I've been hearing the rumors in the past 5 or 6 days. The whole opera was talking of this by now. Those people are annoyingly superstitious to believe of such nonsense. I am the only one who have ever wandered through all of the tunnels under the Opera house, and never there was more than pests, daring lads or drunks in the damp underground maze. The idea of ghosts was itching my mind a lot when I was younger but after years of void silence and blank blackness before my eyes I became convinced spirits didn't exist. Even the idea of haunting souls proved wrong, for I should be followed by a dozen till now. Nothing really. I kill them, they die and that's it. Annoying and troublesome but harmless otherwise.
By the end of the week every person with an eye or two was telling of their experience with the vision. The stories grew from controversial to ridiculous in a course of hours, depending on the skill of the narrator. The most fun it was when two groups would collide, each "witness" describing the woman differently. A brunette or a blonde? Tall or short? Young or elderly? There was appearance for every taste but one detail remained the same. The woman was carrying a baby, pressed to her bosom.
After hearing enough of these, I decided to search for the source of this miracle and to eliminate it. You may think I was jealous of their averted attention but you will be wrong. During the last year I heard plenty of mediocre performances, the lack of decent singers so obvious that I didn't even want to complain. Recently, however, the opera managed to employ several voices who were listenable and the last performance went much better. And now, instead of rehearsing the next opera they were losing time indulging in these ignorant believes. One of them went as far as to assume, it was a sign from heaven, that the Opera Ghost was gone for good. No comment.
According to the rumors, the woman was mostly seen outside of the theater not far from one of the rear entrances. So I climbed the roof of the most convenient house with a binoculars and began my night watch. It was the stupidest thing I've ever done but I needed to get rid of the nuisance. I waited there the whole night, looking carefully at every place and every creature coming into sight. Nobody resembling the target appeared.
I did the same on the following night, and on the night after. At that point, I knew someone was making that up, and I had fallen for it like a fool. After 3 sleepless nights I was ready to kill the joker without much explanation. Tired and disgruntled, I headed home when a certain turn of the tunnel reminded me of something, changing my destination. Quite irritated, I've almost forgotten it was time to change the candle.
Listening carefully, I entered the chapel. Strangely, the candle was only half burnt but it stood there unlit and apparently cold. There were not many possible explanations – as there was no flow in and out of the chamber, it was a man, who had extinguished its light.
Suddenly, tiredness vanished and I was angry. More than angry, I've had enough of this cast and the management. It was a candle. They had to put their hands everywhere, to touch everything. To destroy the tiny peace I have managed to build between myself and true insanity. The little light was an essential part of my magical shield and seeing it gone fueled my rage to unbelievable heights. I've been silent long enough.
But first thing, first. I took a new stick and replaced the old, lighting it up with my own matches. It was a ritual of giving light, of giving life. A quintessence of what I've done for the girl since the very first time we've met in the chapel. At the end she grew bored and abandoned my light, replacing it with the polished shine of high society. The earning she took with herself. For months I simply forgot about light, erasing all thoughts of the above from my mind. Submerged in silence, I saw only her face in the dark. It was as simple as this.
When I reentered the world of living, the news were she was very ill. She was confined to bed for weeks and things were turning for the worst. Then, I wished I could hate her, because I discovered pain even below the lowest depths of Hell. Losing her to that man came second to the fear of losing her to death. Her light was fading and all I could do was wait and remember. It came back to me one day that she was often lighting up a candle for her father. I've seen so many times how this silly act would brighten her mood. Through the years, its healing ability remained a mystery to me, but then I decided to give it a try. I brought and lit the candle myself. At first, there was nothing. In the dead of the night I was not in a hurry so I leaned against the wall looking at the small, still flame. Slowly, I began to imagine that little flame flying to her, and joining her own light in the fight against the sickness. A soldier, armed with my unending adoration.
Night after night I was coming to the chapel, adding candle after candle until there was an army ready to protect and strengthen my love. Every night I was sending them to her with my best wishes and the warmth of my heart. Nobody dared to enter the chapel once the candles began to appear seemingly from nowhere. I was adding new and replacing the melted sticks covering the ground of the chamber.
Nearly two months she crept between life and death, weak and unstable, until one day a word came she was getting better.
