Author's Note: Whoops . . . I'd had this story uploaded before, but accidentally deleted it while trying to get rid of a different fic that I had started but lost my muse for. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, "Resurrection of a Phantom" is no more (for now, anyway). I may restart it someday if I get inspired and can think of a better beginning.

Anyway, like my other "Phantom" one-shot, "Meg's Discovery," this is a fic that I wrote for an online Halloween contest a few years ago. I edited the story a bit before posting it here, so hopefully, I've made it a bit better than it was before.

Disclaimer - I do not own "The Phantom of the Opera" or any of the characters; they are the creations of original author Gaston Leroux.

A Final Composition

Gone.

The finality of that word hit the Opera Ghost suddenly and unexpectedly. No more would Erik hear Christine's angelic voice singing sweetly in her dressing room. No longer could he have company in his lonely little house on Lake Averne, a tomb of his own design. He was more alone now than he was before he had ever known of her existence. The realization was almost too much for him to bear. And yet, no tears came from his sunken, yellow eyes. He had none left to shed after half a century of misery and solitude.

"There are still some things I must do," Erik said aloud, as was his habit, to the darkness that surrounded him. "Nobody must ever find this place except for Christine. And I must have a final conversation with the Daroga. And then . . ."

He glanced around his room. The coffin he slept in (on those rare nights when he remembered to) lay there beneath its blood-red canopy. The scorpion and grasshopper of Japanese bronze were still in their little boxes on the mantelpiece, no longer a threat to anyone. The enormous pipe organ stood against the wall, an ominously looming monolith that dominated one side of the room. His masterwork "Don Juan Triumphant" lay open on the organ, finally complete, never to be played again.

Pondering what to do next, Erik flipped through his masterpiece absentmindedly. The Ghost's eyes shot upwards and he stared for a minute at his macabre choice of wallpaper - the Dies Irae written in blood-red ink across the walls. "Of course," Erik whispered, a hint of what might seem like maniacal glee creeping into his words. "I must write my requiem." He had used up the last of his ink writing "Don Juan Triumphant,"and he no longer had any money to spend after returning what he had stolen from those hapless Opera managers, but he knew that wouldn't be a problem.

How strange, thought Erik as he scribbled notes onto his blank staff paper. "Don Juan" took over twenty years to finish, and I'm halfway through with my requiem after less than a week. He noticed the inkwell was empty again, and gently set his black quill-feather pen down on top of the organ. He then raised a small knife, which he had once used to open letters containing his monthly salary, and plunged it into his wrist. Warm blood came gushing out, and Erik made sure that every drop landed in the inkwell. "Why didn't I use blood for my correspondence before?" he wondered aloud. How wonderful it was to feel! To feel the pain and the coldness of the blade. Even the disconcerting sensation of his blood trickling down his arm was heaven to Erik. It reminded him that despite what everyone – his mother, the gypsies at the fair, even Christine herself – had said, he was still capable of feeling. He was still human. He was still alive.

For the moment.

One evening, Erik left the house on the lake, pausing in his composition for the first time since he had begun it. He kept the sleeves of his black dress-coat over his wrists to prevent his oldest - indeed, his only - friend, the Persian, from seeing the cuts that rendered his arms almost as hideous as the horrible death's head that stood upon his skeletal shoulders. The last thing he wanted or needed was another lecture from the Daroga about "self-respect," "morals," and other strange concepts that had never meant anything to him anyway.

Donning his black mask, the Opera Ghost walked through the secret passages he had built in the cellars so many years ago. He emerged from an enormous wall mirror into what was once Christine's dressing room. It was clearly now being used by some other performer, some singer who was undeserving of the room in which Erik had once taught his beloved . . . the only one who had ever treated him as anything remotely close to a human being . . .

Returning to his house on the lake, Erik could hardly hold back the tears. His eyes had been so dry merely two weeks ago, but now rivers of sorrow flowed from those iridescent, yellow orbs. He gasped for breath and collapsed into his chair, completely exhausted. The emotion of remembering his first, last, and only kiss had weakened him far more than any mere loss of blood ever could. He could have lain down in his coffin and died right at that moment. "No, it must be finished first," said Erik furiously as his strength began to return. "Quite finished." He remembered a time when he had uttered those exact words in a fit of mad obsession . . . He chuckled in spite of himself, and sat at his desk once again.

"Nearly . . . finished," croaked Erik weakly as he wrote down the final notes of his requiem. His wrists no longer healed within a few hours after each cut, and now bled freely onto the keyboard of the organ. The inkwell overflowed with the Opera ghost's blood. The organ's black and white ivory keys gained color and became magnificent rubies that night. At last, he hastily scribbled the final note onto his manuscript. Setting down his quill, Erik began to thunder away on the organ. This requiem maintained some of the characteristics of "Don Juan Triumphant" - it was also not for mortal ears to hear. And yet, it did not speak of sorrow, pain, or anguish, as "Don Juan" had. It spoke of happiness, of unimaginable euphoria. Every chord reminded the poor, unhappy Erik of his darling Christine, of her beauty, her innocence, the purity of her voice. Tears of joy - and of every other emotion a man could feel - mixed with the Opera Ghost's lifeblood as they dribbled onto the floor. "Finally," Erik said in a barely audible whisper, "it is finished." He collapsed onto the floor, eyes wide, his mouth contorted into an eerily skull-like grin.

"Erik?" called the Daroga as he entered the Louis-Philippe room of the house on the lake. He looked around and continued calling. There was no sign of his psychotic, masked friend. Nadir opened a door that he had never been permitted to pass through before. His servant Darius followed him into the Opera Ghost's citadel, and both kept their hands at the level of their eyes, just in case Erik was in one of his moods. "Erik?" called Nadir again. He glanced toward the towering organ, and gasped in shock at what he saw. "By Allah . . ."

There lay the Opera Ghost in a pool of blood. Darius left the room; he had not the stomach for such a horrific sight. Nadir, however, crept closer. He noticed a manuscript much like the one Erik had used to write "Don Juan Triumphant," except that it was much smaller. It was also completely illegible, as it was drenched in the blood of its maker. Nadir sighed. "Christine will not want to see this when she comes to bury you," he whispered, attempting to sound offhanded despite his revulsion at the sight before him. "Couldn't you have put an end to yourself in a cleaner way?" With that, Nadir left the Opera Ghost's house and found Darius retching into Lake Averne. After Darius had finished heaving up a very expensive Parisian dinner, Nadir asked him to find some cleaning supplies.

"Still the same as ever, aren't you, old friend?" said Nadir into the darkness, as if Erik could hear him. "After all these years, I still have to clean up the messes you leave behind."

FIN