In 1972 a tattered leather journal was discovered in the rotting ruins of a plantation manor house in South Carolina. The purported author of the journal, one Erik Destler, claimed in its pages to have been the infamous Phantom of the Opera that haunted the Paris Opera House a century before. A series of experts examined the journal, comparing the faded handwriting in the book to that of the few surviving notes supposedly written by the "Opera Ghost" during his reign of terror in Paris. The experts could not confirm or disprove Destler's claim. After the book's authenticity could not be established, it mysteriously disappeared, only to resurface again thirty years later in a small antique bookshop in St. Louis.
The mystery continues: did the Phantom survive the tragic fire that destroyed the Paris Opera? If he did, as many believed then and as this journal may or may not prove, is this book the actual record of his later years? We publish it here to let you, gentle reader, be the judge.
The Angel in Black: The Phantom's Journal
A New Beginning
February 22, 1872
Le Havre, France
The dull, gray winter light filtering in from outside cannot begin to dissipate the gloom that permeates my tiny room in this shabby little inn. I had to light several candles to provide enough light just to be able to write in this book. Or, perhaps I have lived long enough in the darkness and now crave the light, any light at all. Who is to say? Either way, the one grime-encrusted window cannot provide enough for me at this moment, so the candles must suffice.
As this is the beginning of my journal, I suppose I should introduce myself. My name is Erik Destler. The good people of Paris know me as the Opera Ghost, or more formally as the Phantom of the Opera, as I took a great liking to haunting the grand old Paris Opera House for a time. Certain occurrences forced me to leave. I will not go into detail about them here. They are too painful for me to relate, and I will not dredge them up again for the sake of this pitiful book. I remember them all quite well enough, thank you very much.
Suffice it to say that the entire episode ended in tragedy, and I was compelled to leave my underground home of many years.
Most think me dead. That is just as well.
If certain people suspected that I was indeed still alive, they would search heaven and earth until they found me and watched me breathe my last. Only two people know the truth about my existence: Antoinette Giry and her young daughter Meg. They spirited me away from the rubble of the opera house three days after the fire and sequestered me in the garret of the rooming house they then called home.
I remember with alarming clarity the time when the two Giry women found me:
I had given up hope, given up the will to live. My will left me when she left me. With her gone, everything that was beautiful had become grotesque; all that once was hopeful had turned to despair. The chasm of soul-numbing emptiness into which I had fallen was so deep I knew I would never find my way out again.
I slept not, nor did I eat, for normal everyday activities seemed pointless to me since my world had so cruelly fallen apart. I just lay there in my bed, closed my eyes and waited for the Angel of Death to claim me.
Oh, the thrilling comfort of Death's welcoming arms as I floated away into oblivion! Finally my torment would end! Past hope, past care, past help! No more shame, no more heartbreak, no more pain. Just peace, peace at last. Peace that I had never known in life. Ironic, though, that I had to die to find it.
But no, someone pulled me, shook me, tugged me, wanting me to go back. No! Leave me be! I was going where I wanted to be.
But sadly, like all dreams, this one ended, and I fell back into my body and regained consciousness to the harsh world and all its cruelties.
I should have known. It was Giry, shaking me awake, with a tearful Meg standing beside her, wringing her hands. Did the little one cry for me? How touching. I would have been happier, though, if she cried over my corpse.
Under cover of darkness Giry smuggled me into her tenement building and safely situated me in the attic. She brought me food and blankets, and then she cautioned me to keep quiet so I would not be discovered. I suppressed a laugh, smiling sadly at her.
"You are talking to the one who swept through the opera at will, coming and going as he pleased, alerting no one to his presence," I said. "Do you not think I can keep quiet in this hovel of an attic?"
She looked sheepishly away. I wanted to apologise to her for my outburst, but in my current frame of mind I could not find the words.
After Giry was satisfied that I was reasonably settled in, she turned to leave but then stopped as if she had forgotten something.
"I need to tell you," she said in a voice just above a whisper. "I didn't mean for him to find you. I sent him down the old spiral staircase, knowing that it stops at the bottom in a dead end and thinking he would come back up. I was not even aware you had built a trap there. I was trying to stall him. I'm so very sorry; I feel responsible."
"Do not worry yourself, my friend. The blame–for everything–lies entirely on my shoulders," I said to her.
She nodded and once more made to leave, but then turned back to me again and reached into the folds of her cloak. "I almost forgot," she said.
Giry pulled out my white mask and handed it to me. I stood frozen for some seconds before I took it from her. I had nearly forgotten that my misshapen face had been uncovered for all these days, so great was my grief at having lost everything dear to me. I never even noticed that my mask was missing.
"Meg rescued it from your home."
"Thank you," I said quietly. "And please thank her, too."
I slowly slid the mask over my horrid features. I felt a little more like my old self.
