Phantasos (20 page)

Thirty-Seven

RODNEY SAT ON HIS BED, PICKING at a cold slice of pizza, an old episode of The Twilight Zone playing on his television. He groaned, rolled over onto his back, and thought about how bored he was.

He brushed some pizza crust crumbs off of his bed and onto the floor, then hopped to his feet. He waddled towards a bookshelf in the back of his room and ran his fingers over some Nintendo cartridges, deciding on which one he would play. In total, Rodney owned thirty-nine Nintendo game packs, more than anyone else in school.

Most of them were bought for him by his father. His mother abhorred video games—she blamed his double repeat of the seventh grade on his dizzying collection of them. On more than one occasion his mother threatened to have them thrown away, or donated to charity, or pawned. But each time the subject was brought up, Rodney would protest—often violently.

His mother’s new husband wasn’t much help to her, either. Anytime the issue was brought up, his response would be something to the effect of: “Let the damn kid have the damn games.” Rodney didn’t have many friends, and as his stepfather saw it, the more electronic distractions he had the less trouble he might cause.

Funny how that worked out.

Rodney picked up a copy of Snake, Rattle and Roll, looked it over, and thought of how much he wanted to play it. He shook his head and returned it to the shelf. That game was only ever really fun if you had a second player to play with you.

Rodney never had anyone to play with him.

And that sentiment didn’t seem likely to change anytime soon. Since the accident, whatever friends he once had stopped coming around. His cousin Gilbert, who lived two towns over, stopped visiting on the weekends. His buddy Tom, a freshman at neighboring Glendale High, hadn’t been around since the accident either.

Rodney Frye was trouble—and no one wanted to be near it. They treated his insubordination and ill temperament as if it was contagious. Friends, family, parents…no one wanted their fingerprints on the bomb before it exploded.

Rodney started scanning through his video game collection one more time—
Not this one, not interested, already beat it—
when he heard a rustling in the kitchen.

He looked at the clock on his bedroom dresser. It was only ten; his parents wouldn’t be back until well after midnight.

He turned to the television, clicked a button on the side of it a few times until the volume lowered, then listened again.

Skitter. Skitter skitter.

“Hey,” Rodney called out from behind his door. “Who’s out there?”

The skittering stopped.

He twisted his bedroom doorknob and stepped into the hallway outside.

Skitter.

Whatever the sound was, it was coming from the kitchen.

“Mom?” Rodney hollered, inching closer to the end of the hall.

He reached the edge of the wall, just before it turned into the kitchen, and hit a light switch. Everything looked normal enough.

Another step forward. He turned into the kitchen and was shocked when he saw—

The refrigerator door was open. Someone was standing behind it; Rodney could see a pair of feet between the gap at the bottom of the fridge and the floor, and a head of hair peeking out over the fridge door.

“Who the hell are you?” Rodney demanded.

The refrigerator door closed slowly. Standing in the kitchen was a very familiar man, taking sips off a glass bottle of beer.

“Hey, son. Doesn’t your mom keep anything decent to eat in the house?”

“Dad?” Rodney ran over to the fridge, wrapped his arms around his father. “Dad…what are you doing here?”

Rodney’s father slapped his son’s back, then tousled his hair. “I tried to fly up sooner, kid. I really did. This was the soonest I could make it. I wanted to be here for you…after the accident.”

Rodney took a step back. “I didn’t think I was going to see you this summer.”

“I know, I know. Work’s been a dog. But when I heard about the trouble you were having, I took a few days to clear my schedule. Then, I caught the first flight up.”

“It’s so good to see you, dad. It’s been awful here.”

“Tell me all about it, son,” and he reached into the fridge and grabbed a second beer. “Have a drink with your old man.”

“I can’t…I can’t drink that.”

“Sure you can. I’m telling you it’s all right.”

“What if mom finds out?”

“Who cares? You’re with me now.”

“Okay.”

His father took a beer from the fridge, pulled a church key from his back pocket, and uncapped the bottle for Rodney. Rodney took it in his hand, uncertain of what he should even do with it.

“Ain’t you ever had a beer before?”

“No.”

His father slapped the fridge. “I’ll be damned. She’s not letting you have any fun up here, is she?”

“Mom?”

“Yeah, mom. She keeping you under lock and key, or what?”

“I don’t know, dad. Not really.”

“Ain’t ever had a beer. Alone at home on a Friday night. Damn, Rod. I bet you ain’t even been with a woman yet—you know, romantically.”

“I don’t really want to…talk about this. When did you get in? I didn’t hear the door open.”

Rodney’s father smiled a big, toothy grin. “I’ve still got a key, boy. Hell, it’s still my house for crying out loud.”

Rodney nodded. “Mom never mentioned you were coming.”

“Why would she? That old bag still has it out for me.”

Rodney felt uneasy. He looked around the kitchen. One of the chairs was pulled out from the table—the chair he sat at earlier, when his mom was home. It was pulled out, and coiled on the seat of it was a long braided rope.

His father looked at Rodney, then at the chair, and back to Rodney. “Why don’t you come outside with me, Rod? I’ve got something I want to show you. Carry that for me, will you?”

