A Halloween Mask
Erik had never considered himself to be a religious man, despite having had–an admittedly sporadic—Catholic upbringing. But this year, he fervently thanked God that it was a Monday. Phantasma was closed to the public on a Monday, although his employees usually still attended the park for their rehearsals. Today, the rides, side-shows and stalls had been eerily silent. It still annoyed him that he was forced to close the park on this particular day, even after seven years of being an employer, but he staff had stood firm on this silly, American superstition.
No one, they told him in October of 1897, performed on Halloween. If they did, they claimed, the ghost of a double-faced man named Edward Mordrake would drag them down to hell. Erik had scoffed, and told them that they would face a hell on earth if they refused to abide by their duties, but when Halloween came, almost every one of them remained in their tents and refused to perform for the public.
He had been livid, but not even the former Opera Ghost could terrify them into obedience, or afford to sack more than half his workforce. Instead, he had docked their wages, and October 31st became an unofficial, unpaid, holiday for the employees of what had grown into Phantasma.
It was Meg Giry who had tracked Edward Mordrake down, finding him in a volume called Anomalies and Curiosities of Medicine. Goodness knew why she had been reading it in the first place; but she had knocked on the door of his Phantasma-based apartment and shown him the passage. Edward Mordrake, it seemed, had been a man with a second face on the back of his head, like some unformed Siamese twin. A real-life personification of the Roman god Janus. The face had whispered and tormented Mordrake, snarling when he was in good spirits and laughing when he wept. The unfortunate man had committed suicide by hanging, at the age of 23. He had found no references to the ghost of Mordrake attacking performers on Halloween, but the superstition was set, and no amount of threats or bribes would change it. Therefore, October 31st was an unpaid holiday in Phantasma, and the loss of revenue grated on Erik every year.
This year, however, it was at least a Monday, and he was not losing as much. If he could only shake these people out of their superstitions, it could be an extremely profitable day, feeding into the celebrations going on all over the city. Coney Island should not be nearly so quiet on a day that appeared to celebrate and cherish things usually deemed horrific.
Erik had spent the day in his office, high above the park, but had decided to abandon his paperwork when the sun set, spreading red and orange light through his windows. He glanced at the portrait of his lost love above his desk as he buttoned up his coat, pulled on his gloves, donned his hat, and left the office. His footsteps echoed on the twisting staircase as he descended to ground level. He liked that there was still this small barrier to those who wanted to disturb him while he was trying to work; it took something important, or at least strong legs and lungs, to climb all those stairs and reach him. Erik was more approachable now than he had ever been, coached by the Girys and his own ambitions, to reject the instincts that had kept him isolated for so many years. As an employer, he had had to learn how to talk to people, how to negotiate, how to control his temper. He owed the Girys much for that hard-learned skill.
He crossed the park and exited, carrying the paperwork wrapped in oilcloth under his right arm, in case of rain. But the evening was dry, the clouds light. People were walking along the boardwalk of Coney Island, many of them parents holding the hands of costumed children, some his own staff. Alfred Johnson touched his hat to Erik as approached, but the mobile sheet beside him moved in a way that indicated a hand was being waved beneath the cloth.
"Hello, Mr. Y!"
Erik glanced at Alfred, then, understanding what was required of him, placed one hand over his heart and affected a tone of surprise.
"Miss Johnson! You startled me! I thought you were a ghost!"
There was a delighted giggle from under the sheet and through the cut-out holes, he could see the child's eyes sparkling.
"Really? Did I scare you?"
"Indeed, Miss Johnson. My heart practically jumped from my chest."
"But I don't want to be too scary," the little American accent had taken on a tone of worry. "No one will give me candy if I am too scary."
"Just scary enough, I assure you."
"Are you going trick-or-treating tonight, Mr. Y?"
"No, miss, I am going to settle down by my fire with a good book."
"Oh. Maybe you should, you could get some treats."
Erik had never really been one for treats, although he did know a lot of tricks. Alfred Johnson gave him an apologetic smile.
