The Phantom Cabinet Page 24

  “Esmeralda,” he whispered in his girlfriend’s ear, spooning her for maximum contact. “Are you awake?”

  “Uh…huh,” she purred drowsily. Then, becoming more alert, she asked, “What is it, Douglas? Don’t tell me you want to go again. I’m sore enough as it is.”

  “No, that’s not it. I was just thinking about the future. Tell me, what would you do if you knew that everything good was about to end, that only terror and death awaited us?”

  “Christ, not this again. Douglas, I love you, but you’re way too morbid. You let that white-masked bitch get into your head; that’s what it is. She’s gone and turned you into a miserable pessimist.”

  “That’s not it, trust me. The porcelain-masked entity is much more than you know. She’s not just taunts and scares. Even with all I’ve told you, there’s one thing I kept to myself, one horrible secret. Esmeralda, I…”

  She pinched his leg savagely. “Save it. I’m getting sick of this martyr complex of yours. You identify with all these doomed characters—Donnie Darko, Edward Scissorhands, Max Renn from Videodrome, even Agent Cooper from Twin Peaks, for cryin’ out loud—and decide that you deserve a similar fate. You let this gloom cloud hang over you, even on your best days. But you don’t need to die alone and misunderstood, Douglas. Just because you’re haunted doesn’t mean you have to act like it. I don’t know what else to tell ya.”

  Silence spun out for a moment—Douglas finding himself genuinely tongue-tied—and then Esmeralda went back on the offensive. “That’s it, Douglas. We’re going to change this outlook of yours, starting today. We’ll go see a movie—a comedy with absolutely no poignant sacrifices—and then I’ll treat you to lunch. Maybe we’ll even hit up Knott’s Berry Farm this weekend. What do you say to that?”

  “Fine,” Douglas sighed, surrendering. He couldn’t remember if he was scheduled to work that day, and found that he no longer cared. “You’ve twisted my arm.”

  ««—»»

  “There’s another one!” Enrique cried, setting his Tecate can down, exasperated. It was still morning, but he’d been drinking for hours already.

  At the edge of his condominium’s tiny kitchen it waited: a clump of compacted dust, lint and hair—shed from both scalp and the body’s lower regions—vaguely resembling a small wooly animal. With practiced efficiency, he retrieved a dustpan from under the sink, scooped the faux critter up, and dropped it into the trashcan, laying it to rest with the rest of its family. “Where do they keep coming from?”

  While he’d know some janitors who let their homes degenerate into messy landfill-esque squalor, unwilling to spray and scrub when off the clock, Enrique had always taken pride in his home’s upkeep. Though his wife remained between jobs, and had little besides meal preparation and television to fill her days with, he continued to devote his off-work hours to simple household tasks. But never, in all his years of cleaning, had he experienced anything like his current dust bunny infestation.

  Three days ago, his wife had set off for a Guadalajara trip, to visit with her family and bid farewell to a dying grandfather. The night of her departure had marked the beginning of his predicament.

  It started in the bathroom. He’d exited the shower to find a clump of filthy fuzz lurking beside the toilet. Exploring his house, he’d discovered more clumps in the kitchen, living room and bedroom. Somewhat bemused, he’d scooped them into the trash and prepared for bed.

  The next morning, there’d been seven fresh arrivals. One had even floated into his bed, resting upon his wife’s pillow like a fugitive hamster. He’d discarded them before leaving for work. Returning, he’d discovered another four.

  That’s how it continued. Any time he left a room unmonitored, a dust bunny or three would emerge. Enrique never saw them forming, and failed to understand how they could coalesce so quickly. He’d filled two entire trash bags thus far, yet the infestation continued. Where all of the dust, hair, lint and spider webs composing the things came from, he had no idea. He’d vacuumed and dusted the entire condo twice…to no effect.

  Is someone breaking in just to leave these things? he wondered. It seemed unlikely, as many of the dust creatures had sprung into existence while he was sitting on his couch, and he kept his windows and doors locked at all times. But no other explanation presented itself, and Enrique’s conspiracy sense was beginning to tingle.

