The Phantom Cabinet Read online

  “Douglas’ neighbor from three doors down, an overweight gossip named Mrs. Arlington, would often remark that he was ‘a child that only Death could love,’ a comment even she didn’t understand.

  “Still, Douglas had his two friends. Benjy and Emmett weren’t much higher on the social totem pole than he was, and thus paid little attention to all the rumors and trash talk. And when the three of them reached fifth grade, they finally shared the same teacher, a funny mustached man named Mr. Conway.

  “With a coil of curly black hair ringing his otherwise bald cranium, the instructor looked a bit like a clown, and modified his behavior accordingly. Between math lessons and history lectures, he told jokes and twisted balloon animals, anything to keep the kids in high spirits. It would have been perfect, if not for Clark Clemson. Both the bully and his pal Milo lurked at the back of the classroom, in desks bearing their own carved initials. Together, they consistently managed to torment poor Douglas, whenever the teacher’s back was turned.”

  ««—»»

  After a quick bathroom break, wherein he carefully dodged rivers of stray urine, Douglas returned to Mr. Conway’s classroom. He found the instructor sermonizing about prefixes and suffixes.

  Approaching his seat, Douglas let his gaze sweep the classroom, perceiving its every salient feature. Two-dozen children sat in uneven rows, some watching the teacher, most looking anywhere but. Over the dry erase board, a cursive alphabet stretched. By the door, a plastic Garfield clock ticked above a pencil sharpener. The remaining wall space was covered in class projects: pie charts, graphs, and collages depicting U.S. history. Between these, goofy posters of surfers and mountain climbers hung, activities the instructor claimed to participate in.

  The seating was unassigned; students plopped down wherever. Only Clark and Milo returned to the same desks day after day, a feat managed more by intimidation than anything else.

  Douglas passed his two friends, moving to the front of the classroom, where his late arrival had placed him. Students whispered as he approached, staring from eye corners, but he pretended they were gossiping about someone else.

  When Douglas eased into his chair, he immediately cried out in pain. Standing up and reaching down, he found that four metal thumbtacks had been left on his seat.

  “Something wrong, Douglas?” Mr. Conway asked, as the boy reddened in embarrassment, all eyes locked upon him.

  “Sorry, sir. I had a sudden cramp, is all.”

  Milo and Clark brayed laughter from the back of the room, a chorus of mirth soon supplemented by the rest of the class. Even Benjy and Emmett were laughing, Douglas realized, though they tried to conceal it behind cupped hands.

  “Well sit down then, boy. I’ve a lecture to finish.”

  Later, during their lunch break, Douglas turned angrily upon his chums. “Why the hell didn’t you warn me about the tacks?” he asked heatedly.

  “Relax, Dougie,” replied Benjy. “It was just a few tacks, after all. The whole class saw Clark lay them down. Conway had his back turned, and didn’t even notice.”

  “Besides,” chimed in Emmett, “if it was that big of a deal you would have told the teacher.”

  “And get beat up by Clark later? Fat chance.”

  Douglas tried to retain his grudge, but found it difficult to stay mad at his only living friends. In fact, by the time that school let out, their juvenile rapport had wholly repaired itself.

  ««—»»

  In her son’s Avenida Cabra home, one neighborhood away from Calle Tranquila, Wendy Gretsch carefully applied layers of makeup and eye shadow to her sagging countenance. When this had been completed to her satisfaction, she climbed into a green formal gown and shifted until everything was more or less in its proper place. Finally, she affixed an auburn beehive wig atop her head, a magnificent tower of counterfeit hair originally sold to her daughter-in-law for Halloween.

  Charlie and Sondra Gretsch generally ignored Wendy. They’d taken her in after her savings ran dry—had treated her kindly enough—but Wendy heard her son and his wife arguing about her often, believing themselves out of earshot. And so Wendy remained in her cramped bedroom confines, sequestered out of sight, flipping through decades-old photo albums, awaiting visitors.

  Her visitors never stayed long, evanescent figures forming from and dissolving back into empty air. They displayed horrible injuries and stared without sight, but were good company nonetheless.

