The Phantom Cabinet Page 3
Emmett jammed the headphones into his ears, and began scanning the stations. Nineties alt-rock segued into jazz. Commercial rap morphed into insipid pop. Still Emmett pressed forward, searching for something new, something worth devoting an hour to. As he scanned, he wandered his apartment.
“And that was The Olivia Tremor Control with ‘California Demise,’” enthused the radio personality on the latest station. The DJ’s voice seemed off somehow, like a woman pretending to be a man. But the tail end of the song had left Emmett’s interest piqued, and thus he listened on.
“A fantastic tune from a fantastic band. And believe me, we know bands here at Radio PC. We’ll hit you with another block of mad melodies soon enough, but first I’d like to share a special tale with you, my loyal listener.
“You see, there once was a boy named Douglas Stanton. Little Dougie was a special child, a child who entered existence during Oceanside’s famous poltergeist panic.”
Emmett’s mouth dropped open, and he nearly spilled his beer. Hearing Douglas’ name brought his perambulation to a halt.
They’d been friends once, throughout their elementary and middle school years, wasting endless hours in meaningless childhood pursuits. But they’d drifted apart prior to high school, and Emmett had no idea what had become of his erstwhile cohort.
“You probably remember the story: a newborn was strangled by his mother, yet somehow returned to life at the end of an apparition outbreak. It was all over the news, and remains a tabloid favorite nearly two decades later. It’s the reason that a multimillion-dollar medical center now stands vacant, its staff having migrated to facilities all across Southern California.
“In the weeks following the event, Oceanside Memorial was investigated by a steady stream of government spooks, from the FBI to NTAC. After this proved inconclusive, a team of psychics and postcogs swept the premises. Their impressions were shared with few, and many of these so-called experts have since taken their own lives. A flurry of lawsuits followed the paranormal outburst, and many of the day’s survivors found fame discussing their ordeals in newspapers, magazines and televised interviews.
“One man would have nothing to do with the media feeding frenzy. Instead, Carter Stanton kept his son barricaded in their Calle Tranquila home. He quit his job, and would not return to employment until little Douglas entered preschool. Carter kept the child away from his mother, who’d been sent to Milford Asylum, an Orange County psychiatric facility.
“In fact, Carter secluded the boy from all extended family, kept him in their house at all times, save for infrequent doctor visits. On the rare times when Carter left the house for any task longer than a grocery run, he called a babysitting service, never hiring the same girl twice.
“The sitters would be fine when he left, but always white-faced and shell-shocked upon his return, if they’d remained at all. Not that Douglas was a bad child, mind you. Quite the opposite. The boy never cried, never did much of anything but stare at the mobile hanging above his crib, a rotating exhibit of stars and comets.
“No, what frightened the girls was the persistent ghost activity: unexplained thumping behind the walls, objects flying off of shelves, voices in the ether. One sitter glimpsed her great aunt in the bathroom mirror, her face obscured by grave mold, but that was as bad as it ever got in the child’s early years.
“Now Carter Stanton was no fool. He may have retreated deep within himself, and given up on most of life’s little joys, but he knew a haunting when he saw one. Still, the apparitions seemed more mischievous than evil, unlike the ghouls from the hospital. And something had brought his boy back from death, after all. Maybe the specters were keeping him alive in some nebulous way, ensuring that his heart pumped and his neurons connected.
“But sometimes the man wondered, particularly when baby Douglas’ first word turned out to be ‘Gresillons,’ which were ancient torture devices used to squash toes and fingertips. Somehow, Carter doubted he’d picked that up from a babysitter.”
««—»»
“Hey, Ghost Boy, my dad says you’re possessed. Is that true?”
Douglas looked up from his peanut butter and banana sandwich, one hand shielding his eyes from the sun. Seven-years-old now, he sat at the bottom of Campanula Elementary School’s long metal slide, peering up at his antagonist, Clark Clemson. Clark’s two gangly cohorts stood beside him, licking their lips in anticipation.
