other way around.”

  Failing at nonchalance, he gasped, “Wow…sure, I’ll go on a date with you. Where you wanna go?”

  “You choose the place. This girl likes surprises. Here, give me your hand.” His palm soon sported seven scrawled digits. “This is my cellphone number. Call when you’ve decided when and where.”

  With that, she turned and left the store. Douglas tried to do the honorable thing, and avoid checking out her ass as it swished back and forth, growing ever more distant, but some things are too perfect to ignore.

  After his heart ceased its frantic beating, Douglas locked up, crossed the lot, and climbed into his Pathfinder. Leaving the shopping center, he marveled at his own good luck.

  Out of the blue, a beautiful girl had asked him out. She’d even bought him a present—albeit one he had no real use for. But what inspired this act?

  He suspected that Esmeralda’s actions were due to the influence of some supreme deity, trying to win him over so that he’d make the ultimate sacrifice. He could almost feel this force caressing him, whether Holy Ghost or something else entirely.

  “Nice try,” he told the deity.

  Still, Douglas whistled happily as he drove. At the intersection of Oceanside Boulevard and College Boulevard, he saw a dead gangbanger waiting at the stoplight—complete with a bandana, wife beater, plaid shirt with only its top button buttoned, and tattoos up and down both arms. Between the angle the young man was standing at and his semi-transparency, Douglas could view a lethal bullet’s entry and exit wounds. The gang member’s back was a piece of abstract expressionism, indicating the ravages of a hollow point.

  Douglas waved at the specter, receiving an upraised middle finger in return.

  ««—»»

  12,000 miles above the Earth, slicing the cosmos at 7,000 miles per hour, orbited the Global Positioning System’s two-dozen satellites, each a 2,000-pound behemoth. Through the wonders of triangulation, a GPS receiver swallowed signals sent from these satellites, and used them to determine a user’s exact location. From there, the unit could provide directions to anywhere. At least, that was how it should have worked.

  When a disgruntled spirit bounces around medium Earth orbit, beaming from one GPS satellite to the next at near instantaneous speeds, disequilibrium emerges. Shifting into a spectral signal, an enterprising wraith can corrupt a satellite’s pseudorandom code, as well as its almanac and ephemeris data. When repeated over a group of Global Positioning System satellites, it is possible to weave inaccuracies throughout the system’s reported information—including driving directions. Thus, it came to pass that dozens of vehicles were directed to a rural Minnesota residence, located about an hour west of Minneapolis.

  The dilapidated house—little more than a shack, really—appeared years abandoned, with rotting shingles and walls beginning to cave. On a weed-swallowed lawn, a cross-section of Midwesterners stood perplexed, comparing complaints.

  Eventually, Danny Danforth—a portly fellow buoyed by midmorning Scotch—worked up the nerve to enter. Pushing past moldering furniture and scattered rat feces, he came upon an unfinished basement.

  Inside the basement, Danny found forty-two corpses piled like firewood, accounting for nearly every inch of available floor space. From naked skeletons to early bloat stage corpses, the collection attested to years of serial killings, carried out with frenzied animosity. There were children and geriatrics stacked alongside those taken in life’s prime. Some bore the marks of human teeth; some had been partially dissected. The room reeked of putrescence, and Danny immediately lost his liquid breakfast, splashing brown vomit across the vacant staring eyes of a ragged she-corpse.

  The atmosphere assaulted Danny’s every sense, constricted like a full-body stocking. The room began revolving, like a record on a possessed turntable. It felt as if the corpses were multiplying, their stacks rising to the mold-spattered ceiling. Desperate to escape, Danny backed up, retracing his path to the stairway. Tripping over his own heels, the man’s skull met concrete, blasting his consciousness into dreamless repose. This spared him the sight of one death pile shivering, dislodging a living man from corpse-sandwiched slumber.

  “God’s granted me another gift,” remarked the awakened, rubbing sleep from his reddened eyes. Prodding Danny’s body with a snakeskin boot tip, the bearded man grinned mightily. “He’s a biggun, too, still breathin’ and everything. It’s a good thing he showed up. No way could I have dragged him here.”

  Jonas Fairbanks frolicked amongst his silent friends, pirouetting and skipping through their narrow ranks. His tools were upstairs, in what had once been a kitchen. It wouldn’t do to have his new prize wake prematurely, not when they had hours of fun before them.

  Outside the crumbled structure, a woman now stood, microphone held to her mouth. With her custom-tailored power suit, expertly snipped hairstyle, and well-bleached teeth, Erin Rodriguez looked every inch the reporter, which justified the news camera aimed at her face.

  “Nearly one hundred Minnesota citizens experienced a shock today,” she informed viewers, “after their normally dependable GPS units directed them to this remote location, well beyond the outskirts of Minneapolis. Never in the entire history of the Global Positioning System has such an incident occurred, an occurrence that cannot be explained by normal signal degradation factors such as orbital errors, signal multipath, troposphere delays, and ionosphere delays. While the Department of Defense has yet to comment on this outlandish occurrence, we at XBC News are on hand to speak with befuddled motorists.”

  Mrs. Rodriguez approached a smiling African American man, who swayed gently in a North Face parka. Her standard shallow questioning was interrupted by a commotion from wit
hin the structure.

  Curious onlookers had surged into the residence, shuffling past its sagging, waterlogged door to learn what had become of the absent Mr. Danforth. From within their ranks arose shrieks and excited roars.

  Naturally, the reporter rushed forward, followed by her cameraman. Pushing bystanders from the entryway, they found a feral half-naked lunatic lashing out at the six men surrounding him, defiantly brandishing a large butcher knife. Mottled by rust and dried blood, the blade was no less deadly as it cleaved empty airspace.

  “I’ll kill you all!” Jonas Fairbanks screeched, as yet unaware of the camera’s scrutiny. “You think you can interrupt a man at work, and then depart without consequence? Come to me, my handsome swine!”

  The knife flashed once, flaying cheek and chipping teeth. Jonas cried out in triumph. He punched his newly split-faced victim in the jaw and set upon another, a tall Nordic brawler with his fists raised defensively. The others closed in around Jonas, contracting their positions, rendering escape impossible. The killer harbored no getaway aspirations, however. He was an animal dangerous to corner, and he’d go down as violently as possible.

  A bank clerk named Everett Adams tried to reason with Jonas. “Listen, fella. We have no quarrel with you. Our GPS’ sent us here, and we’re curious as to why. If you’re squatting here, it’s really none of our business. There’s no reason for us to fight.”

  “Lies! Deceptions! You creep into my basement, disturb my mute acquaintances, and then expect not to join their ranks?”

  “Basement? What are you talking about?” asked another man, a bespectacled car dealer named C.J. McMurray. “Is Danforth in the basement? What did you do with him?”