The Masks

"Why do you wear that?"

He turned his head to look at me. One hand reached up to grab the edge of the sack, as if he was afraid I'd take it away from him.

"It's better than having to see my face," he countered. I shook my head and sighed.

"I've seen your face. Besides, that sack makes you look ridiculous."

"So you'd rather see this?" he snarled, tearing the sack off to reveal his twisted face and tear-filled eyes. I flinched, not at his face, but at his anger. He was too young to be so angry…

"See?" he said, almost triumphant at my apparent horror. "I'm disgusting."

I sighed and gestured at the basket on the floor. "There's some food in there, and some more clothes," I told him. He nodded and mumbled something that might have been "thank you."

I turned to leave, then paused at the door. "I'll see if there are any extra masks in the costumes," I offered. He didn't reply.

- - - - - - -

I brought him a few masks next time I came to see him. It had been hard to find ones that would cover his face, but not make him look as odd as he did with that sack. He looked over them, and it saddened me at how happy he was about them. I never let him know that, though, instead showing an approving smile when he found a black leather one that covered the left half of his face.

"It's wonderful," he said, running his hands over it. "Just wonderful!" He flashed me a smile—the first I ever saw from him. I grew to treasure his smiles, for they were a rare occurrence. Laughter meant nothing—he laughed when he was angry or sad or lonely—but a smile from my ghost meant true happiness.

"I've found where I'm going to live," he told me. "Come, I'll show you!"

I hesitated. He couldn't possibly stay here—he'd killed a man, and with his face he'd be easily caught. But… I couldn't just throw him out onto the streets.

"All right," I agreed, figuring I could at least tell him if his new home would be safe.

He led me through the catacombs under the theater, trailing his fingers along the rough stone and mumbling to himself. Finally, we reached the edge of a lake.

"Over there, see?" he said, pointing at a cavern that rose above the water. "I went over there yesterday—the water's not too deep, and there's all sorts of caverns and tunnels…" He seemed all but ready to lead me over there, then paused, looking at my dress.

"Of course, you couldn't go. Your skirts would get wet, and they'd find out," he said. I nodded slowly. This was quite a ways away from the main theatre. It should be safe.

"Could you bring me some books?" he asked suddenly. I looked at him in surprise. "And maybe something to write with," he continued.

"Why?" I asked. He frowned. "Because," he replied warily. I sighed. I was beginning to learn just how suspicious he was of people, and that no matter how long I helped him, he would never trust me.

"All right. I'll see what I can do."

---------

Years passed like this. I continued my studies as a ballerina, visiting my ghost in the few free moments I had. Sometimes months would pass between these visits, months during which he built his sanctuary. He explored the Opera House from top to bottom, and claimed to know more about it than the men who built it. His tendency to seemingly pop out of walls lent credence to his statement.

Each time I came to his cave, I marveled at his genius. He was a musician and composer—he would often greet me by taking my hand and dragging me to the organ he had somehow installed, demanding that I listen to his newest piece. He was an artist, an inventor, a magician: it seemed there was nothing he couldn't do. I silently lamented that such brilliance was being wasted in the catacombs beneath the Paris Opera House.

He loved to play tricks on the residents of the theater, especially the managers. At first it was simple things—rearranging scenery overnight, leaving odd poems in the singers' dressing rooms, hiding props until moments before they were needed on stage. But as time passed, he grew more bold.

"Ten thousand francs?" I asked him, holding his latest note in my hand.

The young man turned from his organ to look at me. His handmade white mask contrasted sharply with his dark hair and clothes, and I frowned slightly at the picture he presented.

"Not enough?" he asked, tilting his head to the side. "I thought about asking for twenty thousand, but that seemed a bit high to begin with." He laughed. "I do have a lifestyle to maintain, my dear Madame Giry."

"It's Madame Jules now, actually," I said. He narrowed his eyes at me.

"You're married?" he asked quietly. I nodded, suddenly afraid.

He stared at me for a long time, then laughed mirthlessly and turned back to his music. "You might have invited me. I'm sure the musicians you had weren't nearly as talented as I am."

I sighed. "No. They weren't."

He scribbled silently on his papers, then angrily knocked them to the floor.

"Wrong, wrong, it's all wrong…" he muttered, standing. He paced across the floor for a few minutes, before suddenly stopping and starting at me.

"You're still here?" he asked. I nodded silently. He continued to stare at me, frowning.

"Something's different," he declared, looking me up and down. I sighed and rested a hand on my stomach.

"I'm expecting," I said quietly. He continued to stare at me, his expression registering only the slightest shock.

"Ah," he said finally, starting to turn away from me. "So you won't be here anymore?"

I shook my head. "No. Not likely."

He nodded, sitting back down at his organ. "Good-bye, then," he said. I could hear the carefully suppressed anger in his voice.

"Good-bye," I replied softly, then turned and left him.

---------

Seven years passed before I saw him again. By that time, my husband was dead, and Gustav Daae had made a dying request to take care of his little girl. Unable to support two young girls on the money my husband had left me, I returned to the Opera House. The manager hired me to teach the youngest dancers, saying that I would have to prove my worth.

"So, you've returned," he said, emerging from behind a wall panel into my room. I jumped slightly, then turned to look at him. The years had changed him. He walked throughout my room, studying the daguerreotypes, and I studied him. When he turned his face the right way, I couldn't see the mask; and like that, he looked almost handsome.

"Is this your daughter?" he asked, picking up a picture of Meg. I nodded, smiling faintly.

"Yes… little Meg. She's living here too."

"Ballerina?"