Douglas looked from the playground to its adjacent lunch tables, searching out someone in authority, finding all adults conspicuously absent. He’d hoped to pass his lunch break unnoticed, but the bully had again singled him out.
“I’m not possessed,” he sighed, knowing that Clark wouldn’t let it go at that.
“Then why’s your momma gone crazy? I heard she’s locked away in a nuthatch, and they ain’t never gonna let her out.” Clark’s beady eyes narrowed; his body twitched with restrained violence. Above a face rapidly reddening, his crew cut sparkled with sweat.
Douglas—a thin, dark-haired boy in secondhand clothes—kept his mouth fastened. The last time he’d talked back to Clark, he’d gone home with a split lip. Lowering his gaze to his sandwich, he wondered if it was safe to take a bite.
“Look at me when I talk to you, freak!” Clark had moved closer; his right forefinger hovered accusingly before Douglas’ face.
Douglas refused, provoking Clark to slap the sandwich from his grip. After kicking much sand atop it, the bully led his cronies away. All in all, Douglas knew he’d gotten off lightly.
««—»»
From her classroom window, Catherine Gonzalez watched Douglas trudge from the slide to the swing set, whereupon he soon hung dejectedly. No child joined him on the playground; the school’s enrollees had been conditioned to avoid him by peers and parents alike. Aside from the intermittent bullying, no one said a word to Douglas.
And Catherine was just as guilty as the rest of them. As his teacher, she’d addressed the child only when absolutely necessary, had purposely “forgotten” to contact Carter Stanton when scheduling parent-teacher conferences.
A matronly woman in her early fifties, Catherine had been teaching at Campanula Elementary School for the better part of three years, driving over from Vista every work morning. She enjoyed commuting to the institution, located just off Mesa Drive, about halfway between North Santa Fe Avenue and the Pacific Ocean. She liked that its student population was relatively minute: less than two hundred kids spread across six grades. She adored her children, especially the way their faces lit up after solving difficult problems.
But Catherine didn’t like Douglas. Every time she got near him, she caught a chill, leaving the little hairs on her arms and neck standing in petrification. It was like walking alone into an empty tomb.
As she watched, the child began to swing, his pendulum motion taking him higher and higher. Strangely, he remained statue-still, moving without pumping his legs.
««—»»
Turning onto Calle Tranquila, Carter maneuvered his battered Nissan Pathfinder toward their box-shaped single-story home, lurking just after street’s bend.
For a moment, the shadows shifted in such a way that Carter perceived black fungi enveloping the residence. A single blink returned its smooth stucco exterior. The plantation shutters were drawn, but light seeped out through the slats, informing Carter of his son’s presence.
The family’s savings being long since depleted, Carter had returned to work, this time gaining employment as an air conditioner engineer. At all times of day, Carter serviced and installed Investutech brand air conditioning systems, visiting businesses and residences throughout San Diego County.
Oftentimes, Carter left for work before his son awoke, as many jobs required early starts. Similarly, he usually returned after had Douglas finished his school day. It was fortunate that their home was only a quarter mile from Campanula Elementary, and Douglas didn’t mind walking.
There were no babysitters anymore; the previous child-
minders had gossiped their household into oblivion. Agencies had been warned against the Stantons, and the odious neighborhood spinsters wouldn’t even make eye contact with Carter anymore. So Douglas had become a latchkey kid, learning to prepare his own meals and find his own amusement.
In the attached garage, Carter pressed the clicker, commencing the mechanical door’s track-guided descent. For just a moment, he fantasized about leaving the vehicle running, letting its exhaust pull him gently into extinction. Instead, he passed a palm over his ever-expanding bald spot, and keyed off the ignition.
Stepping into the house, Carter heard the familiar sound of his heels slapping travertine tiles. He heard something else, as well. Douglas was speaking, his comically high-pitched voice rising in excitement.
“…and then Superman punched out Braniac, while Lois Lane and Jimmy Olsen covered the story for The Daily Planet.”
In the living room, Carter found his son sprawled across their upholstered yellow couch. Studying a comic book intently, the boy didn’t notice his father until the man cleared his throat.