Nervously, Rodney nodded. He walked over to the table, grabbed the piece of rope, and walked back to his father.

“No,” his father said. “The chair too, you silly duck. You’ve gotta bring the chair, too.”

Rodney followed his father out to the backyard, a kitchen chair under one armpit, the long rope under the other. They walked to the back end of the yard until his father stopped before a giant oak tree. He nodded, motioning for Rodney to set down the chair and rope.

“What are we doing?” Rodney asked.

“We’re gonna build you a swing. Boy your age should be outside more, playing in the mud, getting dirty. Being active.” Rodney’s father shifted his gaze to his son’s giant gut. “Toss the end of the rope over this big branch over here.”

“I don’t think I can reach it.”

“Well, you gotta. These thinner branches down here, see…” Rodney’s father reached up, grabbed a low hanging branch, and shook it. “They won’t support your weight. You’re a big boy, Rodney.”

Rodney nodded, stood on the chair, and tossed the rope over a high branch.

“Good, son. That’s good.”

“Now what?”

His father took the dangling end of the rope and tied a tight knot, pulling the loose end of the rope taught until it was tied firmly around the branch. When that was finished, he started tying a small loop at the end of the rope.

Rodney gulped. He wanted to kick his legs forward and run, but he was frozen from the waist down, as if someone had cemented his feet to the chair. He opened his mouth to scream, but all that came out was a quiet shiver.

“We’re not building a swing, are we, dad?” he mumbled. Broken.

Rodney’s father shook his head: No.

“Then what are we doing?”

“The right thing,” his father said. “You know, you made a lot of folks around here angry. That slick attorney your bitch mother hired did quite the number on this shit-hole town. A lot of people want justice for how you’ve behaved.”

“Justice?”

“Yes, justice. God, Rodney—you say the word like you’ve never heard it before. Like it’s some foreign fucking language. I know you repeated seventh grade a few hundred times, but…come on.”

“Please don’t do this.”

“There it is. That’s what I like to hear. The begging. My last two wouldn’t beg. Ah—I’ve missed it!”

“I’ll do whatever you want.”

“Bartering, too! I knew you’d be an easy one. Lean forward.”

Rodney tried to fight the muscles in his neck, but against his will they moved forward, until his head was slipped into the carefully constructed noose his father made.

“You’re not my dad.”

Rodney’s father clicked his tongue. “Ah…nope.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m your nightmare, Rodney. I’m the shadow you see in the middle of the night, just out of the corner of your eye. I’m the feeling you get in the pit of your stomach right before something bad happens.”

Rodney’s father pulled the noose taught around his son’s neck, then looked Rodney over, satisfied.

“Please…please…” Rodney started to cry.

His father gently slapped his cheek, then mocked him: “
Please…please…
I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. This was decided for you the moment you played my game.”

Rodney swallowed hard, tried to jerk his body around.

His father took a step back, clothes and skin falling from his body, until all that stood before Rodney was an abomination. A frame of curving bones and rotting, sinewy flesh; atop it, a head, covered in wiry grey hair. Two dark, endless black holes where eyes should be, staring through Rodney. Terrifying him.

Rodney tried to close his eyes, but couldn’t.

“You really want to move those legs, don’t you?”

Rodney nodded, choked out: “Yes, please.”

The figure before him smiled and said, “Your wish is my command.”

In an instant Rodney’s feet were free, kicking and flailing. He knocked the chair right out from underneath himself.

Without the chair’s support, Rodney swung free and by his neck. The branch of the oak tree lurched and groaned. He swayed back and forth, a pendulum clock, watching the monstrosity a few feet ahead of him laugh a sinister laugh.

Slowly, his vision blurred. The figure faded, the laughs became a distant echo, and all went black.

Thirty-Eight

BENJI SAT UP IN HIS BED, covered in a cold sweat, chest heaving. His room was quiet, dark.

His sheets were soaked—he must have had a nightmare. He couldn’t remember what of, but he was trembling.

He turned to the clock on his nightstand. The red, digital display read: 10:52 PM.

With a groan he hopped out of his bed and stretched, then started to pace his room.

Something horrible had happened. He just
knew
it.

On his nightstand, his walkie stood. The same place it had stood since Alley’s accident, never to be used again. He would do anything, he thought, to pick it up and talk to him.

Benji peeled off his t-shirt and tossed it into the corner of his room, then returned to bed. He rubbed his eyes a few times and pulled a cover over his head.

Sleep. I just need to get back to sleep.

From the corner of his room, he swore he heard a floorboard creak. He whipped the blanket off of his face and studied his room.

Nothing.

Then—a familiar sight. The blinking of a flashlight. The strobes of light illuminated his room, shining in from the window across the street.

Benji gulped, looked at the walkie on his nightstand, then back across the street at the Emerson’s home. Three more flashlight blinks.

It was Lauren—it had to be—she must have known of the late-night ritual Alley and he shared. Surely she was aware of their secret flashlight messages followed by walkie conversations.