I don't know if my candles and my prayers helped, but I kept one lit even after she was completely cured. Spying on the little Giry had never before been that productive. Her excited shouts could be heard through half of the opera house. And for once, I was in tune with the staff when they heard of the Viscountess being much better.
Well, my memories and the now burning candle had managed to settle my anger and no more I wanted to pursue and punish the one who'd taken the liberty to touch my light. I wasn't surprised though for recently keeping the fury at decent levels was tiring me immensely. Perhaps, I am growing older. With a slow, deep exhale I left the chapel.
xxx
It took several days and two more half burnt candles for my hate to reappear with its former passion. Long ago I wanted to know why. Now not even a question dared to cross my mind when in such a mood. They will learn to fear the ghost once again. First him, then the others. And this time there will be no notes, no threats, no warnings. They want to extinct my light, but I am perfectly capable of destroying theirs.
Hidden behind the walls of the chapel I prepared to kill my number 14. My hands were bare for I wanted to feel the pulse slowing down and going mute forever. I've never killed like that before, but apparently it was time for a change. My thoughts were overpowered by the wild fury which stretched my lips, to bare the teeth, as I let a low growl through. There were steps coming closer.
A boy descended the stairs and I was ready to attack when he took something out of his pocket. Standing still, I watched him bent a long thin candle, warping the halves with one another. At the end there was a much shorter but stronger candle with two wicks instead of one. He used mine to lit his, put it on the stand and watched it calmly for several minutes. It was a beautiful sight, that strange candle.
He left, and without a thought I entered the room to examine his creation. Such a simple and wonderful idea. And he took light from my own. Looking back at its flame I remembered why I was here now. I stepped towards the hidden door when a rustling of clothes came from behind. Someone just took me by surprise and I could already see, there were going to be two dead bodies tonight.
I focused and turned to meet the dead man.
I froze mid step and my hands fell to my sides.
The vision was standing right in front of me and for a moment I too stood and stared.
It became clear, why she was unfit for describing. Part of her hair was covered with something white and her entire body was dirty as Hell. Two vertical lines beneath the eyes were the only hints of how white her skin actually was. The rag around the baby was no better and the smell coming from the woman was unbelievable.
God forgive me, I didn't recognize her.
To me she was the Holy mother with her son but somehow that was the moment of his birth and his death at the same time. Her face held the mark of long and deep sorrow, something I've seen only on Mary at the crucifixion. She was utterly destroyed.
The woman slid on the ground and slowly extended the child towards me. A desperate hope was burning in her sickly eyes.
I took a step back, frightened.
"Angel?"
One word and only one voice to say it.
Her outstretched hands began to shake with the effort. Her face was pleading for my help and I gave it without hesitation. It can not be her, absolutely not !
I took the child carefully not to disturb the mother, standing on a firm ground again. I had no experience with babies but I knew exactly what to do with this one.
It's been dead for 3 or 4 days now, the little body stinking, the tiny legs black and dangling below the rag. She wanted me to bury him then. She knew who was familiar with death around here. It was really her.
"I beg you, please! Find him … a home. For my child... for Étienne. Have mercy... Angel. Have mercy... have..."
She fainted before me, touching my shoes or not, for I couldn't see clearly. Tears were clouding my sight as I stood there with the dead kid and the human shreds at my feet. I was paralyzed inside and out, only the tears brave enough to continue moving down my face. What had happened to her was coming over me now. I don't have words...
Somebody closed the door to the chapel and reminded me, I was clearly visible here. I took off her scarf, tied the body to her belly, picked her up and vanished behind the wall.
The walk to my home was the loneliest in my life, and I was carrying Hell in my arms. A funeral procession with unknown number of bodies and I as a gravedigger, a priest and a mourned. I let the tears flow and they seemed only appropriate for the occasion. Is everybody that empty at a funeral? My sobs were hollow, there was nothing inside of me. No hate, no pain, no love. Beyond my broken believes of her well-being, stood only death.
I put her in bed, and took the body with me. Walking to the spot which marked the center of the opera house, I lifted a stone plate and uncovered the corner of a rectangular hole, fitted for one person. There was no need to make more room as the resident turned out to be much smaller than expected originally.
I buried the baby in my grave and went back to her, to Christine.