“Hi, Dad.”
“Hello, Son. Whom were you speaking to just now?”
“Oh, that’s my friend, Frank. He’s an astronaut.”
“An astronaut, huh? Shouldn’t he be in space then, rather than listening to tales from your funny book?”
“He can’t fly anymore, Dad. He’s dead.”
Carter shivered. Whether this Frank was an imaginary friend or a poltergeist, he had no idea. But at least the guy was friendly, unlike some of the other visitors Douglas had entertained, presences that left the child lachrymose under a bed sheet barrier.
“Well, you just tell Frank to leave you alone now. I’m making Cajun-style salmon for dinner, and you get to help.”
“Alright!”
««—»»
With dinner finished, Douglas brushed his teeth and prepared for bed. Upon entering his room—its walls covered in X-Men and Green Lantern posters—he found the top drawer of his dresser ajar. As if self-aware, a pajama top flew out from its depths, landing across Douglas’ shoulder.
“Frank, is that you?” The question went unanswered, signifying a different presence.
Douglas trailed many spirits in his wake, but only Commander Gordon had proven a decent conversationalist. When the rest bothered to speak, it was to whine about their hollow existences, to plead for aid Douglas was unable to provide. Some spoke not at all; others moaned unintelligibly. Generally, the presences were content to remain invisible, but sometimes their translucent figures could be glimpsed at vision’s edge. Occasionally, one would manifest upon a reflective surface, hollow eyes inside a face of white clay.
“Too little, too little,” an ancient voice whispered in his ear.
Douglas didn’t bother requesting clarity. Wringing a rational conversation from a despondent shade was tiresome, and the boy had school in the morning. Dressed for slumber, he lost himself in a blanket cocoon.
««—»»
Vinyl covered foam rumbled beneath him, as the school bus thundered down the street. Children screamed from all sides, but Douglas spoke not. No one sat beside him, and the girls across the aisle—Missy Peterson and Etta Williams—shot him strange looks as they whispered back and forth.
They were visiting Old Mission San Luis Rey for a fieldtrip, to explore the site’s historic church and view a multitude of artifacts spanning the area’s history, from the Luiseño Indians to the 20th century Franciscans. Mrs. Gonzalez had been hyping the excursion for weeks, and Douglas hoped that the experience would live up to her verbal publicity.
Splat! A spitball slapped the back of his neck, leaving Douglas shuddering in revulsion. He turned around to see Clark Clemson looming over the seat, biting down on a striped straw.
“What’s wrong, Ghost Boy? Did a spook try to give you a hickey?” This brought a laugh from Clark’s seatmate, a hoarse bray exclusive to Milo Black. “Just wait until we get to the Mission. I bet an Injun ghost tries to scalp ya.”
With Mrs. Gonzalez at the bus’ anterior, her gaze carefully focused upon traffic, Douglas’ hopelessness grew palpable. Just once, he wished that someone would stick up for him, but his fellow students either ignored the situation or leaned forward expectantly, their ghoulish faces lit with violent fantasies.
“What did I ever do to you, Clark? Why can’t you leave me alone for once?”
Clark let the question slide off him. Instead, he leaned forward and flicked Douglas in the temple. As he laughed, hot breath washed over Douglas, breath so malignant it spoke volumes about the bully’s oral hygiene.
“Here, let me through,” Clark said to Milo, and suddenly he was sharing Douglas’ seat. The larger boy imprisoned Douglas in a tight headlock, which lasted until they reached the Mission.
««—»»
Irwin Michaels stared at his television in agony, his sinuses swollen to the point where every breath was tribulation. Wadded tissues surrounded his pullout couch nest, wherein he reclined befuddled, periodically sipping tepid Sprite.
On Saved by the Bell, the gang had formed a band called Zack Attack, a pop group currently performing its smash single, “Friends Forever.” But Irwin hardly gave a damn, being too busy cursing his malady.
