Being Haunted By The Phantom

Disclaimer: Well, I don't own the movie or the story of Phantom of the Opera. And, I sure as heck don't own the ghost, but seeing as this story is my life, I do own the story.

November 15, 2007
A Little Background

Today was a hassle, yet again, thanks to Erik. But, you all don't have a clue what I'm ranting about, now do you? Of course, you don't. Yet, you are about to find out why I have so many complaints, whether you like it or not. Hopefully, it'll be the former.

Now, as you read this, you may believe I'm crazy. After all, psychics, mediums, ghosts, and even the Phantom of the Opera don't exist! This story is just a load of hocus pocus to you all, isn't it? Well, joke is on you. This is my life. This is how its happening, how it has happened, and it will record what is happening. Despite this being a site for fiction, I feel it will have more far-reaching effects than anywhere else. I just want people I can talk to about Erik, who won't shun me or immediately haul me off to a psychotherapist. After all, I can't tell my family, and only a select number of friends would believe me if I told them. Until I get the guts to share my secret with a friend or two, though, I feel I must rely on some Phantom fans, even if they'll drive me bonkers for their love of Erik. Even words on the Internet will provide me with some security, some solace, that I'm not going mad; if it doesn't, oh well. At least I'll have an interesting life to look back on through these computerized chapters and you all will have a laugh.

Now, the 'prologue', if I may call it that, to my current life:

About the start of summer, early- to mid-June, I was given a sanctioned night alone while my parents were out of town; instead of throwing a mind-rotting, trouble-making party, I decided to watch Thirteen Ghosts. I was never much of a social butterfly.

Beside me on the couch was Pepper, a white-and-black spotted tabby cat, curled up asleep despite the bloody screams being emitted from the television. The little furball couldn't have cared less, even if the screams were from myself. Just as long as she got her late evening nap. Of course, Pepper deserves her naptimes, I suppose, seeing as she got hit by car - driven by my nasty, drunken, aunt - the year before last. Which, yes, means she's dead.

So, I was sitting there, watching the movie, entranced with the horrid depictions of specters. It just marveled me how close, yet how wrong, the people had been when putting together the ghosts of the movie. Some phantasms keep the wounds that killed them during life, while others don't have a mark on them. And, others yet, have old scars and injuries from events that haunted them more-so than their own death. It is fascinating the stories ghosts could tell you. But, I keep getting side-tracked.

Anyway, I was watching the movie, mesmerized, when I felt a chill creep over my arm. It was a familiar feeling; one that happened mostly when I passed a cemetery or when I read obituaries. Instantly, my head had snapped to the direction of the chill, yet nothing graced my eyes. Typical. The ghost was going to be shy. So, acting as if I goaded myself into thinking it was just a paranoia, I brought my eyes back to the movie. However, the chill migrated to different parts.

First, it graced the back of my neck; it was a cold fingertip brushing against my flesh with uncertainty. Then, I felt cold pressure on my shoulder, as if someone was testing to see how solid I was. All the while, however, I ignored it despite my growing irritation. It was increasingly hard to act oblivious, though, when the chill slid down my arm and clasped around my wrist firmly. Although, from the vague blueish light falling from the television, my peripheral vision caught some sight of my visitor: A white, puffy sleeve, cast in a blue-ish hue from my television, with a cuff that clung to the wrist and, of course, a masculine, if bony, hand. Pepper, as if on the same wavelength as myself, chose that moment to glance at the fellow specter as I did.

"Oh, for the love of Bob," I turned to face my guest, agitation taking over me, and causing me to be less helpful than I usually would've been, "What do you wa---"

I stared. I won't deny it. I stared with my mouth slack jaw and eyes wide. Thinking back on that, I must've looked like the village idiot. Haha. Yet, the man I stared at awakened those pop culture references I usually tried to ignore, since those who acknowledged pop culture tended to be twiggy little nymphs with blonde hair, shrill giggles, and dreams of being escalated to a height higher than others. Now, I wasn't a Phangirl - nor am I much of one today - when Erik came to me, but it was unmistakable who he was.

His narrowed, grey eyes looked down at me as he observed silently, calculatingly. A thin scowl was etched onto his features, displeased to my reaction - or maybe he had now realized I was ignoring him earlier. Then, there was the disfigurement: his pale flesh was mangled on the right side of his face, discoloring it to a hue of faded reddish-purple. It stretched from the corner of his lip, to fan out as it crawled across his cheek, to end slightly behind his natural hairline. Where it ended on his scalp, hair had been swept over in a self-conscious attempt to hide a bit of the deformity. Yet, for this poor specter, the unsightly aberration denied hair growth where it sat. Only a misshapen ridge and mangled hunk of flesh indicated where his right ear was, and it was fairly smaller than his left ear. A chunk of his right nostril was missing, along with the tip and a very small bit of his left nostril; as if someone had took a knife and swooped it down across his nose at an angle. Malformed bubbles of yellow-ish flesh seemed to rise in strange places on his flesh: along his cheekbone, on the ridge over his eye, and at the soft flesh beneath his eye. It gave him a Quasimodo a la Disney appearance, with the feeling of Tim Burton interceding to add in his own details.