  Something lightly collided with his face, swaying its way down to the floor. Another dust creature, the largest one yet. This one even had a few leaves in it.

  Enrique looked to the ceiling, finding no clue as to the clump’s origin. The drywall was smooth and unbroken, the recessed lights clean. A sudden fear struck him, passing just as fast.

  The back of his throat began to itch, as did his eyes. It seemed that his allergies were acting up again.

  “Great, just great,” he muttered, heading to the bathroom for some Opcon-A. Two drops went in each eye, splish splash. The solution burned, but the itching remained. Maybe he’d be luckier with an allergy pill.

  Blinking to regain his vision, he set off for his bedroom nightstand, where a fistful of Allegras awaited. Immediately, he noticed that the carpet felt wrong.

  When sight returned seconds later, his worst theory stood confirmed. The green carpet was no longer visible. Every inch of flooring had gone gray.

  But that wasn’t even the worst of it. The dust bunnies were likewise affixed to his ceiling and walls, obscuring them entirely, as if he’d installed filthy shag carpeting across every inch of flat surface.

  Whirling around, he saw that his bathroom had also succumbed to the phenomenon. Even the mirror was buried.

  His mind too felt fuzzy, as he fought to retain fear-fueled adrenaline. He knew that he had to leave immediately, to find some impartial observer to confirm that Enrique wasn’t losing his mind. Taking off in a sudden sprint, he tripped over his own two feet, ending up with a face full of filth. Pushing up from the floor, recoiling at the grime sensation against his palms, he noticed teeth in the dust composites, along with dead insects and the bones of small animals.

  His vision blurred, then grew altogether opaque. The well-memorized geography of his condominium became an alien landscape, as he stumbled forward with hands outstretched, seeking a doorknob to freedom.

  The dust conglomerations continued to grow, rising higher and higher, until grimy fluff filled his entire home. Every breath ushered dust into his body, gritty against his throat and sinus passages. If only Enrique could clear his vision.

  Fifty-four minutes passed…

  “Honey, I’m back!” Nayeli called sweetly, plopping her suitcase before the couch. “Did you miss me?”

  She frowned when he failed to reply, having noticed his lowered F-150 in the driveway. “Enrique, are you sleeping? I was worried when you didn’t answer the phone last night. I see that you kept the place nice and clean, though.”

  Nayeli went to check the bedroom. If she found him in bed, she’d crawl in with him, she decided. He’d open his eyes and see his pretty young wife next to him, and know that all was right with the world. Their courtship and marriage had been filled with such moments, enough to offset the occasional burst of insensitivity.

  He wasn’t in bed, but collapsed at the foot of it—unbreathing, palms pressed to his face. Enrique’s normally well-maintained hands were covered in blood and gunge, evidently the result of clawing out his own eyeballs. Sclera and vitreous humor had dribbled down his cheeks like gruesome tears. His mouth still clenched determinately.

  Backing away from the horror, Nayeli voiced a shriek, the first of many.

  ««—»»

  “No, really, I’ll pay for it.”

  “Douglas, I said that today’s excursion is on me. You aren’t trying to make me a liar, are ya?”

  “I’m just wondering how you can afford it. You haven’t even found a job yet.”

  “I still have a little high school graduation money stashed away,” Esmeralda scolded. “Having a large fa
mily does have some benefits, you know. We just need to stop by the bank real quick, and then it’s movie and fine dining time.”

  “What bank do you wanna go to?”

  “Whatever’s closest, obviously.”

  Minutes later, they pulled into the Oceanside Credit Union, settling the Pathfinder before the nearest cash machine. Douglas keyed off the engine, then hopped from the vehicle to open its passenger side door. With his hand on the small of her back, he escorted his girlfriend to the ATM.

  As Esmeralda inserted her card and punched in her personal identification number, Douglas couldn’t help but notice the security camera bubble above the machine. Someone had kissed its polished silver surface, leaving two luscious red lip prints for visitors to contemplate.

