The Phantom Cabinet Page 4
The boy was chalk-white and emaciated, his ragged sweater covered in sludgy brown stains. He appeared captivated with the task before him, and Douglas felt his own rage slipping away as he surreptitiously observed his visitor.
Eventually, Douglas moved to the boy’s immediate proximity. Sitting cross-legged upon the tile, he watched the dead child traverse his avatar through one horizontal landscape after another. The presence made his skin tingle, caused the little hairs on Douglas’ arms to stand at attention, but he remained unafraid.
At last, when the task of overcoming Bowser had proven too difficult for the young specter, Douglas snatched the remote from open air.
“Here, let me show you how it’s done.”
««—»»
That night, as he drifted off to sleep, Douglas heard voices in his mattress: high-pitched squeaks, almost intelligible. They frightened him profoundly, although he wasn’t clear why. The vocalizations were hardly his first messages from the great beyond, yet these voices held a sinister quality that caused his brain to clench.
Douglas felt that if he could understand them, the voices would reveal terrible truths: eldritch data that would shift the whole planet into an alien wasteland. They pursued him into dreamland, babbling in nefarious dialects.
««—»»
“Hey, your name’s Douglas, right?”
Squinting, he appraised a chubby bespectacled stranger. It being lunchtime, Douglas was seated at his customary position at the slide’s terminal point. Realizing that he wasn’t alone, he immediately tensed, expecting a sudden smack to the head or milk carton shower.
“Yeah, that’s me,” he replied warily.
“Cool. I’m Benjy Rothstein. And this here is my best friend, Emmett.”
The boy with the unfortunate red cowlick stepped aside, allowing a skinny African-American to move forward.
“Hey, how you doing?” Emmett asked.
Douglas grunted out a reply, his eyes manifesting misgivings. Benjy paid this mistrust no mind, however, calmly removing his horn-rimmed glasses and breath-fogging the lenses. Cleaning them with the bottom of his checkered shirt, Benjy remarked, “Anyway, we’re in the other second grade class, and we noticed that nobody likes you.”
Face reddening, Douglas said nothing.
“No, don’t get me wrong. We just think it’s weird that a perfectly good playground goes unused, just because you may or may not have been born in a haunted hospital.”
Douglas took a bite of his celery, realizing from Benjy’s jovial tone that there’d be no attack.
“Yeah, everyone acts like you’re a zombie, or something,” chimed in Emmett. “You’re not going to attack me, are you?”
“No,” Douglas replied, still chewing.
“Cool, then we’re gonna hit the swings.”
Douglas watched the two seat themselves, and begin gaining altitude. Their uninhibited laughter drew him from his stasis, and soon he found himself swinging alongside them. The swing set rocked in its foundations as they kicked their way skyward, while sunrays beat sweat from their pores.
The bell sounded, pulling them from their daydreams, back into dusty classrooms crammed with diminutive desks and chairs. As they branched into separate directions, Benjy turned to Douglas and said, “Hey, Emmett and I are hitting the mall after school. You wanna come?”
“Sure…I guess,” replied Douglas. He’d never been to a mall before, and envisioned a cross between a theme park and a Wal-Mart awaiting him.
“Cool. Meet us in front of the school when class gets out.”
««—»»
While the reality of the shopping center proved more mundane than he’d expected, Douglas treasured his time therein.
After a tense ride into Carlsbad, during which Benjy’s morbidly obese mother repeatedly shot Douglas ugly looks, the children were turned loose inside the air-conditioned confines of the Westfield Plaza Camino Real Mall. They wandered the place aimlessly, drifting from one store to another. They ate at Hot Dog on a Stick, rode the glass-walled elevator up and down for a half-hour straight, perused the funny birthday cards at Spencer’s Gifts, and claimed a bench whereupon they could spy on escalator passengers. Leaving the bench, the trio made up stories about the goths at Hot Topic while gorging at The Sweet Factory. By the time they were retrieved two hours later, they had exhausted every avenue of adventure the establishment offered.
