His dark, black cloak flew out behind him as he led the young ballerina down the old, deteriorating, stone steps. All the girl could see in front of her was the endless black, with a sudden flash of white when the ghost, the man, the mystery turned to look at his protege.

She did not know what was ahead, only what was behind. Her life, her family, her love, her friends were all behind her, just as the light was. This, though, did not matter to her in that moment. The man, the music, the darkness itself captivated her, mesmerized her.

The ghost led her further into the darkness with a gentle hand. He cared for her, perhaps, even loved her in his own twisted way. But he did not lover her as her fiance loved her. No, this man, this angel of death or music, no one knew-not even himself, for, they maybe one in the same, loved this woman, this girl for her soul. Her soul alone, or the music in it was something that plagued him endlessly.

The lights grew even darker, if that was possible, as they descended. The stairway seemed completely endless to her. She smelled the sweet burning scent of smoke. So, there must be light of some kind in this dungeon, she concluded.

As the man, the ghost sensed the soft luminosity provided by the dimmed candles, he held onto her seemingly frail, feminine hand. He did not want her to recall the light above, to recall the life above. He wanted her to himself, to share the light and goodness of her soul with no one. He was selfish enough to not truly care if she did not love him. This love of his was an obsession.

She called to him, as he called to her. She may not have loved him as he loved her, but she felt a subtle pull, an instinct telling her that he was special, different. She did not know he was the angel of death, the angel of music.

They finally reached level bearings. He lightly held onto her pale arms with black leather gloves as she jumped across the water with the grace that a ballerina would kill for. She jumped across what he considered to be the point of no return. In his mind, she had crossed it, there was no going back now.

The boat glided away as he pushed from the wall with a pole not unlike the gondoliers in Venice. The silence was not even broken by any wave or movement of the water. As the neared his intended destination, she could see the burning candles, for they were the only source of light in this dungeon, this paradise.

In this moment, she did not want to go back to the light, her old life, her fiance. She would rather dwell endlessly in this darkness of beauty and music than face the harsh reality of above.

Her eyes were glazed over with the burning intensity of the darkest light, the candles. She was absolutely, completely mesmerized, hypnotized by this man, this ghost, this mystery.

Yet, to every spell there is a cure. Something that brings the subject back. Usually, it is set by the magician, the illusionist. Though, it is possibly for the trigger to be unbeknownst to even the illusionist.

Unfortunately for the ghost, the phantom, and fortunately for the girl, the singer, a trigger was set.

"Christine!"