Phantasos (14 page)

Twenty-Five

AARON CURLED UP BENEATH A GREY, knitted blanket on Danny’s couch: his bed for the next few days, or weeks, or however long it’d take Danny to recover, it didn’t matter.

“Thanks for all the help tonight,” Danny said.

Aaron yawned. “Any time, bud. It’s nice to not be falling asleep beneath basement stairs tonight.”

“Mind if I check the computer for a little bit?”

“Not at all. Mind if I watch The Tonight Show?”

“Be my guest,” Danny said, and he took a seat at the desk in the corner of his dining room.

From behind him, Danny listened to Johnny Carson’s monologue and the laughter of The Tonight Show’s audience. He reached one hand behind his computer, found a thick, black switch, and clicked it. With a
ch-chunk
the computer hummed to life. The monitor started to glow as the screen warmed up.

After waiting a short while, the computer was finally ready for use. Danny typed in a few keystrokes, and a modem in the computer screeched and chirped to life. After several more minutes of waiting for the phone line to connect and the annoying thrum of dial tones, Danny was online. The whole process took just under twelve minutes; Carson’s monologue had ended on the television behind him by the time he was online.

The dark glow of the computer monitor lit Danny’s face. The screen was primarily black, with stacked vertical rows of text that featured topic headers. A bulletin board system, and Danny’s favorite one at that: Gaming North West.

It was a small coalition of arcade owners and video game players assembling online from all across the Pacific North West. On the board, users could post messages about business, upcoming arcade releases, home video games, home video game consoles; anything at all, really. Once, Danny was searching for tips and tricks that he could utilize on his home copy of Contra. A user on Gaming North West had posted (what would go on to be) the infamous “Konami Code”: Up, Up, Down, Down, Left, Right, Left, Right, B, A. If that button sequence was inputted into a Nintendo controller, the player would receive thirty extra lives. Danny swore that the cheat code was the only way Todd and him were able to successfully complete the game—and, even with the thirty extra lives, they came close to defeat.

Danny sighed. The late night Contra marathon with Todd was a good memory.

He scanned the discussion topics on Gaming North West. Everything from cabinet repair to the best places in town to eat were mentioned. Some kind user in cyberspace had erected a memorial post in honor of Todd.

Danny hadn’t talked about it with Aaron yet, but the reason he was perusing the bulletin board so late at night was to get a feel for how difficult it would be to sell the arcade. Danny had so many questions, all ranging from liquidating stock to settling debts. The whole thing would be a nightmare.

Truth be told, Planet X had a profitable night. But Danny knew the sudden boom in business was directly related to Todd’s death. That alone made him sick. Added to that was the certainty that, in a week or two, business would be back to normal. And, business wasn’t great. Without Todd around, it only made things worse. Aaron was a suitable replacement, but Danny’s heart just wasn’t in Planet X anymore. As hard as it would be, it was time to jump ship.

Danny clicked an arrow key on his keyboard and scrolled through the list of topics on the bulletin board. Some members mentioned the usual talking points—profit loss, downsizing, the death of an industry—but nothing too useful for Danny. Again, he sighed.

He was about ready to give up, when a topic entirely unrelated to his search caught his eye. The heading simply read: “Phantasos?”

Danny looked over his shoulder. Aaron was passed out on the couch—snoring, drooling—as Johnny Carson began an interview with Jim Carrey.

He looked back to the computer screen and, after a short hesitation, clicked the link:

Gaming North West –
Serving the Pacific North West since 1989!
Subject:
Phantasos?

Submitted by User:
PortlandGamerGuru69

Submission Date:
5/02/1990

Message:
Hey everyone. I’m sure by now you’ve heard the news that Vidtronix is headed towards financial ruin. I guess that’s bound to happen when you only manufacture a single video game.

I was wondering if anyone on here has installed a Phantasos machine? Vidtronix offered my arcade a cabinet, but we passed, despite their tempting offer. Simply did not have enough floor space to fork over for $100 a month.

I’ve come across some strange rumors. You know what they say: once is a coincidence, twice is serendipitous, and thrice is a pattern. Too much to ignore. A lot of bad has happened to folks who play this game. Don’t think I’m crazy or ban me from the board, but the legend going around out here is as follows:

If you play Phantasos, it puts something in you. A little tormentor. It will drive you mad and bring you bad luck (until you meet your demise? Depending on who tells the story). Don’t write me off as crazy yet!