  While they spoke little, they listened to everything Wendy articulated. From tales of her high school formal to anecdotes concerning her late husband, they patiently hovered afore her, as the woman spilled forth story after story. Every time they manifested, Wendy felt giddy as a schoolgirl.

  A new arrival materialized: a grade-school girl with purple handprints around her neck, smiling faintly, her bulging eyes dripping insubstantial tears.

  “Hello, dearie,” cooed Wendy, rising from her padded vanity stool to embrace the apparition. Her arms passed right through the girl, but Wendy didn’t mind, finding significance in the effort itself.

  “I’m so glad you came to visit me today. You know, I was growing lonely in this little room, buried in these layers of old memories. And now your pretty little self has arrived to brighten up my solitude. I hope you can stay awhile.”

  The girl let out a piercing scream. “No, Daddy, no!” she cried. “I won’t tell! I won’t!”

  The child’s flesh rotted and sloughed away, leaving a skeleton that rapidly dissolved into green vapor. Moments later, the vapor was gone, too, with only a chill memorializing the girl’s appearance.

  “Bye, sweetheart,” Wendy said softly. “I’m sorry that our time together was so brief.”

  Wendy began knitting, busying herself with yarn and needles as she awaited further visitations. A blue chunk of cloth grew between her palms, its final form undecided. Wendy hummed contentedly as she sat, blinking dust from failing eyes.

  Eventually, they began to flash before her. Soldiers of many different time periods, garbed in uniforms both foreign and domestic, silently reenacted battlefield scenes. Wendy watched limbs chopped from bodies, torsos shredded by IEDs, and faces obliterated by enemy fire. The tableaus were too sizable for such a limited space, but the walls seemed to expand to permit them.

  After the last mortal wounding had been reenacted, the war casualties gathered around Wendy, imploring through ruined faces. And so she began to speak:

  “Now, I was just a girl during the Depression, but I still recall my mother’s worried face. Day after day, she’d stare joylessly out the window, awaiting my father’s return from unsuccessful job hunts. Eventually, her apprehension grew too powerful, and I found Mama sprawled on the floor with…”

  ««—»»

  Late that Friday night, Benjy and Emmett sat cross-legged before the Stantons’ television, watching Douglas play Marble Madness. It was the first time that the Stantons had ever hosted a sleepover, and Douglas could barely contain his excitement. Having consumed massive quantities of pizza and bottled soda, the boys were positively overflowing with energy. With Douglas’ father having retreated to his bedroom, endless possibilities now stretched before them.

  The sleepover had nearly been aborted. Both Emmett and Benjy’s parents had heard the rumors concerning Douglas and his home, and needed hours of convincing. Only after lengthy discussions with Carter, during which he claimed every rumor unfounded, had the parents finally relented.

  After Douglas’ marble ran out of lives, Benjy and Emmett each took turns at the game, avoiding enemies and obstacles with minimum effectiveness. When they’d grown tired of the challenge, they switched the Nintendo off. Surfing channels for adequate entertainment, they settled upon a low-budget monster movie, wherein half-boar, half-gorilla creatures descended upon an outdoor celebration. In easy companionship, they mocked it.

  Well past midnight, after the film segued to credits, Emmett stood up and powered off the television set. “Hey, Douglas?” he asked. “Do you think
your dad would notice if we left for a while?”

  Scratching his chin, Douglas replied, “He’s a pretty heavy sleeper, so I’m guessing not. I doubt he’d care either way. Why…what are you thinking?”

  “Come out front, and I’ll show you.”

  Outside, they watched Emmett reach behind the property’s Lemonade Berry hedges to retrieve a bulging trash bag. Opening the bag, he revealed many rolls of toilet paper.

  “No way,” gasped Benjy. “Is that for what I think it’s for?”

  “Well, it’s not for wiping our asses, I’ll tell ya that much. You ever go toilet papering, Douglas?”

  Dumbfounded, the boy shook his head no.

  “You’re gonna love this, then. We’ll head a couple blocks over and really let loose. Let’s show him how it’s done, Benjy.”

