The Phantom Cabinet Page 22
“Ooh,” she moaned. “That’s kind of weird.”
“But good, right?”
“Right. But are you sure your dad’s not going to walk in on us? That would make for an awkward first meeting.”
“Don’t worry, he never visits anymore. Now shut up, already. I wanna try something here.”
Slowly, they undressed one another. Clothes fell to the carpet; sexual tension thickened. His muscles were so tight, Douglas felt like he was going to spontaneously combust.
Planting a series of soft kisses, he navigated her body, moving from neck to breasts, abdomen to upper thighs. His fingers gently parted her labia, pushing two digits in and out while his mouth sucked her clit. Esmeralda began writhing upon the mattress, passionately murmuring.
After Esmeralda had shuddered her way through their tryst’s first orgasm, Douglas climbed her body for a little face-to-face. “I forgot to buy a condom,” he confided.
“It’s okay, Douglas. Just pull out before you’re done.”
He eased into a warm wet place—thrusting and bucking, sweat flowing freely. Gaining confidence, he flipped Esmeralda from missionary to doggy style, seamlessly, as if they’d choreographed the whole thing beforehand.
They finished in reverse cowgirl, bouncing at the foot of the bed, Douglas bracing them with planted feet. When he finally came, it was like white lightning, overwriting the universe with pure sensation. It seemed to last forever, yet ended far too soon.
The sheets had pulled up and bunched, revealing a yellowed mattress. Both pillows had been tossed to the floor.
Panting, he turned to Esmeralda.
“Wow, that was…something,” she enthused, smiling sleepily. “No, I’m serious. I mean, yowza. I’ve had some fun, sure, but nothing close to that. It was like a porno where the girl actually enjoys herself. And here I was thinking you’re a virgin.”
“I kind of was,” he confided. “At least, sort of.”
“What do you mean?”
And so Douglas explained the Phantom Cabinet, the best that he could, reclining in their damp love nest.
««—»»
Later, as they slept away exhaustion, the shadows compacted. A cold white mask popped into existence, as it had so many times before.
Slowly, a shadow strand pushed at Douglas’ arm, until it no longer encircled Esmeralda. The covers lifted, and the girl floated away.
Esmeralda opened her eyes to see the ceiling far too close, just inches above her face, like a coffin lid’s interior. She tried to scream, but the encroaching darkness poured into her mouth, pushing wet rot down her esophagus. It was like a high-pressure fire hose blasting decay; her lips couldn’t close against it. Her gag reflex went into overdrive, but the shadows blocked all regurgitation.
The bedroom door swung open with a hinge creak. Douglas remained unconscious, grunting and shifting in his sleep, reclaiming a portion of Esmeralda’s vacant spot. Thrashing and kicking above him, the girl was pulled into the hallway, and then the living room, still precariously levitating.
A perfect white ellipse danced along Esmeralda’s peripheral vision, as her strange abductor began to speak. The hideous choked gurgle was an affront to all decency, like a sulfuric acid victim discoursing as their lips dissolved.
“You can’t have the boy,” it hissed, almost inaudible yet deafening. “He belongs to us. He belongs to me.”
And then Esmeralda was falling, landing upon the tiles in a crumpled heap. Miraculously, her bones survived the fall intact, but her sprained wrist and blossoming bruises would make the next few days uncomfortable.
With the shadows no longer inside her, Esmeralda was finally able to voice her pain, a ragged yelp she was sure would wake Douglas.
The porcelain mask descended, trailing its owner’s mangled body. While the physique stayed mostly shadow-hidden, Esmeralda caught glimpses of a hundred torments: contusions, tears and mutilated flesh—not an inch of unblemished skin visible.
The entity’s shadow shroud sprouted thirteen arms, each wielding a sickle. Moving her gnarled hand remnants like a symphony conductor, she directed the appendages to advance and retreat, flashing their blades just millimeters from Esmeralda’s face.
“Leave this house, and never return. You will have no further contact with Douglas. Forget him, and I will ignore your existence and afterlife. Refuse, and I’ll amputate your body inch by inch, cauterizing each wound to prolong the agony.”
