[AN] I just can't do anything on a schedule. Hello dear readers, I'll try to make this initial author's note brief. This is the sequel to Forgotten Melodies. One thing you'll find is that this one is not written in any manner of linear timeline. It's done that way for a reason and that will become apparent as the story progresses.
This one will only be updating once every two weeks to begin. Wednesdays, the second and fourth Wednesdays of the month. Again, this one will be available for purchase on the kindle and in paperback before it is done being posted here (and posting will pick up here after the new year probably).
As always, if you notice a typo or any sort of grammatical screw up, PLEASE let me know in a review or PM. I do my best to proofread my stuff but it happens sometimes that I miss stuff.
Reviews in general are totally encouraged. I love reading reviews. I probably won't bother you too often with these author's notes. Let's begin.
[AN edit] I've gone through and fixed some tenses and a couple of other typos. Thank you immensely to those who've pointed errors out to me, I really appreciate it!
Chapter One
The Catacombs of Paris, 1885
"Christine…." The name was barely a breath as it escaped from the yellow, papery lips of a man near death. Sharp bone protruded under paper-thin yellowed skin covered in tattered rags that had once been expensive finery. Years ago he had been an imposing figure. Now he was far more corpse-like than he ever had been. Death was his closest companion, but even Death seemed unwilling to come too close to him.
"Christine." The word was spoken with far more urgency the second time as he curled into the fetal position. His eyes were screwed shut as tight as his weakened body would allow and every inch of him trembled with fear as a dream filled with unspeakable horrors danced through his unconscious mind. He thrashed and kicked in a desperate, futile attempt to fend off the aggressors in his dreams.
"No— No!" He sat bolt upright, his entire body drenched in cool sweat. He clutched his chest as deep, terrible coughs ripped through his body, echoing through the empty space that surrounded him. It was only as he worked to regulate the speed and shallowness of his breathing that he realized his face was colder than it was meant to be.
In the near pitch-black darkness of the catacombs the man frantically flailed and dragged his hands across the ground looking for the one article of clothing he could never do without. No, he thought, please, I need my mask, where did it—
His hand bumped against something cool and smooth and with too-eager fingers he snatched it up, brushed it against the ragged silk of his shirt before placing it back on his face. At once his mind quieted and his shaking steadied. Well, steadied as much as it could. He shivered nearly constantly then, his body completely unable to regulate his internal temperature as it ate away at itself in a last ditch attempt to stay alive.
Enshrouded in such blackness as that which filled the catacombs no one would ever have the opportunity to view the man's face, but without his mask he felt vulnerable. Naked and alone.
His skin ached where it made contact with the mask and he could feel a blistering rash forming across his forehead and left cheek, but to go without the mask simply was not possible.
He pressed his back against the wall and surveyed his surroundings. The catacombs heaved a musty sigh as another pitiful creature entered the twisted labyrinth of corridors beneath the city. He looked up and down the long corridor but saw no evidence of anyone approaching. He could hear none of the usual whispers and muffled cries of the others that occupied that particular area.
"Erik," a woman's voice called suddenly, breaking up the maddening silence. The name caused the corpse-like man to sit back up and look for the source. It was a name he hadn't heard in many, many months spoken by a voice he could never forget.
"Christine?" he croaked as he tried to pull himself to his feet. His knees wobbled and refused to bear his weight, sending him crashing back to the ground. When did I become so weak?
"Erik." The name floated through the still air again. The skeletal man tried again and again to pull himself to his feet. On his fifth try he managed to stay standing, if only by leaning heavily against the wall.
Each step forward was torturous, but the man hobbled along and tried his best to ignore the pain.
"Hurry, Erik."
"Christine? Can it be?" His words were barely more than a breath. "Christine?"
He listened, but all he could hear was the fading echo of his own labored breathing. He stopped, leaning almost his entire body against the wall as the world seemed to spin. His vision began to fade as he sank against the wall.
"Erik, please."
"You've come back," he cried as he forced himself forward. As he stumbled along he realized he could hear a second set of footsteps approaching from behind him. They were far off yet, but before too long they would be right on top of him. "Oh, Christine!"
His broken voice echoed through the empty space in a way that the voice he was hearing didn't, but neither did he notice or care. So far gone was the man now that the hallucinations he experienced were completely intertwined with his view of reality. So far gone that he no longer felt his stomach twisting and churning as it digested his continued diet of nothing.
About fifteen paces ahead he was certain that he saw a woman in a white dressing gown. She was smiling at him, arms outstretched.
"Erik?" The sound of his name being spoken from behind caused him to shift his focus, and in doing so he stumbled and he fell. This time he would be unable to stand again of his own accord. "I think it's really him this time." The voice of the woman that spoke then was familiar, but the emaciated man couldn't quite place it.
"He's long dead, I can assure you," another voice, male this time, said. Erik recognized it immediately.
The little fop, he thought, narrowing his eyes angrily. What could he possibly want with me now?
And why can't I just die?