I normally don’t believe in such foolishness, but there’s been some interesting tales spreading around out here. There have been several instances of people playing the machine and falling ill, or having really upsetting hallucinations.

I played a Phantasos machine just the other day. It had some very radical visuals. If you’ve played it, you know what I mean.

I haven’t been sick or anything like that, but I was nearly rear ended while driving on the I-3 last week. Then again, I’ve always had bad luck. :-)

Just wondering if anyone out there in GNW-land has had any interesting stories to share. Leave a reply and I’ll try to get back to you.

Danny reclined in his desk chair and crossed his arms. Vidtronix had offered this particular member a measly $100 to host a Phantasos machine. Why was Planet X offered five times as much? The company must have really started to get desperate. He clicked the down arrow on his computer to read some of the user replies:

MrV – 5/03/1990:
Idle nonsense. There’s a strong anti-video game movement in this nation, in politics. They have an agenda to push. That’s why you’ve seen so many articles on the machine—the papers love to pick up any story that can link video games to being dangerous for children.

GameGuy71 – 5/05/1990:
I agree with MrV. I am so sick of turning on the news and hearing about how video games rot the mind. The incidents with Phantasos machines are nothing but cheap ratings grabs by the news media. If they’re dangerous, it’s because they’re top-heavy and are prone to overheating. Not because they’re haunted. And definitely not because they distort your mind.

DigDugDoug – 5/07/1990:
My buddy’s sister had a friend in Redmond, whose cousin played the game then vanished on a hike a few weeks after. No one ever saw him again. He’s just gone, man.

GameGuy71 – 5/09/1990:
Yeah, DigDugDoug, sounds like a really credible story. My sister’s boyfriend’s uncle just saw Bigfoot hanging around Lake Oswego last week. Get outta here with that nonsense.

DigDugDoug – 5/12/1990:
Go ahead, man, rag on me all you want. I’m telling the truth. It’s what I heard. Where is PortlandGamerGuru69, anyways? You’d think he’d have poked his nose around here by now.

PortlandGamerGuru69 – 5/15/1990:
It was all just a big, giant, stupid misunderstanding, guys. Let’s not lose our HEADS over it.

GameGuy71 – 5/16/1990:
We’re cool. What’s new, PGG69?

PortlandGamerGuru69 – 5/17/1990:
I can’t take it anymore.

DigDugDoug – 5/18/1990:
What do you mean, bud? Are you okay?

PortlandGamerGuru69 – 5/19/1990:
BYE BYE BYE BYE BYE BYE BYE BYE BYE BYE BYE BYE BYE BYE

At this point, Danny had to stop reading. He dropped his head into his hands and rubbed his forehead and eyes, then looked back up at the screen. He clicked the down arrow several times, but the screen refused to scroll. There were no more replies to be read. Quite appropriately, if not eerily, the virtual conversation ended on the word: bye.

Danny leaned back in his chair, then stretched and let out a yawn. As he did, he felt a hand drop onto his shoulder.

He jolted in his chair and shouted, “What the hell, man?”

“I’m sorry,” Aaron said. “I just got up to make a snack, was going to ask if you wanted anything. Thought while I was up I’d see what you were reading.”

“God, Aaron, you were sleeping like, five minutes ago!”

“So you were watching me…sleep?”

“No, I just noticed is all.”

“Then what is it? Is it too late for me to get a snack? You know, I didn’t even have to ask my mom permission for a midnight snack when I was living at home.” He opened the fridge.

Danny said, “Help yourself to a snack, just don’t startle me, wastoid.”

“What’s got you so spooked?” Aaron said. He finished pouring a cold glass of milk then rummaged through Danny’s pantry for some cookies.

“It’s nothing.”

“Not
nothing
. You’re reading about Phantasos. Don’t think I didn’t see. You a believer yet?”

“I’m becoming less skeptical by the hour, that’s for sure.”

“Sheesh,” Aaron said. “Who only keeps molasses and oatmeal-raisin cookies in their home? No chocolate chip?
Really
?”

“I’m sorry that my free cookies aren’t to your liking,” Danny said, and he scoffed.

“I’m so mad that I fell asleep during the Jim Carrey interview,” Aaron said, ignoring Danny’s sarcasm and taking a big bite out of a molasses cookie. “I wanted to see him do Fire Marshall Bill.”

