“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 fro
nt 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.
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?”
&
nbsp; 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.”
Phantasos Page 18