  Milton sped down Oceanside Boulevard, his thoughts red lightning in a doom-throbbing cranium. The occupants of every passing vehicle seemed to sneer at him, pointing into his Eclipse and openly mocking him. Faced dead on, they returned to their practiced indifference, but Milton’s peripheral vision revealed the truth.

  Still reeling from Janine’s mental breakdown, he’d spent the morning in traffic court, arguing that he had come to a complete stop at the Temple Heights stop sign the previous month. Of course, the judge had sided with the officer—a self-satisfied fuck by the name of O’Farrell—and now Milton had to come up with $270, plus whatever traffic school cost.

  His next destination was Discount Tire, as the tread on his tires had burned down to less than a millimeter’s width. Another cost that he couldn’t afford, and it was unclear whether his credit card would be able to go the distance.

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, he couldn’t keep his mind off Luella. Her horrible drained face and eternally unblinking eyes violated his thoughts persistently, a symbol of all the world’s injustices.

  Before hitting the tire store, he needed to check his account balance. Hopefully, there was more in there than he thought, enough to see him through the month. Turning onto College Boulevard, he raced to the Credit Union, helpless against mounting aggravations.

  As he cruised for an available parking spot, Milton glimpsed something that necessitated an abrupt braking.

  “It’s him,” he growled, “after all this time.”

  Finally, there was something he could affect. Glad that he’d thought to bring along his revolver, Milton reached under his seat for the Ruger GP100.

  “Remember me, you little faggot?” shouted a voice from behind them. “I betcha thought you’d never see me again, bitch!”

  Esmeralda gasped, as Douglas wheeled around to glimpse a vaguely familiar face, red and pudgy beneath a greying crew cut. Dressed in a faded button-up and oil-stained slacks, the shouter flexed once-powerful muscles, crouching before an idling car.

  Douglas didn’t know where he recognized the guy from, or what he’d done to piss him off. When the man pulled a revolver from his back waistband, Douglas froze, aghast at the situation’s absurdity.

  The faggot has a girlfriend, Milton thought, unaware of the thought’s inherent irony. She’s a pretty one, too, a sexy little Latina. Maybe I’ll toss her in the car after I kill him. I’ll have to leave the country anyway, and a little kidnapping isn’t much when tacked onto a first-degree murder charge. I’ll have to knock her out quickly if I’m to make the getaway, but that pussy’s got to be worth the risk.

  Shifting into a firing stance, Milton assessed the Ruger’s hammer, ensuring that his thumb was clear of it. Slowly, he squeezed the trigger.

  Staring into the revolver’s barrel, Douglas grew curious. He’d tried to kill himself many times already. Would the fuming fellow be able to accomplish what Douglas could not?

  The air chilled. Incoming spectral static made Douglas’ little hairs stand on end. When the hysterical stranger finally triggered his firearm, his actual arm was jerked diagonally, sending the bullet against the bank’s stucco exterior instead of into Douglas’ chest.

  Esmeralda screamed, a shriek echoed by parking lot bystanders. His forehead now creased in confusion, the man fired again.

  The second shot went wild, just as the first had. Something was moving Milton’s arm, some invisible presence whose touch made his skin crawl.

  He fired a third time, only to have the shot penetrate an ATM machine, spraying sparks from its shattered screen. For just a second, he expected a cash tide to gush from the ATM’s dispenser slot, but the device remained miserly.

  Milton knew that the cops would be arriving soon; they’d probably already been called. Only having three rounds of .38 Special left in the chamber, and no time to reload, he decided to fire them all and see what happened. If that failed, he could always bumrush the little bastard and punch him until his face caved in.

  The next shot went into the clouds. Then, without thinking, Milton pointed his weapon at the girl and fired.

  The bullet went through Esmeralda’s right oculus and out the back of her skull, trailing shattered bone and brain matter ribbons, passengers in the plasma splash. Hands splayed imploringly, she collapsed facedown, shattering her nose beyond all salvage. She might have cried out at the impact, but the girl was long past caring.

  The little punk cried out, “Esmeralda!” evidently the bitch’s name. He dropped to his knees beside her, lifting and cradling her body in an awkward embrace.