Returning home, Douglas glimpsed something in the window adjacent to his front door. Twisted faces had formed in the condensation, their dribbling outlines revealing visages stretched in torment. Douglas gasped audibly, stomach clenching at the sight. But Benjy’s mother had already pulled away, leaving him no choice but to enter, shivering as he crossed the threshold.
“Dad!” he called out hopefully, but no reply greeted him. His father was out, most likely wrist-deep in some malfunctioning air conditioner. And so, stomach still reeling from his food court binge, Douglas opted to rinse off the day’s accumulated grime.
The shower featured a large window overlooking the backyard. It was high enough that no inquisitive neighbor would catch a glimpse of Douglas’ privates, yet low enough that he could peer out as he washed. At first, Douglas feared that the ghoulish faces had moved to this window, but it remained unblemished. Reassured by normalcy, he indulged in a leisurely shower, mentally replaying the day’s events.
It seemed that Douglas had friends now, flesh and blood friends who actually enjoyed his company. He wasn’t sure how it happened, but the prospect of another school day now seemed somewhat tolerable. At lunchtime, he would meet up with Emmett and Benjy again; maybe they’d hang out after school.
Then his friends were forgotten, as the soothing downpour grew frigid. While his view should have revealed only a dead grass stretch enclosed by weatherworn fence planks, the backyard had manifested myriad spirits. They stood like transparent statues, freezing him with ravenous glances. Each bore evidence of advanced decay; some were hardly more than skeletons. Neither moving nor speaking, they watched him, glowing faintly against the night’s blackness.
It being the first time spirits had manifested in his direct line of vision, Douglas found himself unable to move. He was afraid to let them see his fear, which might encourage a spectral home invasion. Instead, he’d towel off, and find a safer spot to await his father’s return.
He had just begun drying himself when the power suddenly went out. Terror vibrations grew overwhelming, bringing tears silently trickling. Wrapping the towel around his waist, Douglas tried to exit the bathroom. No such luck. The door was stuck in its jamb, and no amount of struggling could coax it open.
In complete darkness, he strained against the door. The luminescent backyard figures loomed foremost on his mind, with the room’s rapidly plummeting temperature attesting to their closing proximity. Soon, whispers crammed his earshot, an ever-shifting susurrus: dozens of voices muttering simultaneously.
Generally, the murmur mosaic remained unintelligible, but the scant few articulations he could make out wrung hoarse sobs from Douglas’ diaphragm. They spoke of the graveyard’s everlasting chill, promising Douglas that his current loneliness would hardly compare to what he’d feel upon becoming discorporate. Some could only cry in abject misery.
The voices grew louder, until deafening screams rebounded throughout his makeshift prison. Objects flew from the medicine cabinet: toothbrushes, pill bottles, shaving cream, hair gel and toothpaste. They swirled overhead, gripped by a phantasmal hurricane, as Douglas beat his hands bloody against the door.
At last, when Douglas’ screams had become indistinguishable from the greater cacophony, the door swung open, knocking him onto wet tile. Wasting not a second, he crawled from the bathroom, and forced himself to appraise his savior.
A figure stood before him, dressed in a bulky white space suit. Through the garment’s visor, Douglas glimpsed a broad-faced man with a wide flat nose. The astronaut smiled beneficently, as the bathroom screams trickled away into
insignificance. The flying detritus crashed to the floor, and silence returned to the Stanton home.
“Frank, is that you?” Douglas asked, having known the astronaut only as a disembodied voice.
“Commander Frank Gordon at your service. It’s good to finally look you in the eyes, Douglas.”
“Wha…what just happened? I thought I was going to die in there.”
“The spirits are growing stronger, and it’s all because of you,” Gordon replied. “Now get dressed, boy. We have much to discuss.”
««—»»
After some minor hyperventilation, Douglas found himself seated upon his mustard-colored couch, clutching a glass of orange juice between frigid fingers. Frank Gordon levitated before him, toes six inches above the floor.
“You said these ghosts are my fault. What do you mean?” Douglas asked bluntly.