"Come along, Victoria. We must let Mr. Y get home."
"Goodnight, Mr. Y!"
"Goodnight, Miss Johnson. Johnson."
He nodded to his employee and the sheet-draped child, and continued on his way. He passed several other people, some he knew and some he did not, and found that many of the adults were also costumed, not just the children. When he reached the apartment block where he lived, just under ten minutes later, he saw a ball of tabby fur unfurl itself and shake a raised tail at him in greeting.
"There is no use mewing at me," he explained yet again. "I don't have food for you."
Nevertheless, he leaned down and ran a black-gloved hand over the cat's head.
"Meg is not home, hmm?"
The cat had turned up at the apartment building six months earlier, and Meg Giry had taken to feeding her. It was a small step from there to adopting her as a pet, and Meg had named her Hazel. She was extremely small for a tabby, but affectionate, with the deepest and loudest purr he had ever heard. It seemed extraordinary that such a sound could come from a creature closer to the size of a hare than a normal domestic feline. It had become his habit to pet the cat if she was waiting outside the door when he came home, although he refused to feed her. He had learned that lesson the hard way during the summer months, when she had left Meg's apartment through the open window and entered his own via the same route. He had not been pleased to find Hazel curled up in his favourite armchair when he got home from work.
"I'm here!" Meg's voice sounded from behind him at the cat totted over to her, tail held high and trembling again in welcome. Erik nodded to her.
"Good evening, Meg."
"Good evening, Erik," she replied as she reached the apartment block, holding a paper bag of groceries. "I was just out getting some candy for the trick-or-treaters, and of course some food for this little one." She bent down and scooped up the cat with one hand. Hazel wriggled and pressed her belly to Meg's breast, front claws firmly fastened on the shoulder of her coat, and purring like an engine. "Did you get any?"
"Candy? No."
"Then what are you going to give the trick-or-treaters?"
"A clip 'round the ear if they come to my door. Not that they should be able to enter the apartment block anyway."
To demonstrate the point, he unlocked the door to the block and held it open for Meg, hampered as she was with arms full of groceries and purring feline. She nodded her thanks and stepped over the threshold.
"You know many of these children live in our building, of course they will come knocking. You needn't be such a grouch all the time, you know. It must be exhausting."
She put Hazel down and the cat climbed the stairs ahead of them, looking back every few seconds to make sure they were following.
"I cannot understand the logic in children blackmailing and bribing their elders in equal measure."
"I don't know," Meg grinned. "I would have thought that sort of thing would be right up your street."
He gave her a well-practiced glare as they reached the landing, but she just shook her head, still smiling.
"Oh, come along, Erik. Admit it. Back in the Paris Opera House, you were trick-or-treating, just on a huge scale. 'Give me money or I will crash your chandelier'. It's just scaling up from 'Give me candy or I will throw eggs at your windows'."
"Anyone who throws eggs at my windows," he said matter-of-factly, "will be in for a sound thrashing." Nevertheless, he considered her comparison as she fumbled in the pocket of her coat for her door key, Hazel impatiently pawing at her skirt. "Perhaps I grew up."
"Perhaps you did," she agreed, finding the key. "But Halloween is not just for children, Erik. There's loads of adults out there as well, most of them in masks. Tonight, if on no other night, you'd blend right in."
"An interesting thought," he said, unlocking his own door. "Enjoy your evening, Miss Giry."
"You too, Erik. See you in the morning."
Erik could smell furniture polish. A maid had been in during the day to clean, as she did every week. He had been reluctant, and still found the notion of a near-stranger entering his home discomforting, but she was thorough in her duties and never entered the rooms he had forbidden her to. And he would know if she had.