“Oh, he didn’t do it,” Danny said. “I’ve been listening to the show all night.” He reached behind his computer, found the power switch, and turned the machine off.

“Good,” Aaron said. “Then I don’t feel so bad. Listen—are you all right, man?”

“I’m fine,” Danny said. “Just…a lot of things going on at once.”

“It’s been a rough forty-eight hours for you.”

Danny said, “You can say that again,” then he opened his bedroom door.

“Well, sleep easy, dude. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

Twenty-Six

BENJI ROLLED OVER ONTO HIS STOMACH, kicking his feet off the edge of his bed. He held his Gameboy a few inches from his face, struggling to find a comfortable angle to view it from. The screen wasn’t backlit, so it had to be held at
just
the right degree from his nightstand lamp to see it. Tilt too far to the left, and the screen was nothing but reflected glare; too far to the right, and the images on the screen were dark and indiscernible. What a pain.

While he fidgeted with his video game, the sound of screaming tires cut through the quiet night. Rubber, spinning and burning in place, making an ungodly squealing screech.

Benji dropped his Gameboy on his pillow and leapt from his bed, then hurried to his window. On the street below he watched a ’74 Dodge Challenger burning out right in front of the Emerson home. A thick fog of smoke and dust enveloped the vehicle, making the driver hard to identify. The tires stopped, the smoke began to clear, and Benji saw him behind the steering wheel, his wide face illuminated by a street lamp. Rodney Frye.

Rodney nodded a couple of times then looked up at Benji’s bedroom window. Benji ducked back and away from his blinds, hopeful that Rodney hadn’t seen him, and the tires spun again. Only this time Rodney let off the brake, and all two tons of the Challenger rocketed down Shady Reach. Benji thought that if the car had wings, the son of a bitch would have taken off clear into the night.

As soon as the black beast had vanished from the street, a flashlight started to flicker through Benji’s bedroom window. He spun around and hopped towards his nightstand, grabbing his walkie. He flipped it on, and even though he was high up in his bedroom with his window shut, he coughed on the acrid odor of Rodney’s burning tires.

“Holy shit. Over.” Alley said.

“I know, right? What was that? Over.”

“I wonder if it’s his. If his parents bought it for him. Over.”

“Unreal. I didn’t even know he had his license. Over.”

“He’s such a tool bag, of course he’d get a Challenger—”

There was a knocking at Benji’s bedroom door.

“I gotta go,” Benji said. “I hope you’re feeling better, talk later, over.”

Without asking permission, Benji’s dad pushed open his bedroom door. The door squeaked and light from the outside hall poured in over Benji, making him squint.

His dad looked at the walkie-talkie in his hand and the chirping Gameboy on his pillow.

“You do understand what grounded means, don’t you son?”

“I’m sorry. I just—”

“Do you know what that was all about, out there?”

“What?”

Benji’s dad crossed his arms. “The Challenger that thought it was a part of the Daytona 500.”

“No, I—”

“Alley’s sick, Benji. Terribly sick. The Emerson’s are juggling a very ill child and a teenage daughter. On top of that, they’re working very hard at their jobs to make ends meet. Do you understand these things, Ben? You’re not a child anymore. Do you understand all they have to sacrifice?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So when Mr. Emerson comes home at night and finds you whaling on Rodney Frye, do you understand why he’d be ticked off? Do you understand why you’ve been locked up here all day and night?”

“Yes. Sir.”

“And now this, this little parade of male testosterone and aggression in front of our house.” Mr. Bauer scoffed. “Whoever thought Rodney Frye should be handed the keys to a Challenger should have their head examined. But that’s beside the point. Listen, Ben. You gotta talk to me. Whatever happened between you two boys, let me know, now. Because I want you two to be square.”

Mr. Bauer stood in Benji’s doorway, waiting.

“I…I technically broke his Walkman.”

“How?”

“On the last day of school. I ratted him out for listening to it, and the teacher made him put it away, and when he did…he knocked it on the floor, and it broke. Everyone laughed at him.”

“Anything else?”

“I stabbed his bike tire with a pen.”

“Jesus, Ben. Haven’t we raised you better than this?”

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Bauer sighed, pulled his wallet from his back pocket, and yanked a crisp twenty-dollar bill from it. He handed the bill to Benji and said, “You pay that boy for his Walkman. This should cover it. I could give a rat’s ass about his bike tire, because clearly he’s upgraded. You settle this, Ben, and from now on I don’t ever want to see that boy around here again. No more scrapping, no more fighting. The kid is bad news, from bad parents. But you’re going to do what’s right and hopefully that’ll be the end of it. Before somebody gets really hurt.”