Painfully, Esmeralda pushed herself up, rising on aching, unsteady legs. She was terrified, more so than she’d ever been, but strove to conceal it. Just inches from the porcelain mask—and the raw hamburger face behind it—she stood her ground.
“Listen, you messed up bitch, I’m not going anywhere. You think you can float in here looking like a bargain bin Halloween costume and tell me what to do? Think again. I’m Douglas’ girlfriend, not you. You’re just some kind of dead stalker, one who couldn’t land a Tijuana gigolo if you were wrapped in hundred dollar bills. Douglas doesn’t want you here, so why don’t you leave?”
Even in the darkness of the Stanton home, Esmeralda could distinguish the entity’s shadow shroud from the ordinary midnight blackness. The polymorphous shade curtain seemed darker than a starless galaxy, and Esmeralda had to wonder if it was really there, or was instead being projected to her psychically.
When the shade closed around her—locking Esmeralda in a sheath of glacial anguish, wherein could be heard the skittering of dozens of agitated arachnids—she tried to accept her fate with serenity. If Douglas’ Phantom Cabinet story was true, then her true essence would live on, divided amongst the unborn. She tried to take comfort in that.
“Esmeralda?” inquired a sleepy voice, just outside her cocoon. Suddenly, light shattered the shadows, and Esmeralda found herself standing in a perfectly ordinary living room. No trace of her abductor remained; the room’s temperature had risen dozens of degrees. “What are you doing in here?”
She turned to Douglas, saw his bad case of bed head, and felt all tension evaporate. Her heartbeat slowed, and she even managed a smile.
“I was going for a drink of water, and I guess that I tripped,” she said sheepishly, sheltering her lover from the truth. “I think I hurt my wrist.”
Douglas gently prodded at said joint, wincing sympathetically. “Yeah, it looks pretty bad, what with the swelling and all. Why don’t I take you to see a doctor in the morning? Would that be alright, or do you wanna hit the emergency room now?”
“No, the morning’s fine. The pain isn’t that terrible. In fact, why don’t we go back to bed? I think we’re both ready for a second round of ‘wrestling,’ don’t you?”
Douglas reached to grasp her left buttock. “You think you can manage it?” he asked.
“We’ll find out soon enough.”
««—»»
MEDIA SNIPPETS:
“A violent skirmish occurred on the Gaza border this morning, with casualties said to number in the thousands. In a battle lasting just over two hours, gunfire segued into rocket and mortar attacks, leaving corpses piled high on both sides of this ever-troubled boundary. When pressed for comment, the Palestinians and Israelis each blamed the conflict on incendiary televised remarks made by the other side, although we’ve yet to uncover this footage.”
“Responding to a flurry of neighbor complaints, police arrived at the residence of Terry Lowen, retired Colorado construction worker. According to eyewitness reports, the reclusive octogenarian had recently purchased dozens of satellite radios for his home, which he’d blasted at full volume, day and night, each tuned to a different station. When questioned for motive, the man replied that he was listening to the voices of the damned, hearing tales of the long-forgotten dead. Sounds like someone is ready for assisted living, wouldn’t you say, Erin?”
“Ignore my race and gender. Those are just trappings, of little consequence. Know that I am Christ your Lord, now arisen. Have I not returned from death itself, to bequeath wisdom upon man
kind entire? Heed these words, my children, and rejoice.”
“In a surprising turn of events, Investutech has announced that it will cancel next month’s highly anticipated unveiling of the Driverless SUV, eliciting disappointment from consumers worldwide. The statement was made at this morning’s press conference, just weeks after the company’s prototype vehicle ended up 400 miles off-course, parked in the living room of a Rhode Island couple, one still reeling from the overdose of their college freshman son. Citing problems with the SUV’s GPS system, the company spokesman reported that Investutech expects to have all bugs worked out within a year or two.”