"Yes."

Silence fell. He picked up another picture, staring at it for a long time.

"Who's this?" he asked. I stood and walked towards him, so as to get a better look at the image.

It was a picture of Christine and her father, before the violinist had fallen ill. Daae was frozen in the act of playing his violin. Christine sat at his feet, staring up at her father with a look of complete adoration.

"Christine Daae," I said. "Her father was a great violinist. He passed away not long ago, and I took her in. She lives here as well."

He nodded slowly, still staring at the image. He put it down reluctantly, then turned to me and rubbed his hands together.

"Now that you're back, perhaps you could explain to this manager why I need twenty thousand francs a month," he said. I raised an eyebrow.

"Perhaps you could tell me why you need such an extraordinary salary?" I replied.

He smiled and spread his arms. "I have my reasons," he replied. "I'd hate for there to be any more accidents."

"Accidents?" I repeated. He shrugged and disappeared through his hidden door. I dropped into my chair, rubbing a hand over my forehead.

------

The manager said there had been a few bizarre occurrences: costumes ripped and stained with what looked like blood, props smashed on the stage, insane music echoing up from the depths of the Opera House at night. Some of the residents believed it was a ghost. I encouraged that story without shame. It was easier than explaining the twisted man whose actions grew evermore frightening. There were times when, after one of his "jokes", I considered turning him in. Telling the manager where he hid, leading them to him, freeing the Opera House of this curse.

But then he would come to me, and simply ask to talk. He never said it outright, but it was obvious he was painfully lonely. I knew I was the only person in the world he could trust, and I couldn't break such a sacred bond.

-------

Time passed swiftly. I became the ballet instructor and taught my girls how to dance. I learned that Christine had a beautiful, but untrained voice. I approached Monsieur Reyer about training her as a singer a few times, but he always refused; at first she was too young, then La Carlotta came and there was no need for another diva.

That was why when the Phantom took an interest in Christine, I stood by and did nothing to stop him. I allowed his obsession to grow, and fed her naïve belief that it was her father's promised Angel coming to teach her. I protected him, helped him, even as his jealousy of the girl grew more intense. It was only when Buquet was murdered and he smashed the chandelier that I knew I had allowed too much. At the same time, I knew I could not stop him—I knew that none of us could. His hold on the Opera House and Christine was too strong.

I told the Vicomte his story, how he had come to the Opera House. Raoul listened quietly, a frown the only sign he was disturbed by what he was hearing. I found myself desperately defending him, hoping that Raoul could understand what had driven my ghost to this point.

"He's a genius, monsieur…"

"Clearly genius has turned to madness," Raoul interjected, rising. "I must see to Christine." He shot me a dark look. "Someone has to look out for her well-being."

---------

After that, I stayed out of the way. I could only offer warning to Raoul and the managers, hoping against hope that the Phantom wouldn't harm anyone again. I knew that Raoul was in the most peril, yet the Vicomte refused to listen to my warnings. Christine was the only other who understood the danger. And in the end, Christine and I were right. I could only watch in horror as my ghost dropped through the stage with her, as Meg discovered Piangi's corpse. It seemed there was nothing I could do—

Raoul ran past me towards the trap door Christine had disappeared through. I grabbed his arm, pulling him around towards me.

"Monsieur le Vicomte, come with me," I said desperately. Raoul stared at me, unsure. "I know where they are," I told him.

"But can I trust you?" Raoul asked, already knowing he had no choice.

"You must! But remember—your hand at the level of your eyes!"

Raoul frowned in confusion. "But why?"

I shook my head desperately. "The Punjab Lasso, monsieur. First Buquet, now Piangi--"

"Like this!" I whirled to see Meg standing behind me, her fist raised beside her face. "I'll come with you," she offered.

"No, Meg, you stay here," I said. I would not bring my daughter into such danger. "Come with me monsieur, hurry or we shall be too late!"

We ran through the twisted maze of the Opera House, working our way through secret passages and tunnels until we reached the edge of the lake.

"This is as far as I dare go," I said. I could not face my ghost now, not after all he'd done. Not after what I had done. Raoul nodded, seeming to understand.

"Thank you, Madame Giry," he said.

----------

In the end, Christine and Raoul returned, for the most part unharmed. Neither wanted to let the other out of their sight for long, but I managed to catch Christine alone for a moment. They had already described what had transpired below the theater, but there was still something I had to know…

"What happened to him, Christine?" I asked quietly. "What became of our Phantom?"

She turned to look at me, understanding clear in her eyes. We were the only two who ever loved the Phantom.

"I… I do not know, Madame," she said softly. "He told us to forget him, and that… and that he loved me. Then Raoul and I left." She shook her head.

"He must have escaped somehow," I said. Christine nodded.

"I know he did," she replied, placing a hand over her heart.

"Christine!" Raoul interrupted our conversation, hurrying towards his fiancé and taking her arm. Christine nodded at me as they walked off, discussing arrangements for their upcoming wedding.

-------

I finally ventured down into the catacombs and returned to his lair. It looked as though he had stepped out briefly, and would return soon. I had no idea where the tunnels beyond his cave led to, or where he could have fled. I walked through the chambers, looking at the clothes and masks he had scattered about. I smiled sadly as I recognized the one I had first brought him, so long ago. As I picked it up, a scrap of paper tumbled out from underneath. It was a note—the last note he would write to me.

"Watch over her, and ensure her that she will always have my love. Gratefully yours, O.G."

I never saw him again… but some nights as I lay in bed, I could hear the organ playing deep below the theater.

My ghost would never leave.