Author's Note: Erik and Christine do not belong to me (insert melodramatic sigh). Anything you don't recognize belongs to me. This story will be mixing elements of Leroux, Webber, and Kay.

March

"I don't embrace trouble…but I do say meet it as a friend, for you'll see a lot of it and had better be on speaking terms with it." – Oliver Wendell Holmes

Maddox's Home for the Mentally Ill- or just Maddox, as it's usually called- was once widely regarded as the country's foremost psychiatric institution. It was the place where the prominent wealthy stored their embarrassing secrets, and those secrets just happened to be people.

On the surface, it seemed quite nice; gleaming mahogany floors and Persian rugs. The staff was friendly, cheerful, and knowledgeable. Respectability oozed from the flowered wallpaper. If you had to abandon your loved one to an asylum, this would be your first choice.

Of course, I wasn't here then. This is information I've gathered in the past month or so. Some of it is gossip, so it may be unreliable. It was almost half a century ago, after all.

But everyone agrees that there was something very, very wrong at Maddox. Many patients had babbled for years, even decades, about shocks and lights and knives, but the words of a lunatic weren't worth much. And finally, someone took the inmates seriously: a reporter, hoping to get that legendary Big Story, did some investigating. As his questions became more and more accusatory, the doctors refused to answer them and even barred him from the property. But nothing stands in the way of an amateur journalist and his Big Story! One can only suppose that some rather illegal things happened after that, because the reporter got his exposé. GRUESOME EXPERIMENTS AT MADDOX, the newspapers proclaimed. FEDERAL INVESTIGATION PENDING.

But the federal investigation never happened. Nothing happened. Everyone- the inmates, the doctors, the staff- just left for the day and never came back. Most of the doctors disappeared without a trace. Dusty jackets still lay haphazardly on chairs. Potted plants were left to die. And most bizarrely of all, a Christmas tree still stands in one of the offices, though the calendar clearly indicates that it was August at the time.

Most conveniently, all records of the experiments are gone, presumably burned. Not that I expected differently; such a thorough cleanup would not have neglected the most damning evidence. All other documents have remained, however- case notes, journals, even unpaid bills are all still here and mostly legible (a few pages have been destroyed by the moths and rats).

One doctor in particular has captured my attention: a Miss Sarah Walker. Sarah's notes and diary are missing pages, so she was obviously involved in the experiments, though her motives seem to be innocent. In some twisted way, she believed that she was helping her charges. She wrote:

Belmont is becoming increasingly hostile and irrational. His newest delusion is that he is a holy warrior sent by God to purify the Earth before the Second Coming. He claims to hear angelic voices and believes he has the power to exorcise demons. We had only been talking for a few minutes when he decided I needed salvation, which apparently comes in the form of murder by a sharpened toothbrush. Thankfully, the guards sedated him before any damage was done. If Prometheus succeeds, he could be cured. He could return home to his family and live normally, and cease to be a shadow of the man he once was!

Prometheus- the Greek Titan that stole fire from the gods and gave it to man. What a pretentious name for such sadism.

Dr. Walker lacked the coldness necessary to be Prometheus's architect; she was only the tool to carry it out. By all accounts, she was extremely intelligent and dedicated to helping others, if a bit naïve. She had just graduated when she came to Maddox. But as a woman in a man's world, she must have fought very hard to get to where she was. At times she had a certain firmness – still kind, still Sarah, but a Sarah that stood her ground.

The ancient recorder whirs and clicks. I'm surprised that it still works.

Patient Interview #14 with Felicia Patrick. She remains as uncooperative and infuriating as ever. It is becoming more and more difficult to keep my temper in check. I think she's trying to prove something.

A knock on the door and another voice, a guard perhaps. "Hey, missy." Was she always being reminded that she was a woman? "I've got your gal-pal here."

"Oh, right. Show her in." The door opens. "Hello, Felicia."

"Hello, Sarah."

"We've gone over this, Felicia." Assertive, slightly exasperated. "You are to call me Doctor Walker, or just Doctor."

Felicia is undeterred. She barrels on coolly and logically. "I fail to see why that matters, Sarah. That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." Felicia had a penchant for quoting Shakespeare.

"It's just courteous."

"But it's your name. How could that be offensive?"

Sarah takes control. "We'll talk about it another time. We are here to talk about you, Felicia."

"There' s not much to say. My social life is dead because this creepy place scares off all my boyfriends."

"Creepy? How so?"

"It's nothing exact. Just the way the moon seems so big and how the coyotes howl and all the ghost stories. This place just has a bad aura. Haven't you noticed?"

"No."

"Well, I have." Felicia liked talking about herself. "Every place has an aura, you know. This area, Houten, generally has a good aura. Green, growing, life. But here in Maddox, the aura is black. Dark, evil."

"I don't understand. Why do you say that the aura here is black?"

"I don't know, Sarah. Perhaps you can tell me."

With one last click, the tape ends.

Did Felicia know what was going one? It's possible. She was supposedly very intelligent, a genius. But despite her cleverness, she could be so fanciful sometimes. Auras. What nonsense.

The 'ghost stories'. She was probably referring to the legend of Wematin Road.

The streets here are uncompromisingly long and winding, originally built for horses rather than sports utility vehicles, and Wematin Road is the longest, narrowest, and mistiest of them all. Most of the locals believe it to be haunted.