  Why did I do that? Milton wondered, looking from the lifeless husk to the ATMs behind her, now gore-coated. She was so fucking pretty. What use is a pretty girl with the back of her head blown out? Damn.

  One bullet left, he thought crazily. Then I’m tackling the faggot.

  Douglas saw the man extending his gun arm, and rose to meet him, laying Esmeralda down gently as he pushed himself to standing. His shock segued to anger, furious that the fate long denied him had been shifted upon his lover.

  He met the lunatic’s gaze to see his own anger reflected back. It felt like a high noon showdown, only Douglas was unarmed. He no longer cared about the man’s identity, or his reasons for the assault. Like a rabid dog unleashed, Douglas rushed forward.

  Closing the intervening distance, Douglas saw the man’s arm being nudged rightward, due to obvious spirit intervention. The shot would go wild, as the others had.

  Instead of slamming a fist into the man’s swollen face, as he’d originally intended, a sudden burst of inspiration saw Douglas diving leftward, into the bullet’s new route. Reasoning that the entity couldn’t control both him and the man simultaneously, he saw his chance at finally escaping existence, and didn’t hesitate to take it.

  The gamble paid off. Douglas caught a round of .38 Special to the chest, where it passed through his pericardium, myocardium and endocardium, tearing a lethal hole in his left atrium. Blood meant for vein distribution began pouring into his body cavity, as he hit the cement aslant. In his last few seconds of existence, Douglas’ lips curved into a melancholic smile.

  I did it, Milton thought, amazed. Part of him had anticipated failure, as he’d failed so many times in the past. But there was the punk, dead as VHS, lying in a spreading blood puddle. The puddle grew until it met the girl’s plasma pool, their confluence enlarging into a crimson pond.

  Milton didn’t know why the young man was smiling, or what had affected Milton’s aim. All he understood was the need to flee, as soon as possible, before the cops arrived or some civilian hero confronted him. If he moved fast, he could probably retrieve some essentials from his apartment, drain his account dry at a different bank, and hit the road to Mexico. Hopefully, his worn out tires would be able to handle the trip. Why’s it so dark all of a sudden? he wondered. The sun above was shining bright, yet he’d become shadow-engulfed.

  Then the shade clenched, birthing a woman in a porcelain mask, a shredded figure walking on excoriated feet. The woman stepped to meet him, bruised arms wide for clasping, finger-deficient hands flapping like broken birds. Even the pieces of small intestine floating before her looked ready to enclose him.

  Milton moaned, fe
eling like a toddler left alone in a mausoleum. He stepped backward, wanting to run, but afraid to take his eyes off the demoness for even a second.

  The doorway was closing. The porcelain-masked entity felt her quintessence being dragged back into the Phantom Cabinet, succumbing to its steady gravitation. Her plan stood on the brink of failure due to one unforeseen act of violence, rendering years of careful machinations useless. Freed souls would be pulled homeward now, spiritual recycling the only escape left to them. The entity didn’t even have that to look forward to, adding yet another layer of rage to a being already sculpted from it.

  But the doorway hadn’t closed yet. There was still time, if only scant seconds, for her to intercept Douglas Stanton, to keep his two soul fragments from merging and closing the Phantom Cabinet forever. And so she gave herself over to the afterlife’s pull, pausing only to rip Milton’s head from his shoulders, to bring him into the spirit realm. Regardless of the day’s outcome, she’d be tormenting the man at leisure.

  Milton’s body fell before his idling vehicle. His head rolled to a stop a few feet distant. Twin blood torrents pumped across the parking lot—later to merge with those of the departed couple. Slowly, the shadows unraveled.

  ««—»»

  In a roiling realm of green—not quite gas, not quite liquid, but something evocative of both states—Douglas felt himself divided. The part of him that had always been in the Phantom Cabinet—which he’d inhabited during afterlife excursions—and the portion that had only just departed Earth were suddenly in the same hereafter. Like magnets with opposite poles, the soul halves drew together, but the meanwhile found him experiencing two sets of phantom sensations simultaneously.