««—»»
The next afternoon, following a visit to Tri-City Medical Center, Douglas pulled into the Carrere driveway, to idle beside an old station wagon. The house was small but immaculate, freshly painted with a well-groomed lawn.
“Well, I guess I’ll see you later,” he said shyly.
“Count on it,” she replied. Hopping from the vehicle, she turned and waved, displaying an ACE bandage-wrapped wrist. With an air kiss, she bade him farewell.
Douglas sighed. Driving home, he couldn’t help but notice the smiling faces of his fellow motorists, the joyful games of neighborhood children. The sky was cloudless, the sun bright and virile. Something had shifted within him, something for which he had no name. He felt strangely contented, happier than he’d ever been. Moments later, the feeling was supplanted by melancholy, as he realized he’d made a decision.
“Goddammit, Frank,” he muttered, wondering if the dead astronaut could even hear him. “I’ll do it.”
— | — | —
Chapter 12
“You still with me, Emmett?”
“Nuh…huh…yeah, I’m with ya.” Emmett was on his balcony now, sitting in an old beach chair, squinting into the sunlight. His view was of traffic, an endless stream wherein a handful of vehicles seemed to recycle over and over again. Perhaps if he purchased a telescope, he’d see drivers’ faces likewise recurring.
“Almost done, buddy. Don’t fade out on me now.”
“I won’t,” Emmett replied automatically, trying to shake his stupor.
“Now…where did we leave off? That’s right, Douglas had finally decided to kill himself. Cliché, right?
“Because of true love’s power, Douglas agreed to sacrifice himself for all humanity, or at least for Esmeralda. Give me a fuckin’ break. Dude gets his first real piece of pussy and he’s ready to call Dr. Kevorkian? You saw it coming from a mile away, I’m sure.
“Still, he was now determined to die, the sooner the better. And all kidding aside, how else could his story end? This tale’s been a threnody all along.
“So…yeah, Douglas had self-murder on the mind. All he needed was a method. Sometimes, though, suicide isn’t as simple as it seems…”
««—»»
Douglas took the rope, tied carefully in a hangman’s knot—created from surprisingly accessible Internet instructions—and lobbed it over the thick garage crossbeam. He adjusted the rope until the noose hung at the desired height, and then tied its trailing end to his father’s massive standing toolbox.
“That should do it,” he grumbled.
After much consideration, Douglas had selected hanging as his self-execution method. He’d been listening to a lot of Joy Division lately, and going out like its troubled lyricist held a certain appeal. If he’d followed the instructions correctly, his neck would snap instantly, and he’d be entering the Phantom Cabinet without any undue suffering.
He’d taken Esmeralda to Black Angus earlier in the evening, and still wore the stained button down, loafers and slacks he’d donned for that meal. His hair was immaculately combed, and he’d even bothered to brush his teeth, although he had no idea why. By the time it was discovered, his body would most likely have emptied its bladder and bowels, anyway, so why worry about pearly whites?
Esmeralda had flirted with him all evening, seeming genuinely upset when he’d rebuffed her offer to sleepover, claiming an upset stomach. Part of him had been screaming for one last caress, one more night of gasping and thrusting. But he knew that one more night could easily lead to another, until it was too late to stop his porcelain-masked overseer. So he’d walked her on up to her door, kissed her cheek, and then said what only he knew was his last farewell.
He pulled a chair under the noose and climbed atop it. Slipping the rope ring around his neck, he found it to be coarse and itchy. Still, it wouldn’t be an inconvenience for long.
Douglas remembered an afternoon in the high school gymnasium—the hanged man’s ghost dangling above the bleachers—and vowed to accept his death. It wouldn’t do to spend centuries tethered to a phantom noose. That wouldn’t do at all.
An old CD player blared tunes from one web-shrouded garage corner. Its blown-out speakers distorted each track, but the sound quality didn’t matter. He’d read that Ian Curtis had listened to Iggy Pop’s The Idiot before doing the deed, and figured that music might ease his own transition.
