Phantasos (19 page)

Thirty-Five

RODNEY PANTED AFTER EACH AND EVERY push of his pedals for the entire two-mile bike ride home.

If only that idiot kid hadn’t jumped out in front of me.

And it was true. Until the accident, there was absolutely no one in town who would have complained about him driving his stepfather’s old Challenger. Besides, even if someone had made a fuss about it, his uncle was a county sheriff. His punishment would have been a slap on the wrist—from the officers, at least. The beating that his mother’s new husband would inflict would be far worse than anything the juvenile justice system could ever dish out at him.

And it wasn’t difficult to sneak the Challenger out, either; his parents were rarely ever home to stop him.

His joyrides were perfect, and they could have went on until he was actually old enough to drive, had it not been for Alley Emerson running out in front of his car like a total idiot.

It wasn’t that Rodney wasn’t bothered by the accident, or that he didn’t feel bad for Alley—he just couldn’t fathom why he would be held accountable.
Alley
ran out into the street in front of
him,
whether he was old enough to drive the damn car or not. Why weren’t people able to understand that very important fact?

Rodney rode to the back of his cul-de-sac, where the Frye family home stood in the center of a well-manicured loop. It was an impressively sized Ranch, not too ostentatious but clearly the biggest on the street.

Sweating and exasperated, the boy dropped his bike on the front lawn—where he was constantly told not to leave it—and stood in the driveway for a bit, hunched over, catching his breath.

He looked up quick when he saw the curtains in the bay window facing the yard flutter back and forth. It was as if someone peeking out backed away before they could be noticed. Which was odd—his mother wouldn’t be home until five, and his stepfather until even later.

Rodney jammed his house key into the front door—locked—twisted it, and toddled through the front entrance way.

“Hello?” he called out.

No answer.

The lights were off, and even in the mid-afternoon the home was dark, quiet, and still. The drapes were heavy and blocked out light, no matter the time of day. Just the way his stepfather liked it.

Back when his folks were still together, the home was always brightly lit.

He turned his head towards the living room. There was no one there.

Rodney shrugged and stomped off towards the kitchen. He opened the fridge, grabbed a can of soda, and sat down at the table in the corner. He popped the can open and slobbered down the fizzy beverage, small rivers of it pouring out and over the corners of his lips, meandering down towards his chin until finally falling off in little, bubbly drip-drops. He slammed the can down—empty—wiped his mouth with his shirtsleeve and let out a thunderous belch.

Outside, he heard a car pull into the driveway. The engine shut off, a door slammed, and a moment later the front door opened.

“How many times have I told you about that Goddamn bike on the front lawn?” Rodney’s mother yelled.

Rodney sat at the table, unmoved, staring out the window over the sink.

His mother walked into the kitchen on heavy feet. “You gonna answer me?”

Rodney shook his head.

“The next time I find that fucking bike on the lawn, I’m throwing it in the county dump. You ungrateful little prick.”

His mom threw her purse onto the kitchen counter, rummaged through it, and fished out a twenty. She tossed the crumpled bill at Rodney, and it landed on the table.

“For dinner. Your father and I are going out.”

Rodney said, “He’s not my father.”

His mother heaved forward, eyes flickering with anger, an expression on her face that read:
No…not this shit again.
She reeled her hand back and slapped her son across the face.

Rodney didn’t even flinch. He took it, then sat quietly, his cheek flushed and stinging.

“He’s your father now, and you better be grateful for it. Chad is twice the man your sperm donor ever was. It’s his fault, you know, that our family is paying for your mistake. He didn’t want you cramping up his home in the swamp this summer. He’d rather spend the days playing golf and bending his secretary over the dining room table, than have to feed and take care of your fat ass for the next two months. If he held up his end of the bargain for once, I’d have a break from you, and you wouldn’t have ran down that kid.”

“Don’t talk about him like that. He’d have me down if he could; he was busy with work this summer. That’s all.”

“Keep telling yourself that, kid,” Rodney’s mother said, and she stroked her son’s face. “You know, I hate it when you make me do that.”

“I know.”

“Speaking of your mistake, I have to get over to the lawyer’s office before he leaves for Portland. I owe him one arm, one leg, and fifteen pints of blood.” His mother lit a cigarette, then tossed the still burning match into the sink and ran some water over it.

“I don’t know how many times I can say sorry.”

His mother laughed. “Sorry? Our family is the embarrassment of the town because of you. I can’t pick up our Goddamn groceries without a thousand dirty looks. And you’re sad because…why? Because you’re tired of having to say sorry?”

Rodney leaned back in his seat.

“I just came back to pick up my wallet. I’m leaving. I don’t want anyone in the house while we’re gone. Especially not any girls; not that that’s ever a problem. Understand?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Be good,” his mother shouted, slamming the front door shut.

Rodney waited until he heard the car’s engine turn over, the sound of his mother backing out of the driveway, then the fading tone of her car driving down the street.

When she was finally gone, Rodney stood up from his seat at the kitchen table, picked his chair up, threw it across the room, then screamed at the top of his lungs.

Rodney had screamed and screamed, nearly to the point of his lungs collapsing. When he was finished he stepped outside. He paced in circles around his backyard, the sun sinking lower in the sky.

He wandered towards the tree line behind his yard, eyes squinted, searching. After a short while he found what he was looking for: a shrub frog hiding in some bramble.

Carefully, he stuck his hand between the thorns and branches, caught the frog with his fist, and plucked it from the bush. He held it for a moment, the creature jumping frantically in his grasp. Then, he reeled his arm back, a baseball player winding up for the pitch. At maximum velocity he chucked the poor amphibian forward. It splatted against the trunk of an oak tree, and all at once its movements stopped.