“I didn’t say they’re your fault. I said that they’re here because of you. Now sip your juice quietly, boy, and I’ll spin you a story.”
After a dramatic pause, Gordon began: “You see, Douglas, when an individual dies, their soul ends up in this place; let’s call it the Phantom Cabinet. The Phantom Cabinet is a strange place: a realm of spectral mists, a desolate land sculpted of spirit static. Inside of it, one’s essence floats, encountering other souls and soul fragments as it travels.
“With every spirit encountered, the deceased is bombarded with details of that person’s life. Foreign dreams, desires and fears are absorbed into the deceased’s essence, as the deceased leaves pieces of their own spirit behind. Eventually, the deceased’s spirit will dissolve completely into the spectral foam, which is the stuff from which new souls are crafted. Are you following me?”
Lying through his teeth, Douglas said that he was. There is only so much that a seven-year-old’s mind can grasp, after all, and little Douglas was pushing his noggin’s limits. Still, he sat quietly, respectfully listening to the astronaut’s story.
“Now…that is the natural way of things. It provides a sort of reincarnation, as pieces of a person’s fragmented essence go into the souls of unborn infants. Not everybody follows the rules, however.
“Some spirits resist the soul breakdown, floating around the Phantom Cabinet entirely undivided. This can be due to any number of factors, such as pure evilness or a refusal to accept one’s demise. These stubborn bastards can remain bodiless for all eternity.”
Gordon made a face, as if he’d sniffed something foul. “Even worse, segments of some personalities are excluded from the spectral foam, remaining solid like bones in soup. Especially strong hatreds and fears resist the soul breakdown process, even after their owners dissolve into phantom froth. When enough of these segments gather together, they can actually amalgamate, forming into demons and other unnatural entities.”
“Is that what I’ve been seeing, demons?”
“No, you’ve been facing garden variety specters thus far, common spooks such as myself. But as your power grows, those other entities will start appearing, as they’ve visited others from time to time, during brief destabilizations in the afterlife’s grip. Many are driven mad upon such a meeting, so keep your guard up.
“The Phantom Cabinet has been referred to by many names: Purgatory, Heaven and Hell being just a few. There’s something in it of the Hindu akasha, and even a dash of Plato’s Realm of the Forms. Sometimes, big dreamers are permitted glimpses of the Cabinet, inspiring them to great acts of creation or driving them hopelessly insane. It exists deep in the reality void, a soul-magnet broadcasting irresistible attraction. No one can escape from it, at least not until now.”
“Why now? And what’s it got to do with me?”
“Well, I don’t know the exact science of it, but it had something to do with my crew’s last mission, which we never came back from. You see, Space Shuttle Conundrum launched from a secret desert location on an uncharted trajectory. Somehow, that trajectory brought us into the afterlife.
“The process was similar to an eclipse, I think. The Phantom Cabinet aligned with a portion of our atmosphere, weakening the barrier between both domains. With the right tool, in this case our spacecraft, it became possible to penetrate the obstruction.
“When our shuttle breached the Phantom Cabinet, we levered it open slightly, just wide enough for a child’s spirit to slip out. That child was you, Douglas. You died at the exact moment that we breached the spirit realm. Like every other dead person, your soul was pulled into the Phantom Cabinet.
“Would that it had stayed there, little buddy, but somehow you clawed your way back, trailing a horde of angry specters in your wake. They plagued Oceanside Memorial for a while, before being pulled back within you, your undeveloped power unable to support their efforts for long. They are tied to you, boy, tethered to your proximity.”
Gordon attempted a fatherly gesture, an intangible shoulder pat that slid right through Douglas. “Unfortunately, more spirits cross over each day. You are their doorway, Douglas. Half your soul remains in the Phantom Cabinet even now, bridging it with the living world. Through you, the Cabinet’s influence continues to grow, giving Oceanside a ghost population. Even I passed through you on the way here.”
Douglas tried to reply, but could produce no cogent remark. The astronaut’s words shook him down to his core, leaving him drowning in revelations. At some point in the tale, he’d spilled his orange juice, leaving the glass nearly empty. Still he clutched it, desperate for something to grasp.