And it just had to happen on field trip day, he thought to himself. I could be hanging out with Clark and Milo right now, goofing on that little fruit, Douglas. Clark mentioned that he had a special surprise lined up for Ghost Boy after school, and now I have to miss it.
The program segued to commercials. Looking up, Irwin glimpsed something that slashed through his feverish thoughts, making him wish he wasn’t home alone. There was a shadow on the wall, just above the television, one cast by nothing present. It formed the outline of a tall skinny man, improbably wearing a top hat.
Irwin shivered, his already pale face growing several shades lighter. His mother had warned him to go easy on the cough medicine, but she’d never mentioned hallucinations.
The shadow left the wall, gliding across Berber carpet. Merrily, it capered toward immobile Irwin.
“Stop,” he demanded feebly, a command ignored by the presence. Cavorting joyously, it drew ever nearer. As the shadow fell across him, Irwin’s ragged yell dissolved into a wet gurgle.
Later, after the pathologist completed his autopsy, it was determined that Irwin’s death was caused by a massive stroke, the result of a previously undiscovered temporal lobe aneurism. Of what had turned the child’s hair completely white, the physician offered no explanation.
««—»»
Shaking with impotence and restrained enmity, Douglas entered his home, his face a gummy mess of eggshells and half-dried yoke, through which tear tracks steadily streamed. Snot trickled from his nostrils, adding to the disarray of the boy’s countenance.
The field trip had been interesting, if a little dry. His class toured the site’s lavanderia, quadrangle and church, and then the ruins of the Mission’s barracks. They’d observed a number of artifacts and art pieces spanning California’s history, of which the vivid oil paintings of Leon Trousset and Miguel Cabrera had most impressed him.
Only the cemetery had troubled Douglas, from the skull and crossbones carved into its entrance to the disturbing whispers he’d heard drifting from the Franciscan crypts. The place had sent shivers down his spine—too many ancient specters struggling to make themselves known.
No, the trip to Old Mission San Luis Rey had turned out just fine, all things considered. His misery stemmed from after school.
To make it back to his home’s comforting confines, Douglas traversed two paved hills, passing cul-de-sacs and crosswalks along the way. Walnut trees loomed leftward for much of his journey, marking the beginnings of ice plant-covered slopes, ascending to the fenced-in backyards of still more neighborhoods.
Douglas had been whistling softly to himself, moving ever closer to his humble abode, when his vision was suddenly obscured by the inside of a brown paper bag. Pulled tig
htly over his head by an unseen assailant, the bag was not empty. Oval-shaped objects had pressed his skull from all corners, shattering from outside blows to ooze slowly down his face.
When Douglas was released, and allowed to pull the soaked bag off his cranium, he’d glimpsed the giggling faces of Clark and Milo staring back devilishly.
“See ya later, dickhead,” bellowed Clark, as they’d sauntered away.
At that moment, standing shivering in the midday sun, Douglas experienced a succession of violent fantasies, wherein he mutilated his tormentors beyond all recognition. He’d wanted to run after them, to tackle Clark to the ground, and bash his head against the pavement until brains dribbled from a bifurcated skull. Instead, Douglas had run home sobbing, pierced by the stares of passing motorists.
Screaming in rage, Douglas slammed his backpack to the floor. He twisted the shower into life, setting it to scalding, wanting to punish himself for his history of cowardice.
After suffering his way through a scorching liquid deluge, Douglas toweled off and climbed into fresh clothes. Gradually, he became cognizant of a living room noise.
“Dad? Is that you?”
There came no reply, so Douglas cautiously tiptoed down the hallway, fearing the appearance of a masked burglar, or maybe Clark. Instead, he encountered an empty living room, wherein the television had been switched on, as had Douglas’ Nintendo gaming system. The noise he’d heard resolved into the bouncy Super Mario Bros soundtrack.
A controller floated fourteen inches above the tile. Douglas watched it maneuver an Italian-American plumber all throughout Mushroom Kingdom, pelting Goombas and Koopa Troopas with fireballs along the way. The controller seemed to be operating without human input, but when Douglas turned his head, he saw a small boy in the corner of his eye.