He took off his gloves, hat, coat and shoes, put on his slippers and set himself to preparing a meal in the apartment's small kitchen. It had been a very deliberate decision to live away from Phantasma, even by only a few short blocks, to keep his work life and personal life separate. He knew all too well what happened when the two collided. There was a piano in the living room, of course, and he occasionally composed there when inspiration struck him, but mostly he just played for the pleasure of the music. He could hear Meg speaking to someone in a loud tone, and realised she must be talking to Madame Giry, in the apartment next to his own. The elder Giry's hearing was failing, necessitating a rise in volume.
The two had been inseparable for as long as he had known them, but when the apartment block had been completed, they had requested that each have an apartment of their own. It was time for Meg to have some independence from her mother, and it had struck Erik all at once, that she was no longer the child he always saw when he looked at her. Meg Giry was a young woman, with a life and ambitions of her own. How old was she now? He wondered as he browned beef in the frying pan. Twenty-four? No, her birthday was in late October, she must have just turned twenty-five. Well into spinsterhood.
How old did that make him? Erik was never sure of his own age. He finished preparing the meal and settled down to eat it, ignoring the trio of childish voices that cried "Trick or treat!" outside his apartment door. Let them think he was not yet home; it was early still in comparison to his usual routine. He heard the summons again, fainter, at Madame Giry's door, then Meg's, then their neighbour's.
He had crafted a home here, just as the Girys had done, and in a way he had never thought possible. Among the freaks of Coney Island, he had become a respected, wealthy, and maybe even admired, businessman. He had found a place in the world that he fitted in, perhaps not entirely comfortably, but where he was accepted.
As the evening drew on, Erik found himself restless. He tried to play, to complete the newspaper crossword, to read, but found that nothing held his attention. The words Meg had said seemed to swirl around his mind, almost taunting. There were adults out there, in masks.
Tonight, if on no other night, you'd blend right in.
Halloween had not been celebrated in France. It wasn't an occasion he was familiar with at all, even from Persia and Italy, bar that it coincided with a religious festival, All Saint's Eve. He had been quick to spot the profit potential in a holiday that the Americans so seemed to enjoy, which had of course added to his frustrations when he employees had come out with the ridiculous story of Edward Mordrake.
But tonight was a night for monsters, for ghouls and for ghosts. And in his time, he had been all three. He stood, and looked at his reflection in the mirror over the mantelpiece. He was older now, just as Meg Giry was. How old, he could not tell, but something in his eyes still hinted of a frightened child. The man in the tailored suit still remembered who he had once been, the many personalities he had donned like cloaks throughout his life.
Erik strode into his bedroom and dug into the back of his wardrobe for a long, brown coat, old and shabby, far from his debonair style. He pulled it on, buttoned it, and then stood back before the mirror. His fingers trembled as he reached up, and took off the mask. It was as though he stood there naked, exposed, as if there was something shameful to be concealed. It was concealed, this cosmic joke at his expense. But tonight, on this night of monsters, ghouls and ghosts, he need not hide this accursed ugliness, even from himself.
He unlocked his door and stepped onto the landing beyond, locking up behind him. He had only gone a few steps towards the staircase when he heard the childish voices and thumping steps of those who had surely already consumed too much sugar.
The little faces gazed up at him with trepidation when they reached the top of the stairs. A witch, a pirate and a Civil War soldier, staring at him with wide eyes. Their parents looked at him too, more in shock, and perhaps in pity. Then, at last, the pirate spoke:
"That is an awesome mask, mister!"
The words rang with admiration, and the other two agreed, while the parents looked at each other and offered Erik apologetic smiles.
"Thank you, lad," Erik replied, and pointed a gloved finger to Meg Giry's door. "She has candy. Be quick, before she feeds it to the cat."
They moved passed him, and only the little witch glanced back with that strange look of admiration, as if she found him impressive. He went out into the deepening Coney Island night, and felt the salty wind on his face, a strange sensation. There were celebrations tonight, and he moved among the costumed revellers, talking and laughing and dancing.
And for the first time in his life, no-one gasped in horror. Hardly anyone even noticed him. It was as if the deformed features of his face were nothing more than a Halloween mask.