So what's to be said? The similarities in Shelley's Frankenstein and Leroux's Phantom are overwhelming but so are their differences, and so far, I only know of 2 crossovers that cover the original novels.
Here's my attempt at a chance encounter. The creature's death was mysterious- maybe he was just too strong to be killed off...
Disclaimer: I don't own POTO or Frankenstein
It had been two weeks and four days since he left Asian soil. Clutching the cloak tighter to his form, the lone figure shut his eyes, masked face as expressionless as the melancholy snow drifting from above. He was not one to think much of others. But these days, his thoughts often trailed back to the Daroga of Mazenderan. Quite a fool.
The Persian had been a fool- that was all there was to it. He had risked everything for a monster of all things. The masked man would have smiled at the morbidness of that fact if it wasn't so hard to find the mirth in it. He kept his back against the wooden wall, knees drawn upright, feeling the fire's warmth ensnare him.
It had been too long since he last set foot in Europe. To his dismay, he was rather unaccustomed to the harsh Scandinavian weather. And almost, for an instance, he missed the Persian sun- he allowed himself a moment to remember the daroga's sunlit estate. But that was all in the past.
That welcoming sun was no better than the hearth of hell. He shivered again and crossed his arms, the cloak shifting ever so slightly with movement.
A small group of men gathered around the hearth, chattering in their Swedish tongue. The tavern was rising in volume as they excitedly spoke. He had not intended to eavesdrop, but the word "monster" pricked his ear.
"You hear what happened to the Finn's daughter?"
The speaker was a balding man with puffed cheeks. The man next to him, a thin fellow with a light beard, shook his head.
"Gustave, what world 'ave you been living in?" A cheerier voice asked.
"Oh, don't mock me anymore."
"They say the Finn went logging one day," another chimed in.
The balding one sneezed. "Where was I? Ah, yes- logging. His daughter was at home, tending her brothers, keeping house- you know her- her name... ah, can't remember. This continued for many days. She was a lovely girl, really, one of the finest I've seen. Strong, curved, a real wit to match."
Gustave sighed. "Where are we going with this?"
"Patience, Daae."
"Well, she left food behind their cottage. Why? A friend in need, she'd say. The Finn was determined to get to the bottom of this, for you see, 'friend' was a loose term- she was terrified of this bastard, whoever he was, terrified of what he'd do.
But one evening, the Finn got home, and what does he see? That girl pale as snow and lying broken on the floor- the monster was over her, oh, a huge bastard he was."
The man raised his hands. "Yellow, unnatural eyes. The skin of a corpse and greasy, thin black hair. He was a terrible thing to behold."
"I've seen him," the cheery voice cut in, "I've seen him too- in the woods. Stole my cheese."
"The Finn's dead now, ya know?"
"I saw him last night!" Gustave exclaimed.
"Well, you won't see him anymore."
Behind the group, the masked man opened his eyes, revealing a set of golden irises. The tales continued, of this creature who haunted their town, who took their daughters, who stole their food. How much of it was true was up in the air. He stared moodily into the flickering flames. The description sounded painstakingly familiar.
No, it was not Erik. It was some other wicked wretch.
A monster in the woods. It had been there for quite some time, according to the men, ever since the start of winter. But it was just a story for bored ears and Erik soon lost his interest. For all he knew, someone might have seen his face and decided to start a childish prank.
"Who's that?"
He stiffened in the corner. That was Gustave's voice, lowered to a harsh whisper.
"The mask? Probably some convict." "Looks rich, though." "Don't look at him."
Their conversation went back to the weather and their petty lives. The monster in the woods was forgotten.
When his hunger was sufficiently satisfied, he went back to the village. His steps were careful, though heavy and numb. He resolved to start a fire soon, one not too close to town but a tolerable distance. Yellow eyes scanned the vincinity of the forest.
In the shelter of the woods, he was undetected. For years, he had lived this way. And for years, it would continue.
Her name was Aana. He had watched her for quite some time, observed her movements, learned her pains and pleasures. Aana.
Huge hands touched the bark. He had a desperate need for companionship, but refused to learn: her death was his to blame. It was an all too familiar scenario and the hulk of a man shuddered.
The villagers were aware of his presence. It wouldn't be long before he had to move on, but the resentment simmered within him. He wanted to give them reason to hate him. That was something his father had taught him- fear and loathing came from reason. Science provided an answer for everything.
He would give them the reason they craved. There was nothing that differed this village from all the rest.
Erik awoke to a light tap on his shoulder. Instinctively, he started and threw his hands over the attacker's shoulders. The latter stumbled against his grip and shaken, Erik let go. He shivered. This was no attack.
The other man's wide blue eyes radiated fear. "S- sir?"
Still in a fit, Erik looked at his surroundings, lit dimly by the fire. He was still in the tavern and the small group of men had dwindled to three. They were staring apprehensively at him, as if ready to fight if necessary.