Despite all my observations, though, the first thing to pop into my mind and out of my mouth was, "You have no eyebrow!"

I could feel the smoldering look Pepper gave me, as if to say: 'You twit'. A look of surprise darted across this man's face, but it was quickly shoved away from curiosity. For a moment, he was silent, before he muttered, "That is all you choose to notice? Or do you choose to be blind to the greater ugliness by focusing on a lesser irregularity?" His voice was deep and possessed the undertone of vague French; I wasn't surprised.

With his voice came realization that his hand was still gripping my wrist. The pressure annoyed me, and after my initial excitement, I had finally calmed down enough to think. My mind had been so scrambled by shock, it was nice to hear coherent thoughts buzzing about. There was a futile attempt to wrench my hand free from his as I replied, "No, there's obviously other things. I'm not gonna lie. So, who are you, Ghost Man?"

"You do not know me?" whispered the specter. It seemed much more lethal than his typical tone and I prepared myself for an outrage, "Do you not know of my greatness? I, whose genius was looked upon and feared, as if it was an extension of my disfigurement! I, whose voice could shame-" At this point I sighed, and leaned shifted myself into a more comfortable position. May as well let him get this out of his mouth so I could speak without any remarks from him, "-even the most beautiful singer in the Heavens! I, whose brilliance flew from my hand to create seductive siren calls to be issues from orchestras and maws!" His grip was tightening, causing me to wince terribly, as he blathered on about his achievements. Finally, he reached his crescendo, "You dare say you know not of I? The Le Mort Vivant, The Opera Ghost, the Phantom of the Opera!"

When he was finally over, huffing and puffing after his passionate rant, I deemed him with a long, hard look. The mutilation of his face didn't bother me, - I'd seen plenty of gore from other ghosts to be desensitizes to that sort of thing - but when his features contorted into anger, it did make my skin crawl in fear. But, only a determination to awake some form of recollection at his greatness from me was the sole expression on the ghost's face. Finally, I stated, motioning my points with the fingers on my free hand, "First, I've never been a fan of all that Phantom hoopla; so, no, I don't know who you are. Second, Mort, none of those names mean a thing to me, so unless you give me a real name to call you by, I'll just keep calling you Mort. Got it, Mort?"

I could see his jaw clench. Obviously, he didn't like the name 'Mort'. All the better in my eyes, since that would spur him to introduce himself sooner. When he made no move to add to the conversation, I heaved another sigh and shifted again. A debate went on in my mind for a few moments, as I tried to scrounge together what little knowledge I knew of the Phantom of the Opera. He was a genius, I remembered that, and I knew he wrote and sang opera. He also had some lover name Christine. He also murdereda handful of people at one point, which meant nothing to me. I have spoken to many ghosts in the past who had good reason to kill; so, seeing as I knew little about this man, if he were the real Phantom, I couldn't judge him right away. Above all, though, he was supposed to be fictional. Yet, with my luck, this ghost was just an Afterlife loony who got his history mixed up. Or, perhaps he was just living an inner dream of his to be the Phantom. Either, this man had my curiosity piqued, and I always did enjoy talking to ghosts. I held out my right hand awkwardly, what with the phantom's cold hand still clasped onto my wrist, and said, "I'm Silvia Matheson. And, as you know, I can talk and interact with ghosts. So, pleased to meet you, Mister…"

I trailed off, hinting blatantly at what I was seeking. Grey eyes, without the glint of light, stared at my hand uncomfortably. The 'Phantom' had his own inner turmoil, as I had moments earlier. Yet, taking my truce as both an apology from earlier and a proper introduction, his hand released its clutch from mine. But, he didn't reach to shake my hand, like any other normal person. No. Instead, he took my hand gently in his, bowed down, and kissed the back of it, as a gentleman would in Victorian times. All the while, he never took his curious eyes off me, "Erik."

"Just Erik?" I questioned, eyebrow cocked as I ignored the schoolgirl blush on my cheeks, "No last name?"

He paused, perhaps puzzled or maybe trying to remember. Whatever the reason, though, Erik seemed to retrieve a surname. Still in his bow, still with his lips close to the flesh on my hand, the man stated, "Valicore. Erik Valicore."

Like that, Erik Valicore, possible Phantom of the Opera, the Opera Ghost, the Mort Vivant, or whatever, had appeared into my life. Regardless of if he is, or was, telling the truth, ghosts always come and go. He's dead, so why should I deny him what little fantasy he may have for his Afterlife?

That night we talked for hours, long after the movie credits had rolled by on the Thirteen Ghosts. Yet, Erik never informed me of what he wanted or why he chose to contact me. I'm still in the dark about what he wants. Every now and then, I'll get hints, or perhaps he'll allow something to slip. Then again, he is a genius, no matter who he is, so he may just be toying with me for sport; like the fictional Opera Ghost toyed with people at his Opera House. Despite our small truce of introduction, there was an air of rivalry between us that night, and it would return time and time again when we spoke, later.

If only I had known that the stubborn ass wouldn't leave me alone after that night, I would've kept ignoring him from the start.