  Trailing behind them, Douglas battled his own nervousness, his overwhelming yearning for comfortable living room geography. The streetlights seemed too bright; each footstep echoed loudly. Douglas felt unseen eyes peering from scarcely parted blinds, marking their progress for an inevitable 911 call. With each pair of passing headlights, Douglas’ heart seized, awaiting a siren. But his friends pulled him into the shadows, and the vehicles passed by none the wiser.

  Finally, the trio stopped. At the end of a cul-de-sac stood a brooding structure, topped by bay windows and a severe gable. Two vehicles rested in its driveway: a paneled van and a striped Camaro. Plumeria trees lined the yard’s perimeter; a geranium-filled garden flowed rightward from the doorway.

  “This is perfect,” declared Emmett, with Benjy echoing the sentiment.

  Dropping the trash bag to the grass, Emmett handed two rolls of toilet paper to Benjy, two to Douglas. Snatching a roll for himself, the boy cocked back his arm and let it fly. Mystified, Douglas watched the roll arc over a tree and hit grass, leaving a long stream of toilet paper hanging from thick branches.

  “Come on, it’s fun,” Benjy insisted, tossing a roll into the air with laughter on his lips. Soon, he and Emmett were in constant motion: throwing and retrieving, leaving strands dangling from plants, vehicles, and even the house itself. Eventually, their urging grew irresistible, and Douglas found himself chucking rolls to his friends’ approval.

  They crisscrossed the lawn repeatedly, tossing roll after roll, giggling as streams of white split the cosmos. The trash bag emptied. Soon, very little of the trees, cars and garden were visible. Their mostly depleted rolls went over the roof, trailing into the property’s backyard.

  Benjy, panting with exhaustion, collapsed onto the grass, avidly observing his friends’ progress. He was glad to see Douglas succumb to the spirit of the outing, wandering the property’s perimeter, seeking unclaimed greenery.

  Sometimes Benjy worried about Douglas. The rumor mill wasn’t kind to the Stantons, and even adults shunned the boy. Let tonight’s prank be Douglas’ revenge, he thought to himself.

  Then it happened. The largest plumeria tree, now a mass of trailing white streamers, began trembling before Benjy’s eyes. It wobbled and quivered as if experiencing an earthquake, yet the ground remained stable. Emmett and Douglas continued tossing TP, oblivious to the palpitating plant. Benjy wanted to call out to them, but his mouth had grown arid; his lips wouldn’t form words. He could only watch the tree.

  The toilet paper-covered branches shifted and contorted, forming a hideous white death mask. Demonic laughter echoed through his head, as the tree winked one vacant eye hollow.

  Instantly, the barking of maddened canines erupted. Lights came alive in windows and porches, as the barks turned to howls.

  “Let’s get out of here!” cried Emmett, pulling Benjy to his feet, nearly yanking his arm from its socket. They sprinted to the Stanton house, and collapsed onto the living room sofa, all three gasping for air.

  “Can you believe we just did that?” cried Douglas.

  “Keep it down; you’ll wake your dad up,” chided Emmett.

  “But think of their faces when they see it. We’re lucky we didn’t get caught. Those damn dogs nearly gave us away.”

  “That’s right,” replied Emmett. “I wonder what set them off like that.”

  Benjy, his face gone somber, asked, “Did you guys…you know…see anything strange back there?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Emmett.

  “Right before the dogs went into a frenzy, I saw a tree become a giant face. I’m not kidding, guys, it was really scary.”

  “You imagined it,” countered Emmett. “Maybe you’re going crazy, or maybe chugging soda is as bad for you as my mom says it is.”

  Douglas offered no comment, but fixed Benjy with a look of severe intensity. Whatever he wished to impart went unspoken. Instead, the boys unrolled their sleeping bags and channel surfed until their adrenaline abated, allowing slumber.

  ««—»»

  Just before dawn, Benjy awoke from a vivid nightmare, in which an anthropomorphized tree swallowed him alive.

  His surroundings felt off. It was as if the house had contracted during his slumber; the ceiling hovered inches from his face. Thrashing in place, he realized that he rested upon no known surface. Somehow, his sleeping bag had levitated—with him inside it.