It would be prudent to speak before he drew any more attention.
"I'm sorry," he said at last, figure relaxing. French had stupidly slipped out of his mouth. He shook his head and repeated the apology in Swedish.
The other man, who he recognized as Gustave, drew in a sharp breath. "Did I scare you?"
He nodded.
"I speak French, sir, if that makes you more comfortable."
His French was good, Erik admitted. The accent was a tad heavy but it was fluent nonetheless- perhaps even a little better than the daroga's...
"No need," the masked man replied.
"Well, it's getting late, sir. Manager didn't want you to stay here. There's an inn nearby. Shouldn't be more than ten steps."
Erik stole a glance at the dusty clock. It was well past midnight; he internally cursed himself for falling asleep- he should have been in that inn by then and gone the next day. But given the amount of snowfall, he wasn't sure if that was possible.
Another man, the one with the chippy voice, felt the need to say something, much to Erik's annoyance.
"Gustave, you wouldn't mind showing our visitor the way, would you?"
The derision was obvious and Gustave frowned at the snickering. They were daring him to handle the masked lunatic. Without a word, Gustave gestured for Erik to follow him and the man was soon out the wooden doors, freezing gusts of wind blowing in.
Erik replaced the hat on his head and followed suit, sweeping his belongings into his arms. He heard an unpleasant comment about the color of his eyes before all words were drowned by the roaring of a blizzard's shadow.
It was dreadfully cold, even by his standards. He made his way sluggishly through the village, the wind howling and shreds of snow obscuring his vision. Any fire would be put out.
Refuge was out of the question, but he didn't intend to live out the night in such discomfort. He would have gladly welcomed a frozen death but that was not to be. His father had been certain to make him stronger than the average man.
The ragged cloak billowed behind him, and from under the wide hood, he saw two figures approaching. He was in the village and hidden between two battered structures. One of the men, he recognized, in spite of the man's large coat.
Aana had called him the violinist. The other was a mass of black. They passed him silently, moving quickly and against the wind. He stuck his head out from the hiding spot and stole a glimpse of the other man.
A dark barrier blocked the stranger's face, but he had already seen the yellow eyes.
Panting, he left the wedge; it wasn't possible. Another of his kind existed. No- he would have to be sure. They went into the inn. And he would follow.
"There's no need to accompany me any further, M. Daae."
Erik placed his bag on the floor and examined the shabby room. The floorboards were creaking, the windows dusty, and the bed looked as if it would topple any second. Better than a cage.
He swore to never stay in such a wretched place again. Gustave placed the lamp on the bedside desk as he offered a soft smile beneath that wet beard.
"It's no trouble," he said nervously.
"Do you expect me to pay you?"
Gustave's eyes betrayed his offense. "No. I simply noticed you carry a violin."
"Oh?"
Erik slid to his knees and opened the bag, aware of Gustave following his every move. The violin case met his bony hands and in a moment, the instrument itself was between the two men.
"I'm a musician as well, sir. Sadly, my last violin was destroyed."
Erik frowned. The man couldn't possibly be suggesting-
"I'll pay you for it. I'll provide lodging even. My home over this inn."
"It's not for sale."
"As a fellow artist-"
"Thank you for your trouble, M. Daae."
Flustered, Gustave dropped the subject. Erik placed the violin back in its case and glanced at the other man, all but telling him to leave.
"Good night, Monsieur," Gustave sighed.
Erik watched the dejected man turn around and wiggle into his coat, noticing with amusement the way the man's fingers twitched, as if itching to play the instrument.
"And Monsieur," Gustave added as an afterthought before closing the door, "you-
Erik tilted his head. Had M. Daae come up with a fitting insult?
"You have a wonderful voice."
The door shut. Erik blinked, caught by surprise.
He was at the window, staring into its cracked glass, past the dust and into the dim light. His breath came out hot and heavy, the reflection of a stitched carcass on the glass. Even the wind could not sway him.
The man wore a mask, he could see that. The other pair of yellow eyes were focused more on the bed than the violin.
He remembered the violin in his own arms, how Daae's instrument had been crushed. The man turned his back toward the window and placed a set of spidery fingers on the back of his head, reaching for the strings that held the mask together.
He turned away from the window as the masked man whipped around, aware of his presence. A moment of waiting.
He turned back. The mask was on the bedside table and the man himself was beneath the covers. He couldn't see well past the blurred glass, but thin wisps of black hair lay on top of the pale exposed scalp.
He could see no more. It was time to leave.
I hope that was worth reading and please review. This is my first time writing a legitimate crossover, and I'd like to know if I'm doing it right!
Next chapter, we find out what happened to Gustave's violin. This won't be a long story, but as it goes on, the more things escalate. I promise that there will be blood and tears and rage. This might be moved to crossovers soon but for now, I think I'll keep it here.