The Phantom Cabinet Page 7

  “It’s a hunting knife,” he explained. “I found it in my dad’s desk. The handle is made from genuine deer antler, he said, and the blade is sharper than the devil’s pitchfork. Come closer and I’ll show you, Milo.”

  Milo couldn’t speak; he wasn’t used to seeing victims fight back. Clark, better at maintaining composure, held up a pair of placating hands. “All right, calm down,” he said. “We were just jokin’ around. There’s no reason to pull out a weapon.”

  “Sure there’s not,” agreed Benjy. “But that doesn’t mean it wouldn’t be fun to stick this in your neck. Now, do you want to know why I was lookin’ for you, or should we play a game of Shish Kabob?”

  “The first option,” chose Clark, fascinated by the little runt’s gumption, unsure whether to choke him out or befriend him.

  “Well, I found something else in my dad’s desk drawer, something I thought you guys might be interested in. I already cut the tips off, so they’re ready to go. Check these out.”

  He pulled three cigars from his pocket, and handed one to each boy, keeping the last for himself. “Macanudo,” Milo read off the label. “What, you want us to smoke these?”

  “I sure do. What’s the matter, are you guys a couple of pussies or something?”

  “I’m no pussy,” Clark bellowed. “Light me up already.”

  Pulling out a battered silver Zippo, Benjy proceeded to do just that. After lighting his own cigar, he offered the flame to Milo.

  “I don’t know, guys. My dad will kill me if he finds out.”

  Clark glowered, until Milo meekly sucked fire into his stogie. Soon, the three of them were puffing away, lightheaded from the fumes. No one wanted to be the first to abandon their tobacco, so the cigars were smoked down to stubs.

  Shortly, Milo was puking into the vegetation, and even Clark swayed on his feet. But Benjy seemed unfazed, as if he’d taken up smoking while still womb-bound.

  “Do you smoke these a lot?” Clark asked, sitting to subdue the world’s rotation.

  “Actually, this is my first one. I just figured that it was time to give smokin’ a shot. We’re almost in middle school, you know.”

  “Why bring them to us? Why not smoke with Ghost Boy and the black kid?”

  “Emmett won’t touch tobacco. His aunt just died from lung cancer, and before that she had one of those little holes in her neck. And Douglas, well, he needs to come out of his shell a little more.”

  “That dude needs to kill himself and do us all a favor,” replied Clark.

  “If he did that, you fellas would have to find a new guy to hate. You can’t have a bully without a victim, after all.”

  “Who are you calling bullies?” asked Milo, his chin slick with vomit. “We’re not bullies. Tell him, Clark.”

  “That’s right, we’re not bullies. Putting someone in their place isn’t bullying; it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Sure, and I’m Michael Jordan. You two are a couple of prison inmates waiting to happen. That’s why I knew you’d be the perfect guys to smoke with. Anyway, it’s time I headed home. I’ll see you two shit heels around.”

  Benjy ran down the hill, managing to stay upright despite the slickness. Reaching the sidewalk, he hooked a left, navigating his way homeward.

  “God help me, I’m starting to like that guy,” Clark commented, his voice little more than a whisper.

  Stomach still churning with nausea, Milo nodded mute assent.

  ««—»»

  As dawn’s first sunrays streamed into her kitchen, Sondra Gretsch stood before the stove, idly preparing a pot of chamomile tea. Her husband was still asleep—and her mother-in-law had yet to emerge from her room—so Sondra found herself luxuriating in the silence, comfortably thinking of nothing important.

  The room’s wallpaper was an eyesore—displaying apples and strawberries against a piss-yellow background—and most of the appliances needed replacement, but Sondra masterfully kept her mind away from these glaring factoids.

  With Charlie’s mother to support, all kitchen upgrades had to be postponed, anyway. Sondra tried to dampen her bitterness toward the woman, but at times it was difficult. In fact, she sometimes prayed that the old bat would have a heart attack. Such thoughts were uncharitable, she knew. Sondra was trying to remold herself into a good Christian, and that would have to begin with a new approach to her in-law.

  With greying hair, and new wrinkles accumulating upon her mirror doppelganger, Sondra often contemplated the afterlife and her place within it. To pass through Saint Peter’s Gate, she needed to become a better person, someone worthy of God’s love.