That’s when Rodney noticed her in the tree line, standing still.

Watching.

“Who the hell are you?” Rodney called out. The figure was some distance away, masked beneath the shadows of the tall trees. “Wanna do something about it?” he added.

The figure in the distance smiled, then chuckled before saying: “Oh, you’re going to be an easy one.”

“What are you talking about, lady?” Rodney hollered.

But the silhouette in the tree line had already receded into woods.

Thirty-Six

BENJI FLEW DOWN SHADY REACH ON his bicycle, a rogue comet spiraling through space. His rear hovered over the bike’s seat, rarely touching it, his legs lunging upward and downward in a clock-like rhythm.

In no time at all he was back at the Emerson’s home. He was relieved to see that the family’s minivan was absent in the driveway.

There was still time to talk to Lauren.

Benji dropped his bike on the Emerson’s front lawn, hurried up the front steps, stood at the front door and knocked frantically.

Lauren opened the door. “Benji…what’s wrong?”

“Lauren,” he said. “I think I might have done something terrible.”

Lauren sat with her legs crossed on the living room couch. Benji was in the recliner across the room, facing her, his mouth hung open. Sunlight bled through the blinds behind Lauren, filling the room with golden hues that caught little bits and bobs of dust like glitter.

“Well?” Lauren said, after some time of silence had passed.

Benji gulped. She’d never believe him.

“Get on with it, Benji. It’s been a long day.”

“I think I know what was wrong with Alley. Why he was acting the way he was, I mean.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The day you asked me over to talk to him…we went back and forth on some things for a while. All of his problems started the day he played Phantasos.”

“Benji,” Lauren said. “Alley’s problems started long before we went to the arcade that day.”

Benji said, “No. The hallucinations. The bad dreams. All of those started the day he played Phantasos. He told me that…that he started having these visions of a girl, who bragged that she got
into
him after he played the game.”

“Ben…” Lauren was already fighting back tears. “Alley was saying a lot of strange things, Ben. The night he was sick, he had a temperature of one hundred and three. He was on a lot of medicines—a
lot
of them—and he was having some serious health problems.”

“You didn’t talk to him the way I did. You admitted that yourself. That’s why you had me come over in the first place. I’m telling you, Lauren—the things he talked about that morning…you should have heard him. He was honest. Sincere. I wish I took him more seriously.”

“Ben, all of this—it’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not,” Benji said. “What are the odds that the same day Alley played Phantasos, the owner of the arcade would be hit by a train?”

“I don’t know what those odds would be. But they’re probably big. It sounds like a coincidence—if you could even call it that. Why would those two things even be connected?”

“The arcade owner—Todd Prower—he must have played it, and then bad things happened to him. When he died, whatever was in that machine jumped into Alley when Alley played.”

“Do you know how crazy you sound right now, Benji? You’re not making any sense. Seriously—do you know that?”

“And when it was in Alley, he started acting weird. Whatever was in Phantasos—a ghost, a spirit, a phantom—it took over poor Alley’s head.”

“You’re starting to offend me now, Ben.”

“I talked Rodney Frye into playing Phantasos today.”

“Why would you do something that stupid?”

“So now you believe me? You didn’t before, but now that I might have put someone
else
in danger—you believe me?”

“No, it’s not that at all. I don’t know who put these stupid ghost stories in your head. The fact that you would engage Rodney at
all
is what’s stupid. You could have been hurt.”

“I think it’s him that’s going to be hurt. And I regret it now, Lauren. In the moment it felt so
right,
but as soon as it was over I felt sick to my stomach. There has to be something I can do.”

By this point, Lauren looked annoyed.

“Sure, Ben,” she said. “Why don’t you call the cops? Tell them everything you just told me. Maybe they can look over Rodney Frye tonight. Make sure he stays safe.”

“I’m being serious.”

“Oh, I am, too. That’s what you might as well do. I’ll get the phone for you if you want.”

“Lauren—”

“My family needs
peace
right now, Benji. My parents have never looked so miserable. I’ve never seen them look so tired or so empty. If you start running around town, screaming from the rooftops how worried you are over Rodney Frye…it’s just going to bring more attention to our home. We need to heal, Ben. The nonsense you’ve been talking about isn’t going to help us heal.”

“I really needed you to believe me today, Lauren.”

“I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t help you.”

“Alley would believe me.”

“Alley was believing a lot of things—that didn’t make them real.”

Benji stood up. “I better get home before either of our parents get off work. It’s funny—they’ve always been so worried about us sleeping together, or something stupid like that. And yet, I’ve never felt farther from you than I do right now.”

“You’re a regular fucking poet, Benjamin Bauer.”

Benji nodded and walked towards the front door. He opened it, then paused, turning back towards the living room. How he wished Alley would be sitting there.

“One more thing,” Benji said. “Whether you believe me or not—don’t ever play Phantasos. Okay? Alley made me promise. He made me promise that I would never play it, and that I would never let you play it, either.”

“Sure,” she said. “If it was that important to him. Not that I’d ever play it, anyways.”

Benji pushed through the door, but before he was entirely out, Lauren stood up from the couch and said: “Just how did you convince Rodney Frye to play Phantasos, anyways?”

Benji bit his lip, ran his fingers through his hair. “Take it easy, Lauren. Tell your parents I’m thinking of them.”

Then he shut the door, hopped on his bike, and pedaled home.