Hundreds of years ago, the Dutch colonized this place and lived with the nearby tribe in relative harmony. The chief had several beautiful wives, and he was very jealous and possessive of all of them. However, one of the farmers fell in love with and subsequently kidnapped the chief's favorite. The chief and the farmer dueled, supposedly on that very road, and the farmer won. It is now widely believed that his ghost prowls there on nights when the fog is thick, forever searching for his beloved.

God, people are stupid.

I couldn't have picked a better place- an abandoned asylum on a haunted road in a town brimming with superstition. Much quieter than Paris, and much more suited to my needs.

Monsieur Giordano will be arriving soon. He is always on time. Always.

I rise out of the plush armchair and gaze around my latest living quarters. When I arrived, it was mouldy, dusty, and filled with spiders- not that I mind spiders; I'm actually quite fond of them. I did some cleaning, dragged some of the least decrepit furniture here, and voilà. The attic now resembles a comfortable bedroom. Resembles, mind, not is. One can only accomplish so much on a budget of zero.

I sidestep the various creatures inhabit Maddox- mice, rats, insects, and the tabby cat. She watches me with large yellow eyes.

"I don't have anything for you," I say. She follows me anyway, tail swishing from side to side. We walk past peeling wallpaper and frayed carpets. The visitor center, where I have been staying, is not exactly Buckingham Palace, but it's better than the patients' ward.

When Christine unmasked me during Don Juan Triumphant, she confirmed what I already knew: I can never be a normal man. I can never make an honest living. I should have remained a ghost.

Oh, Christine! Beautiful, dear Christine! Why? Why? Why did you do that to me? Did I frighten you? I must have. Looking back on my actions, I can truly say I was half mad, if not wholly so. What was I thinking? I could not have kept you in the dark, you're afraid of it! You surely would have died, just as the lily perishes without sunlight! Oh, I was a fool, a terrible fool.

I cannot hope to ever obtain her forgiveness. I do not deserve it. But I would like her to know that I am not angry with her. I want to tell her that, if she ever needs him, her teacher will help her in any way he can. But every time I sit down, pen in hand, I cannot do it. I cannot bear to intrude upon my angel's life again. I cannot trust myself. One thing will lead to another, and another and another!

And perhaps, my diseased conscience wheezes, the right thing is to leave her. Don't ruin her new life, with her Prince Charming and country house with a white picket fence, with her pretty clothes and her pretty friends.

Let her be.

Perhaps I can apologize one day, but not now. Both our wounds are far too fresh, and I will not allow myself to destroy her a second time.

I would have become a real ghost if I stayed at the Opéra Populaire, so I did the only sensible thing and left. I certainly couldn't stay in Paris, or even in Europe. I was too recognizable. I fled across the ocean to this wretched little nowhere and found it perfect.

At first it was just a place to hide and lick my wounds. But it became much, much more when I discovered that they were planning to convert one of these old wrecks into a concert hall. A concert hall! I don't believe in God, but that certainly tested my atheism.

…M. Giordano is not just on time, it seems. He is early, and I wish I could clap my hands over my ears. The little fool carries the local accent. Whenever he says a word with an "aw" sound, it is ridiculously exaggerated. Coffee becomes cawfee, moth becomes mawth, and so on. He sounds like a crow! But since M. Giordano occasionally says something of importance, I must listen.

The building's electricity was shut off decades ago, and I doubt most of the fixtures are working. I skulk in the shadows above Giordano and his contractor, by the twin staircases, where there's a balcony of sorts.

Giordano is not alone. Another man's voice floats upward.

"I've heard ya've got ambitious plans for this place."

"Oh, yes sir. The village is growing exponentially. A source of entertainment has been lawng overdue."

"You're not worried it'll fail, then?"

"Why would it?...Oh, you mean because people say it's haunted?"

"Well, yeah. If there's anywhere that's cursed, it's here, don't ya think?"

"I don't know, hawnestly. But I'm not going to let it get in the way of this prawject."

That's what he thinks.

"Maybe not, but people won't come to a haunted concert hall."

"Of course they would. Nothing sells like scandal." Ah, the boy has a brain after all. Who knew?

"I s'pose that's true."

"Anyway," Giordano's voice becomes excited. "I want to show you what I'm going to do with this hawll. We're going to keep most of the original structure- it's Victorian, you know. The biggest part is the left staircase…well, left from the entranceway. The broken one, you know what I mean…" The granite staircase to my right has several large cracks. Only a fool would attempt to travel it. "We're going to knawck it down and rebuild it. The other one is fine, it's been checked. Gawd, inspectors are irritating. Necessary, though. Can't have staircases collapsing on us."

The other man hurriedly jots down notes.

"The lights and window panes will have to be replaced. Kids. I don't understand- why would you destroy something so beautiful?"

"They're kids, they get bored 'n' decide to come in here 'n' drink or get high or somethin'. Not even the cawps'll follow them here."

"What? Is that really true?"

"Yep. My godson 'n' his buddies snuck in here 'bout a year ago with some pot, 'n' when they came out the police was waitin' for 'em."

Giordano is quiet. Perhaps he doesn't like the idea of being so vulnerable.

The rest of their conversation is useless. Giordano prattles about velvet drapes and building codes. His friend scribbles in his notepad. But for that entire afternoon, one phrase reverberates in my mind:

Nothing sells like scandal.

Please review! And if anyone has trouble deciphering Houten-speak, let me know and I'll provide a handy-dandy translation guide at the end of each chapter!