Benji took the twenty and said, “Okay.” The bill felt like it weighed one hundred pounds in his hand; the dense guilt and shame of letting down his parents, neatly folded and tucked behind the face of Andrew Jackson.

“Your behind is going to be in my shop from the crack of dawn to closing time for all of next week to earn back that money. So enjoy tonight and get some rest.”

“Yes, sir,” Benji said, and his father firmly closed his bedroom door.

Across the street Alley lay in bed, his blankets pulled taught over him. It was very late now; the living room was quiet, so his parents must have finished watching Carson. Lauren played her stereo quietly at night, but her room was silent, too. She must have drifted off to sleep.

It had been an exciting night after Alley passed out in the bathroom. Mrs. Emerson insisted on taking him to the Emergency Room, but when Alley came to, he pleaded to stay home. He walked downstairs with his mother and sister, picked at some chicken soup and ginger ale to settle his stomach, then came to bed. He’d been watching Three’s Company reruns on his tiny black and white television unbothered, up until Rodney Frye’s less than subtle advertising of his new vehicle.

With Rodney gone and Benji unable to talk, Alley turned the volume knob on his TV to low and returned to bed.

He had nearly drifted to sleep, his head propped up on a stack of pillows, when he saw her. She was a faint outline at first; a silhouette standing in the corner of his room.

He closed his eyes, told himself that he was imagining things again, and ignored the figure.

After a short silence, the floorboards beyond his bed started to creak. Quietly at first, almost impossible to hear. The creaking came closer and louder, until Alley was certain someone was standing beside his bed.

He couldn’t stand it any longer—he had to open his eyes. She stood just inches from his bed, and he exhaled, relieved that she had a face this time and didn’t appear menacing or threatening.

In fact, she was quite pretty—she bore a striking resemblance to Melissa Tipton, a high school senior that Alley had a crush on a year or two back. He hadn’t seen Melissa in some time, not since she moved away for college, but the similarities between the two were uncanny. They even dressed alike. The girl in his room wore a faded, tattered Metallica t-shirt and worn out denim jeans.

“Who are you?” Alley asked, studying the mysterious figure.

Softly, she said: “You know who I am.”

Alley gulped.

“You remember me from the arcade?”

Alley nodded. When he played Phantasos, her face was the last thing he’d remember seeing before he fainted. He couldn’t recall it before, but now the memory was rushing back.

She crept closer to the bed, then climbed on top of it, until she was kneeling above Alley, pinning him at the waist between her knees and his mattress.

“How did you get in here?” Alley said.

The girl laughed, started swaying back and forth slowly. “I have all sorts of ways to get close to people, Alley.” She reached one hand outward and brushed her fingernails gently along his cheek. “I can be what they fear, or I can be what they want. Sometimes, if I’m lucky, I’m both. Whatever gets me close.”

The girl removed her hand from Alley’s face, used both to pull her long, dark hair behind her shoulders.

“Why are you following me?”

“Because you let me in, Alley. Just like all the others. It’s nothing personal, I hope you understand,” and she pouted her lips. “It’s just…my nature,” and in a single fluid motion she removed her top.

Alley practically choked, staring up at the girl atop him, her bare features outlined by the streetlight filtering through his blinds.

She reached down, took Alley’s hand, and guided it to her hip. Her skin was cool and soft. “Now’s not the time to be shy,” the girl said.

“I don’t like this.”

“Of course you do.”

“I don’t.” Alley recoiled his hand away.

She seemed frustrated. Impatient.

“You don’t have to draw this out forever, Alley,” the girl said, continuing to sway.

“Just—just go away.”

The girl brought her face close to his and whispered, “Oh, Alley. I’m never going away.”

Alley whimpered. Her breath smelled foul, like rotting garbage left out in the sun on a summer day.

“What do you want?” he asked.

The girl leaned back, smirked, and her flesh melted from her bones in acrid, sizzling globs. It drizzled over Alley and his blankets until all that was left was a monstrosity, a partially decayed corpse with straw for hair, bones sticking out from all directions. She stunk something horrible, the smell of sulfur and decay. Her eyes were hollowed, dark sockets that pierced through Alley’s very being, and she clicked her bony jaw open:

“You, Alley. All I want is you.”