She placed her hand on my arm comfortingly. "You did the right thing, you know," she said in a voice barely above a whisper. "She will be happy with him."
Those few words pierced my heart like a dagger. She didn't even have to mention her name. Just the intimation of Christine was enough to reopen all those wounds. I tried with all my might, but I could not hold back. A single tear slid down my cheek.
"I know," was all I could manage to croak out as a response.
So much for feeling like my old self.
Giry patted my arm again, smiled her little smile and left.
I remained in that cold, filthy, musty garret for three weeks, making no noise and inducing within myself more and more misery each day. Most of the time I remained on my makeshift bed, mourning my life with Christine that never would be. Every evening Giry would invite me downstairs to dinner, but the thought of any kind of normalcy invading my misery seemed so wrong. I always declined her kind invitation.
At the end of the third week, however, she stormed into the attic like a woman possessed.
"Erik Destler," she said a little too loudly, "You cannot stay up here and wallow in your self pity any longer. You are going to come down and have a proper dinner with Meg and me. I will brook no refusals this time."
She stood in front of me, her arms folded, with that exasperated expression on her face she usually reserved for her young dancers. I knew she would not take no for an answer, so I sighed and told her that I would meet her downstairs shortly. She regarded me for a moment with one raised eyebrow, satisfied that I was being truthful, and left.
"Five minutes," she called to me from the stairs.
# # # # #
Giry smiled as she opened the door to admit me, and Meg rushed to wrap her arms around me. I tried to back away from her, shocked that she would openly show me such affection, but she would not let go. I do not have to write in these pages that I am not accustomed to such displays of affection from anyone.
I always thought that little Giry was the most afraid of "the Phantom" of all the ballet rats. I would sometimes listen in on their nighttime discussions, which invariably would end up centered around the latest ghost gossip, and she always seemed to be the most fearful of all the girls. Seeing her embrace me so warmly, I had to wonder if the fear was all an act. Did she know the truth about me all along? Did she "go along" with the others so as not to give me away?
"Meg, let the poor man breathe," Giry finally said, sensing my discomfort.
Meg finally, albeit reluctantly, released me and led me into the apartment.
The aroma of something delicious teased my nostrils, and I suddenly realised how famished I really was. I had not eaten anything but bread and cheese for the past three weeks, and I truly was ravenous. I was horrified when my stomach rumbled–rather loudly–and betrayed my appetite to my hosts.
"Hungry, are we?" Giry teased me.
"A little," I answered, glaring at her through narrowed eyes.
"Sit down, then. You look like you are about to fall over."
Dinner was a delicious stew. There was very little meat, but the vegetables were generous and Giry turned out to be an excellent cook. I think, looking back on it, anything would have tasted good to me after my diet of the past three weeks. We exchanged polite pleasantries during the meal. Both Giry and Meg carefully avoided certain subjects, and I was grateful to them for that consideration. Giry did tell me that, although the damage to the opera house looked serious, the structure itself was not damaged beyond repair. The owners and managers were planning to restore it. "Bigger and better," their words were. I cringed inwardly to think about exactly what that meant. They hoped to have it up and running again within a year, she told me. I felt relief that my actions did not cause total ruin to the building I loved so much.
Giry, with more than a little pride, told me that she was now employed by Andre and Firmin as a consultant in the restoration project. "I know so much about the building, they felt I could help," she said. Meg, on the other hand, found a job working in a nearby dressmaker's shop until the opera house's reopening. She had spent so much time repairing her own costumes that she had become quite the seamstress. I was pleased that they had both secured temporary incomes until the opera was up and running again.
"What about you?" Meg asked me. "What are you going to do?"
"I do not know, little Meg," I said to the girl-turned-woman who sat across from me. "I know that I cannot stay in Paris. Even remaining in France would be dangerous. But I do not know what I should do."
I knew there was a price on my head. Even though all the Paris newspapers had speculated that I had perished in the fire, and the police had officially given up on their search for me, there were those–including the de Chagny boy–who would not rest until they found either me or my rotting corpse. Hiding me in the garret as she did, Giry took an awful risk herself; aiding and abetting a fugitive carried severe penalties as well.
"Perhaps you could go to England," Giry suggested. "You can speak English fairly well; you could get along quite well there."
"I think even England would be too close for comfort, my friend."
The three of us sat in silence for a long while, staring at the tabletop as if it would give us inspiration.
Then I had an epiphany.
"I will go to America," I said.
"America? But that is... so far away," Giry said quietly.
"Yes, I know, but I believe it is time for me to begin a new life. I must start over. And where better to start a new life than in the New World?"
# # # # #
After packing my meager belongings and bidding adieu to Giry and little Meg (and promising to write after I reached my destination), I embarked upon the journey of a lifetime. A journey that would either change my life forever or be the end of me.
I would accept either.