Benji fumbled for the walkie on his nightstand, picked it up, and turned it on. His mind wandered at the thought of why Lauren would need to speak with him so late at night.

Across the street, Alley’s room was dark.

There was nothing but quiet static coming through the walkie’s speaker.

Benji slid his thumb over the call button on the walkie, and pressed it. “Lauren?”

The only reply was the steady hum of white noise.

“Lauren, are you there—”

“Goodnight Over Goodnight Over Goodnight Over Goodnight Over Goodnight Over Goodnight Over Goodnight Over—”

“Who is this? Lauren?”

“—ight Over Goodnight Over Goodnight Over Goodnight Ov—”

“Whoever this is, please stop. Please leave this channel!”

Benji flipped the walkie-talkie, the voice on the other end still repeating its monotone message, and pried off the cover of the battery compartment. Once the nine-volt inside the device was exposed, he yanked it out and tossed it across the floor.

Sitting on his bedroom floor, panting, Benji squinted to see inside Alley’s room. The curtains were pulled open slightly, moonlight glinting off the glass. He couldn’t see inside.

It wasn’t Lauren, the voice wasn’t feminine; but, it could have been anyone. Plenty of kids in town played with walkie-talkies. Sometimes when Alley and Benji would talk at night, their frequency would overlap with someone else down the street. Once in a while, they would even intercept radio transmissions from the Grand Ridge fire and police departments.

It could have been anyone,
Benji kept telling himself.
It could have been anyone.

He sprawled out across his bed, covered his head with a pillow, and went back to sleep.

Benji had only slept for a short while when the sound of screaming sirens woke him. They were erupting from a procession of fire trucks and ambulances speeding up Shady Reach.

He hurried to his window and looked outside. Two fire trucks, an ambulance, and a police cruiser, to be exact.

Half awake, he spun back towards his bedroom clock. 11:42 PM. The sound of Johnny Carson’s voice was travelling up the stairwell from the living room, so his parents were still awake.

He grabbed a t-shirt from his dresser drawer and went downstairs, found his mom and dad sitting together on the living room loveseat.

“What are you doing up so late, Ben?” his father asked.

“What’s going on outside?”

“I wouldn’t have the slightest clue,” he said. “They’re just sirens, Ben. Are you okay? You look upset.”

Benji pulled the t-shirt over his head. “I want to check it out.”

“Ben, come on. Robin Williams is a guest tonight, your mother and I wanna see him. Get back to bed.”

Palettes of red and blue illuminated the living room blinds. Benji ignored his father and walked over to the living room window, spread apart the blinds and peeked out.

There was a police car in front of the Emerson’s home.

“I need to see what’s going on,” Benji said, and he dashed to the front door.

“Ben, get back here, Ben. Ben!”

Benji flew out the back door of his home then sprinted down his driveway. He reached the edge of Shady Reach and started to cross. He could see Lauren sitting on the Emerson’s porch, crying.

He ran into the street and a passing police cruiser whaled on its siren before screeching to a stop.

“Are you crazy, kid? You could have been hit,” the officer inside the police car hollered. “Get back home.” And then he continued up Shady Reach.

Benji nodded, waited for the police car to drive out of sight, then finished crossing the road.

When he arrived at the Emerson’s, a sheriff’s deputy was climbing back into his patrol vehicle. The deputy nodded to Benji, then took off up Shady Reach in the direction of the other vehicles.

Lauren was sitting in a patio chair on the Emerson’s porch, sobbing. Mr. and Mrs. Emerson were standing by the front door, visibly shaken and distraught. Mr. Emerson glared at Benji, put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, then said: “Don’t be out here long, Lauren. We’ll wait for you inside.”

Benji offered a weak, meager wave to Lauren’s parents, but they turned inside without reciprocating the gesture. He walked over to Lauren and sat beside her, then said, “What’s going on?”

“How did you know?” Lauren said.

“How did I know what?”

“That something bad would happen to Rodney Frye.”

Benji’s knee started to pump up and down nervously. “What do you mean, Lauren? What happened, Lauren?”

Lauren sobbed.

“Lauren,” Benji repeated. “What happened to Rodney?”

“What, like you don’t know? Why don’t you look into your magic crystal ball or play your video game—won’t that tell you?”

“Lauren, please—”

“He hung himself, Ben. His parents came home tonight and found him dangling from an oak tree in the back yard.”

“Wha—what?”

“How did you
know?
”

“I don’t know how I knew.”

“Because he played the video game, Ben? Is that what you want to tell me?”

“Yeah, but—”

“Did you play it, Benji?”

Benji paused.

“Did you play that miserable arcade game?”

“No, Lauren. No. I didn’t.”

“I’m scared, Benji. I’m scared. I just need a week without something horrible like this happening.”

Benji put an arm behind Lauren’s shoulder, rubbed her back.

He felt like he had swallowed stones. He wanted to vomit and pass out all at once.

As he patted Lauren’s shoulder, he looked up at his bedroom window from the Emerson’s front porch. He swore that—for a moment, at least—he saw himself standing behind the curtain, looking down at the street below.

Smiling.