  “Why don’t I see if Wendy would like a cup of this?” she asked herself, once the beverage was consumption-ready. It wasn’t much, but perhaps it would be the first step toward a better relationship.

  Their open staircase was all wood and steel, incongruous with the rest of the home’s interior. Previously, Sondra had wondered whether a stoned architect designed their house, but the price had been right, and visitors were generally too polite to point out the place’s many flaws.

  Reaching the second floor, Sondra heard Charlie’s snores drifting from their bedroom, like a buzz saw crossbred with a jackhammer. It was obnoxious, to be certain, but she loved the man deeply, and thus forgave most of his flaws. Sure, she had to nap during the day to counteract each night’s broken slumber, but Sondra had plenty of free time.

  Standing outside her mother-in-law’s door, she knocked softly. “Wendy, are you awake? I made some tea, and figured you might like a cup.”

  There was no answer. I better look in on her, Sondra thought, turning the knob to enter the room’s stuffy confines. She found Wendy seated at her espresso-colored vanity table, slumped forward on the stool, her head resting before a tri-fold mirror. She wore nothing but a slip, and seemed to have nodded off while applying face makeup.

  Silly woman, Sondra mused, always putting on makeup when she never leaves the house. As she got a better look at the geriatric, her condescension morphed into fear.

  There was something wrong with Wendy’s limbs. They hung loosely, pulled from their sockets by an unknown force. Ugly bruises and abrasions covered her arms and legs, which appeared broken in several spots. Sondra saw splintered bone poking through mangled flesh, and began to moan as she approached Wendy.

  “Wendy, are you okay?” she managed to gasp. She knew it was a stupid question—obviously the woman was far from fine—but could think of nothing else to verbalize. Sondra felt a scream struggling to be born, and endeavored to abort it with forward momentum.

  Placing a trembling hand upon her mother-in-law’s shoulder, Sondra gently shook the woman. “Wendy, we’re going to get you help. I’ll call an ambulance, and the doctors will fix you up pronto.” When the woman’s head flopped over, Sondra knew that Wendy was beyond all medical interventions.

  Wendy stared with unblinking eyes from a face like wet tissue. Without her customary wig, the senior’s cobweb-like hair floated as if underwater, but that wasn’t the worst of it. What really set Sondra to trembling was the woman’s mouth, around which lipstick had been traced over and over until it became the maw of a clown, stretched into a demonic rictus. Staring at this gaping oral cavity, rimmed with cracked yellow teeth, Sondra finally accepted that her mother-in-law had been murdered. It must have happened in the dead of night, but how could Wendy have been so brutally slain while Sondra and Charlie slept oblivious?

  Surely there’d been much screaming and commotion; surely Wendy had shrieked for her tormentor. On the heels of these thoughts came another: What if the killer is still in the house?

  Frantically, Sondra scanned the room. The open closet held no intruders, and no one lurked behind the door. Nothing crouched on the floor, either, aside from an amorphous bit of knitting. Sondra was about to let out a relieved exhalation when her vision met the bed. Something was hidden under Wendy’s red satin sheets, a man-sized bulk moving ever so slightly.

  Sondra hadn�
��t let on that she perceived it, so maybe the assailant would let her leave the room unharmed. She’d wake her husband, and the two of them would contact the authorities from the safety of a neighbor’s home.

  As Sondra swiveled on her heels, the figure rose to standing position, a stuffed sheet well over six feet tall. The sheet’s edge hovered a few inches above the mattress, yet no feet were visible beneath it. Appraising it, Sondra succumbed to violent shudders, realizing that she was looking upon the quintessential ghost image.

  Sondra screamed her husband’s name then, so vehemently that her voice instantly became a rasp. She sprinted into the hallway, unable to resist a quick over-the-shoulder glance.

  The anthropomorphized bed sheet followed her, it arm approximations stretched forward to grasp. From their bedroom, Charlie groggily called her name, voice slurred with semiconsciousness. But the fate of her husband seemed of little importance. Surely Sondra would be safe outside their residence; surely a disembodied spirit couldn’t survive her neighbors’ scrutiny. All she had to do was make it out the door, and Sondra knew she’d be okay.