  He called out to his friends, then screamed when the invisible force released him, letting Benjy plummet like a stone. Fortunately, he’d been positioned above the ugly yellow sofa, and landed relatively unscathed.

  “Benjy?” Douglas asked, semiconscious. “Did you say something?”

  Trembling like a Parkinson’s patient during an earthquake, Benjy managed to reply, “Uh…no…nothing. I didn’t say anything.”

  Douglas grunted and went back to sleep. A few hours later, Emmett and he awoke to find Benjy gone, his parents having been called for retrieval.

  “He must have had diarrhea,” Emmett remarked over their pancake breakfast. Douglas laughed in agreement, but his mind couldn’t help succumbing to dark speculations.

  ««—»»

  That Monday, Benjy did not show up to school. On Tuesday, he remained absent. When an entire week had gone by without their friend’s appearance, Emmett and Douglas paid a visit to the Rothstein house.

  The Rothsteins lived within a line of tract housing, each home identical to the next. Their house’s original brick had long since been plastered over, and painted the color of a sun-bleached olive. There was little lawn to speak of. Clacking the doorknocker summoned the corpulent Mrs. Rothstein, glaring through beady eyes.

  “Benjy’s sick,” she informed them, haughtily. “He won’t be able to play with you boys today.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Emmett, but the door had already slammed in his face. Dejectedly, he commenced a retreat.

  Douglas followed reluctantly, but couldn’t help sparing the home a second glance. His wandering eyes met those of Benjy, staring sadly from his second floor bedroom window. Douglas waved to his friend. After what felt like minutes, Benjy returned the wave, before disappearing behind closed blinds.

  ««—»»

  Staring into the bathroom mirror, Benjy was horrified by his own appearance. His naturally pale skin had gone beyond pallid, turning his face into a wax sculpture. Dark patches hung from his swollen eyelids, while his red hair loomed bloodlike, ready to pour down his cheeks and dribble into the drain.

  He spit used toothpaste down the sink and gargled some mouthwash. The liquid burned his inner mouth and tear-blurred his vision, but the sensation passed quickly. With dread in his heart, he climbed into bed.

  ««—»»

  Later, the boy awoke not in bed, but in the coffin-esque confines of the hall closet. He discovered himself upright against the vacuum cleaner, wedged between battered suitcases and boxes of old clothing. From its dusty boundaries, he burst forth, knowing that it had happened again.

  Ever since that strange sleepover, Benjy had feared the Sandman. Slumber had lost its refreshment capacity; instead, it brought mysteries. For six nights now, he’d found himself a
wakening in uncomfortable locations. First it had been the downstairs couch, then a half-filled bathtub. One morning, he’d bumped his face on the undercarriage of his dad’s Volvo, smashing his lips and nose in a red flash of agony.

  After the third night, his mom brought him to a psychologist: a flaccid-faced fellow named Bertram Sprouse. He’d peered intensely at Benjy for some minutes, before informing him that he was suffering from somnambulism, possibly caused by a delay in maturation. He’d prescribed small doses of clonazepam to prevent further sleepwalking, to no avail. The medication had only sent Benjy bouncing between states of dizziness and wild euphoria, so he’d poured the rest of his tablets down the drain.

  He knew he’d have to return to school soon; his mother had already picked up a thick folder full of catch-up assignments, which he’d yet to begin. He’d tried, of course, but the math problems swam across the page, a river of numbers and twisting lines. His textbooks had become incomprehensible. Faint laughter resonated periodically, emanating from unknown sources.

  He felt impending doom hanging over his head, an invisible Damocles sword. Powerless, Benjy waited for it to claim him.

  ««—»»

  Two weeks later, Douglas, Emmett and Benjy gathered at their customary lunchtime location: Campanula Elementary’s playground. Having already eaten, the boys swayed on swing sky trails, as they had so many times before.

  Pumping his legs, Douglas surreptitiously observed Benjy, searching out signs of the child’s mental state. When Benjy first returned to school, he’d been pallid and taciturn, barely speaking. Douglas suspected that something had happened at their sleepover, but couldn’t bring himself to solicit the details. As the days passed, however, a bit of color returned to Benjy, as he emerged from antisocial isolation.