My journey on foot to the port city of Le Havre was harrowing. I traveled only by night as I knew I was a wanted man. I also stayed well off the main roads. It slowed my pace considerably, but it was necessary. It took me twelve days to reach my destination; I was exhausted, freezing, filthy and famished. I did not want to draw too much attention to myself, so I obtained lodging in a small inn located in one of the less reputable districts of town. Innkeepers there would be less likely to ask questions of their guests, I thought, and I was in no mood to be talkative. I got my room key, stumbled up to my room, fell onto the soft, inviting, downy bed and slept for nearly twelve hours.
When I finally awoke from my deep slumber, my entire body ached from the lumpy, hard, straw mattress upon which I had slept so soundly. I sat up, arching and stretching my back to work out the soreness, groaning each time I moved as a new ache seemed to manifest itself. I suppose any bed at all looks inviting after having slept on the ground for so long. My clothes were not only wrinkled from my having slept in them, but they also carried the grime (and stench) from many days' travel. I desperately needed to bathe and change. Yes, a hot bath–and a good meal–were just what I needed.
After soaking for an eternity in that soul-refreshing hot bath, I made to get ready to go out in the city and make my preparations. I opened one of the two traveling bags I brought with me that carried every possession of mine that survived the fire: a few suits of clothing, some of my music, and a stash of cash. Giry had bravely returned to my home to rescue what she could. I can never repay her for that act of kindness; I never could have returned there myself. But as I reached into the bag, I felt something odd: an object with hard and square edges. I pulled it out and discovered that it was a large, leather-bound book. There was no title on the spine. Curious, I opened it, and a note fell out and landed on the floor at my feet. I set the book on the bed and picked up the note, immediately recognizing Giry's impeccable formal script.
[note tucked in between the pages of the journal]
Erik:
Everything happens for a reason. Perhaps the events at the Opera were destined to occur so that you could move on and begin a new chapter in your life. And that is what you are doing: embarking on a new chapter, a new adventure. I give you this journal so that you may record your new life. I hope with all my heart that you can put all the hurt and loneliness behind you and make your new life something truly wonderful.
Your dear friend,
Antoinette
I held the note and the book to my breast for a long moment. "Thank you, Antoinette," I whispered. Then I finished dressing and left the room.
# # # # #
The port city of Le Havre is a busy, bustling, noisy place. Paris is a busy city as well, but its pace is a bit more leisurely. Being a few minutes late for an appointment or a reservation in Paris is not only excused, it is almost expected. In Le Havre, if you are a few minutes late your ship will have sailed without you. There is a sense of urgency here I have never seen or felt before. The steamship whistles are deafening; the smell of burning coal is overpowering; and everything seems to be covered with a fine dusting of soot–even the drifts of snow in the streets. The entire city wears a cast of gray like a warm woolen cloak pulled close about its shoulders.
"Le Havre" in its literal translation means "the port." This city grew up around its port, and I have noticed in the short time I have been here that the vast majority of the city and its inhabitants are geared towards it. It is the city's lifeblood, its primary source of employment and revenue. There are hotels, rooming houses, inns, restaurants, shops; all manner of business catering to those who gather from all across Europe to board those hulking masses of iron and steel and sail away–most of them to make a new life, like me, in America.
I ventured out into this bustling city, careful to keep the hood of my cloak pulled low over my face so as to not attract attention, and made my way down to the passenger ship docks, observing people as they hurried to and fro. They had their appointments to keep, jobs to go to, purchases to make, families to get home to. They all had their goals. I felt a slight pang as I realised that I did not. Except one. I needed to obtain my passage to America.
Not surprisingly, the ticket office was a busy place; it was much too crowded for my comfort, and there was a long line of people before me. I kept my head down as I waited in line, wishing everyone else would just go away. When I finally reached the ticket desk, the man behind the iron-barred window did not even look up at me.
"Where to?" he asked in a monotone.
"America," I said.
He sighed heavily. "Where to in America?"
I thought for a moment, nonplused. I had never even considered that. Where did I want to go? "What city does the next ship to America go to?"
The clerk consulted a chart on his desk. "The Marietta sails tomorrow for New York," he said.
I thought for a moment. "No, I do not want to go to New York," I replied.
The clerk looked up at me for the first time. His eyes widened ever so slightly at the sight of my masked face beneath the hood of my cloak, then he looked back down at his desk to consult his chart again.
"Philadelphia?" he asked hopefully. I considered this option, then shook my head.
"Boston?" he inquired.
"No."
The little man sighed and consulted his chart once again, clearly becoming irritated with me. "Well, then, the next ship would be the Independence, sailing this Saturday for Charleston."
"Charleston? Is that in America?" I had never heard of this place.
"It is in South Carolina."
Charleston. It sounded like a nice place. "Yes. I will go there. First class, please."
Shortly after I purchased my ticket, I returned to my shabby little room at the shabby little inn and began this, my first journal entry. The first of many? The first and the last? Only time will tell.