  She flew down the stairs without touching the railing. Unfortunately, specters have no need for staircases, and thus the spook was able to position itself between her and blessed freedom, dropping down one floor in a fabric whirlwind.

  “Stay back!” Sondra demanded.

  The red satin shape silently regarded her, frozen with arms outstretched. Likewise, Sondra found herself unable to move. She knew now that she couldn’t possibly outrun the sheet; its speed exceeded peak human performance.

  “Please go away,” she croaked. Charlie was bumbling around upstairs, she heard, presumably checking up on her. But what could he do against an incorporeal entity? “Please leave me be.”

  The satin-covered head nodded, and the sheet fell limply to the floor. Its animating spirit stood revealed, semi-transparent, empty eye sockets somehow gazing at Sondra. The specter had a long black beard, trailing up to scraggly hair wisps stubbornly clinging to a cratered skull. His filthy attire consisted of an open blouse and breeches, held in place by a slanted leather belt. Two scant yards before Sondra, the ghost opened his mouth, discharging a torrent of water that evaporated before striking floor.

  As the sound of Charlie descending the stairs became audible, the ghost flew forward to embrace Sondra, his hungry mouth puckered for a kiss. His touch was arctic water, his scent ebon mold. Sondra managed one last guttural screech, and then he was upon her.

  Reaching the bottom of the steps, Charlie Gretsch found his wife unconscious, sprawled across the floor in a loose-limbed faint. That turned out to be his day’s high point.

  ««—»»

  “Douglas…”

  “Hmm…”

  “Douglas…”

  Scant hours afore daybreak, he opened his eyes. Someone was in the bedroom, a persistent voice dragging Douglas from slumber. He awoke to sweat-soaked sheets, shivering in discomfort.

  “Look at me, boy.”

  Douglas rolled onto his side. A churning mass of shadow stood revealed, darker than predawn shade. Above the spiraling murkiness floated a porcelain oval, bearing only the faintest suggestion of a face.

  “You’re back,” he remarked tonelessly, struggling to conceal emotion. He knew that this particular entity was just another form of bully—Clark Clemson on a galactic scale—hungry for fright and humiliation.

  Coiling and uncoiling, the black tendrils made wet gurgling noises, like a butter churn crammed with half-congealed bacon fat.

  “I’m not back, Douglas. I’ve always been with you. When you slid from between your mother’s thighs, I watched with approval. Even after senility has stripped away your senses, you’ll still see me in the morning mist.”

  “Listen, whatever you are. It’s early and I’m trying to sleep. Go away.”

  “A brave front avails you nothing, boy. I taste fear discharging from your pores. You are nothing but a frightened child, which is how I prefer it.”

  “Why did you save me on the playground? What do you want from me?”

  Something cold and wet rubbed against Douglas’ cheek, emanating an odor of spoiled meat. And still the voice, suffused with mangled femininity, filled his psyche with corruption.

  “I love you, child, and will let no harm befall you. In fact, I’m the only one who cares for you. Do you believe your father loves you? He stays away from home as often as possible, and can barely look at you upon returning. As for Emmett and Benjy, you are nothing more than amusement to them. You should hear how they mock you behind your back, the things that they say. It’s worse than anything Clark could come up with because they actually know you.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Douglas feared to look directly at the fiend. Should he spare her the full brunt of his focus, he feared that he’d be hers forever. As it was, he felt half-hypnotized, unable to call out for his father, or ignore the entity’s unhallowed speech. Even sitting up in bed was a struggle, as if weights had been strapped to his upper torso.

  Still, he managed to push himself to standing, his intent being only escape. Walking to the door was like treading through quicksand; his thoughts arrived malformed. Each step took minutes to complete, and Douglas couldn’t stop sweating despite the room’s graveyard chill.

  The visitor gave no pursuit, only belched forth a hideous chuckle, each fresh volley of which sent the boy to cringing. But with perseverance, he eventually grasped the doorknob, wrenching the door open with all the strength he could muster.

  “Hah!” he cried. The hallway light was on, everything commonplace within its ever-reliable glow. Once Douglas stepped from his room, he was certain that the entity would disappear.