“Every time we talk, I have to battle my way through more and more poltergeists, hidden deep inside of you. We all leech your spectral power, Douglas, though some are better at it than others. Eventually, your power will grow so considerable that we will be able to remain in the open air indefinitely. Woe is mankind on that day.”
The astronaut’s face grew melancholy. “I have to leave now, Douglas, but remember what I said. Write it down and keep it safe, so that you might better understand future occurrences. It could be some time before our next meeting, and I wouldn’t want to leave you empty-handed.”
In a split-second, Commander Gordon was gone. Minutes later, Carter Stanton finally arrived, bearing pizza and the news of Irwin Michaels’ demise. While the food was appreciated, Douglas could spare no tears for the apprentice bully. His mind was drifting amidst the stars, contemplating the myriad mysteries contained therein.
When his father entered the bathroom, Douglas expected to be punished for the mess the spirits had left. But the man made no comments upon exiting, and tossed no glances in his son’s direction.
Later, on trembling toes, Douglas forced himself to examine the area. Everything was as it had been; the medicine cabinet was closed and filled. Had the whole thing been an illusion, or had Frank Gordon done Douglas a favor before disappearing back into the ether? Either way, the place remained frightening.
Before drifting off to sleep, Douglas pulled a wire bound notebook from his teak dresser and began to write. In childish scrawl, he managed to replicate Gordon’s message nearly verbatim, his script brimming with misspellings. Over ensuing years, he returned to the notebook again and again, yet the words never grew mundane.
— | — | —
Chapter 4
“And that was Pernice Brothers with ‘One Foot in the Grave,’ all part of our pledge to provide listeners with nonstop auditory exhilaration on Radio PC.”
Back on his couch, eyes focused on a point beyond walls, Emmett tried to make sense of things. Here he was, the story of a childhood chum spilling from his headphones, and now he’d entered the tale as a supporting character. Had he lost his mind? Was he in bed dreaming up the whole scenario? Part of him wanted to call in a neighbor and see what they heard; another part wanted to laugh until his skull burst.
The DJ continued: “With that bit of self-promotion out of the way, it’s time to return to today’s tantalizing topic: little Douglas Stanton. When our story last left off, the dude had just been gifted with knowledge of his strange connection to t
he land beyond the veil.
“Well, over the next couple of years, his Phantom Cabinet link continued to drop souls into Douglas’ orbit, staring accusingly from reflective surfaces, dancing in his peripheral vision. For every friendly ghost that graced his presence, another dozen spiteful specters would emerge. For the most part, they appeared when Douglas was alone, phosphorescent phantoms dredged from the darkness. Crying, screaming and wailing, they vengefully flung plates from cupboards, and relocated furniture to different rooms.
“While Douglas was cursed with the brunt of these visitations, many of his immediate neighbors had ghost troubles of their own, resulting in long nights of petrified insomnia. Passing the Stanton home, walkers inevitably crossed the street. Horrible faces seemed to peer from its shrubbery, ancient eyes coalescing from shadows. A pocket of cool air often enveloped the property.
“Two doors down, minutes past midnight, old Mr. Wicker encountered a legless soldier flopping across his lawn. Noting the soldier’s black putrefaction, the geriatric finally succumbed to his faulty heart. At school, Douglas’ classmates complained of voices arising in uninhabited airspace, speaking in unintelligible languages.
“Carter managed to meet fatherhood’s minimal requirements, providing Douglas with clothing, food and conversation on a semi-regular schedule, but found himself distracted by an increasingly fractured reality. At random intervals, figures flashed into Carter’s vision, ghosts in various stages of rot and mutilation, speaking without sound.
“Nicknames accumulated around Douglas, uttered by both children and adults. From simple efforts such as ‘Freak’ and ‘Creep Wad’ to the more elaborate ‘Spooks MacKenzie’ and ‘Vampire Fag,’ these aliases followed him from school halls into the greater part of Oceanside. Over time, though, those nicknames died out, and Douglas reverted back to being ‘Ghost Boy.’