Douglas had tried to choose the perfect album to cap off his existence, something that correlated with his own history, and expressed the bittersweet feelings now engulfing him. Nothing met these aspirations, so he’d instead settled upon an old favorite: Pixies’ Bossanova. Currently, “All Over the World” was playing.
“Goodbye,” he said, an all-encompassing statement directed to everyone he’d ever met, everything he’d ever seen. One step was all it would take, just one little step. The chair would clatter to the floor, and he’d perform the danse macabre for an audience of none. Lifting his right foot, he began to take that step.
“Hold up just a second, Douglas.”
And there was Frank Gordon, still in his gleaming EMU. Were those tears behind his visor, cascading down long-dead cheeks? In the gloom, it was hard to be certain, but Douglas thought he glimpsed lachrymae.
“Come to see me off?” he asked sarcastically. “Or maybe you wanna apologize for pretending to be my friend all those years.”
Gordon drifted closer, until they were eye-to-eye. “That’s not fair,” he intoned. “I’ve always been your friend. Is it my fault that you have to die for humanity? I didn’t create your destiny. Do I need to quote Spock’s ‘needs of the many’ speech for you, or what?”
“You don’t have to convince me, dumbass. I’m seconds away from a broken neck, aren’t I?”
“It certainly appears that way.”
“So let’s make this quick, yeah? Tell me why you’re here, and then leave me be. You don’t get to watch this part.”
“If that’s how you want it, fine. I came here to drop a little advice before you enter the Phantom Cabinet, so listen up. I know you think you understand its operations, but you’ve never completely entered the afterlife. Not actually being dead, you were always more of a tourist, navigating through the piece of spirit you left behind at birth. But this time, your complete essence will be pulled within the spirit realm, leaving you vulnerable.
“Don’t let it take you, Doug, not before you close the thing back up. The very second you enter the Phantom Cabinet, spectral foam will wash over you, like a wave built from static. You’ll feel yourself dissolving into it, but you have to resist the process. It’ll pick apart every facet of your personality if you let it, recycling them to create more schmucks. I’m not even sure how much of my original soul is speaking to you right now.
“I’m ready to let go, Douglas. I’ve been clinging to this memory form for far too long, and it just doesn’t fit me anymore. I have a few ghosts left to talk to, and then I’m gone. But my components will return to Earth eventually, so don’t fuck this up. All the people I’ll be part of are counting on you.
“I’d like to shake your hand, Douglas. At times, you were almost like a son to me, and I’d hate to leave things as they are between us—not when we’ll never see each other again.”
Douglas’ eyes went watery. He’d have to finish their discussion quickly, before the tears
started spilling. He didn’t want to go out looking like a crybaby.
“Can you even shake hands, or will my fingers pass through you?”
“I should be able to solidify for a moment.”
“Then let’s get it over with, already.”
They shook.
“I’m proud of you, buddy. I know this wasn’t an easy choice to make. Few people have the strength of character to do what you’re doing. Very few. I’m glad my fallback plan never came to fruition.”
“Fallback plan?”
Ignoring this last question, Frank disappeared in a burst of green vapor. “Good luck,” called his disembodied voice, before that too evaporated. Douglas was alone again, still with a rope around his neck.
“Bye, Frank,” he practically sobbed, overcome with emotion, as he finally stepped off the chair.
There was a snap, but not the one he’d been expecting. Douglas landed ungracefully upon his backside, unharmed beyond a rattled disposition.
Inspecting the snipped rope, he realized that the strands had been severed too cleanly, as is cut by invisible scissors. Some entity had acted in his favor, and he suspected that he knew which one.
“You can’t stop me forever, you white-masked cunt.”
««—»»
Subsequent days brought further frustration. Try as he might, Douglas couldn’t shed his existence. Ignoring Esmeralda’s calls—thus avoiding needless complications—he ran the gamut of suicidal strategies.
He swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills, only to have them fly back out of his mouth, undissolved. He took a shower, and then stuck a fork into a wall socket without bothering to towel off. Just before the utensil struck electricity, the power went out, each of the fuses having blown out simultaneously.