  He stepped over the threshold, forward momentum bringing his foot down. Just before the extremity could settle, a flash of green light erased his surroundings…

  With no transition, Douglas found himself back in bed, drowning in sodden sheets. Now the porcelain mask hovered mere inches from his face, as the visitor’s cold appendages pressed him into the mattress.

  “You’ll never be rid of me, boy. Never. When all acquaintances have abandoned you, I’ll remain by your side. Such visions we shall share.”

  ««—»»

  On clear days in Oceanside, gazing from the proper elevation revealed an astoundingly picturesque view. By slowly rotating, one observed houses staggered along green slopes, swarms of verdant trees, and even snow-capped mountains during wintry seasons. In the vicinity of Papagallo Drive stood a series of hills that, when viewed collectively, formed the rough outline of a slumbering Native American.

  Prior to befriending Emmett and Benjy, Douglas had spent many lunch breaks watching the “Sleeping Indian” from atop the playground slide, willing it to rise and strike down his tormentors en masse. He’d concentrated intensely, vainly trying to imbue a geographic formation with a portion of his own life force, whereupon it would operate as a golem, his personal justice agent. Those efforts had only led to frustration, leaving headaches as parting gifts.

  On this particular Saturday morning, Douglas once more found himself atop the slide. This time, he spared little thought for his surroundings. It was an inner landscape that most concerned him, the unplumbed mysteries of his own mind.

  Since his most recent encounter with the white-masked demoness, Douglas had found himself repeatedly consulting his wire bound notebook, reading Frank Gordon’s transcribed statement over and over. While the years hadn’t diminished the power of the words, Douglas found within them no strategy to cope with his current situation. Sure, they explained why ghosts and other entities always surrounded him, but how was he supposed to escape them?

  He wished that the commander would return; perhaps he’d be more forthcoming now that Douglas was older. But his spirit friend remained absent, and all the other visiting specters proved highly uncooperative.

  What gave Douglas the most trouble was the idea that a portion
of his soul remained in the spirit realm, prying it open so that morgue émigrés could return to Earth. Douglas couldn’t feel the Phantom Cabinet, so how could he be residing within it?

  He’d decided to get to the bottom of the Phantom Cabinet business, once and for all, before the white-masked entity drove him entirely mad. To that end, he’d hopped his school’s chain link fence to claim a spot conducive to deep thought. Sitting cross-legged at the top of the slide, he wondered if it was possible to ponder his way into the dead realm.

  Douglas had once viewed a documentary extolling meditation’s many benefits, and figured that heavy concentration might help him perceive the Phantom Cabinet. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, inhaling and exhaling at a slow, steady rhythm. He held his hands to his side, palms skyward. His thoughts rested upon no particular subject, drifting through the aether like a breeze-propelled leaf.

  Behind sealed eyelids, blackness gave way to eldritch green, the color of swamp gas. The greenness was in constant motion, twisting in ceaseless concentric spirals. Faces flashed within it—visages spanning the gamut of nationalities, ages, genders and races—only to be instantly reabsorbed. These countenances displayed the full range of conceivable emotions: rage giving way to openmouthed shock, joy segueing into grief. The apparitions paid Douglas no mind, perhaps unaware of his scrutiny.

  Douglas knew that he’d somehow entered the Phantom Cabinet, understood that he was viewing the recycling of castoff souls. Though he still felt California sunlight on his arms, so too did he experience the void chill. He’d opened up a second eye set, oculi forever trapped in the land beyond.

  The spirit realm held no landmarks, no geography at all. In all directions, only green light could be glimpsed, luminosity composed of human essence.

  As Douglas watched the spirit foam churning, half-hypnotized by its eerie beauty, he began to experience flashes of other people’s memories. He blew out the candles of a young child’s birthday cake, felt the shame of an unhealthy thought, and experienced the fear and confusion of a girl’s first menstruation. Douglas kicked a soccer ball high into the air, took a punch to the face, and watched a loved one sleep. The process was better than a video game, better than reading a million books. A thousand lifetimes’ worth of experiences forced themselves upon him: mankind at its best and most abominable.