Do you believe in the devil?
A strange question to ask, I know. I ask it of you not because my story requires faith, but because there are times I believe I have met him, or a man who plays a similar part in our current situation.
It was years ago that we knew each other- too long ago for one lifetime. I have lived and I have died, but somehow, I am always cast in the same role. Reborn as the detective, the friend turned enemy, the man whose name no one knows and which somehow doesn't matter. I'm the supporting character, anyway- no one reads a shilling shocker to hear about anyone but the villain.
One thing I can assure you of is this- I am not mad. Believe what you will- there are days when even I doubt my sanity- but understand that if you do not listen to me, the killings will not stop. That is not a threat but a simple fact. I do not commit these crimes, though some of the blame must fall upon me, as I could have ended the life of the murderer long ago. Not a day goes by that I don't curse myself for my moment of weakness, and wonder if I have missed my chance.
Do I frighten you? Good enough, I suppose. You should be frightened of the Phantom, but I'm not a bad place to start.
The name of Erik Destler can't be unfamiliar to you. They say he sold his soul to the devil, though the truth of this not something I can verify. I do know that shortly after he is said to have done so, a young man of Persian descent (said to be his only friend) shot him in the head, but could not bring himself to destroy his music. And so Destler lived on, spared by a moment of pity for that which he had traded his soul.
No, I don't claim to be the Persian now. But I think...I sometimes think I used to be him. Memories of lifetimes past flicker in and out of my head when I sleep, all linked to Destler, and all guided by one line of music.
I have killed him in at least one of my lives, that I am sure of. I believe he returned the favor to me in another, one of an endless line he slaughtered so that a young ballet girl he'd taken a liking to would be able to rise up the social ladder until she had married an Emperor. And when I die again, I know I will meet him once more, until the end of time or until someone manages to destroy him.
It would be easier to bear if I hated him. If I could find it in my heart to loathe the mere thought of the man, the fact that my life must be dedicated to hunting him down would feel justified. Unfortunately, the same weakness that prevented me from burning every scrap of his infernal music now keeps me from pure hatred. I pity the man.
Strange, isn't it? He who wanted to be loved for his music, turned to a man so evil there would seem not to be room for him in hell itself, and yet I still can feel pity. He was my friend- or the friend of whomever I used to be- and it is something I will never be able to forget. Even as I track him now, I still hear of one or two acts of humanity on his part, though it is the kindness of a man who indulges in it only to convince himself that he is still human.
And me? I no longer truly know who I am in this life. Was I a nobleman, a member of the police, a man with a life and a family before Destler's music reached my ears and awakened memories best left forgotten? I do not know. It would not make much difference if I had been a soldier in India, or if my next life found me as the owner of a book shop in America. He would find me- or I would find him.
I am the Persian. I always will be, time and time again. And unless we stop him this time, your Christine may share a very similar fate.