Not in His Plans

The stagehand scrambled away from the piercing gaze, up into the rafters and precarious catwalks above the stage. A feral snarl etched itself on the Watcher's face as he stood deep within the shadows. One swish of his cape, and he was no more than a shadow himself, disappearing into the inky blackness.

Joseph Buquet was quietly panicking. The air was oppressive here, as if it was a living force trying to squeeze the life out of him. The shadows were flickering, always in motion-what-what was that? He peered ahead of him, hurrying down the narrow, swinging catwalk. The shadows leapt out at him, cold, dark tendrils stretching out to claim his very soul. The temperature dropped several degrees. I must be over-reacting, he told himself over and over. All his tales of the Phantom came to mind, and he shuddered. The gruesome details he had once so gleefully expounded now tortured his frightened mind. …that absence of a nose is something horrible to see…

Below him, the ballerina girls twirled gracefully (most of them) onto the stage, blissfully unaware of the drama descending above. The stage became a teaming mass of people as they struggled to regain control of the situation. Buquet wanted to scream at them, to curse them, but the icy blackness had stolen his voice. He clutched at the cat walk's ropes and shivered; someone-something-else was here with him. Why had he been so stupid to go after the Phantom alone? Bravado? Curiosity? None of that mattered now.

It could not be the other stagehands; they were all below and off-stage, laughing at the unfortunate Carlotta and dallying with the chorus girls. Somewhere behind his growing panic, Buquet was envious. The stupid ghost…ruining his fun. The stagehand forced himself to think rationally. He would carefully find his way down and forget about this nonsense; he would go back to that lovely chorus girl, Darci. Ah, Darci, one fortress he would not mind conquering…

The icy presence suddenly vanished and Buquet foolishly chuckled. His mind began to wander to more pleasant thoughts. For the time being, he was alone, and his courage returned. Down the gently swaying catwalk he padded, oblivious to the pale yellow gaze following his every move. After a few glances into the dark corners, Buquet was satisfied that the ghost was gone. Mostly sure…anyway he hoped. He could not deny the feeling of terror that still lurked deep in his torso.

He tossed his scruffy head and turned around, and his blood ran cold in his veins. Mother preserve me, he thought in a jumble of fear. There, only inches from his face, gleamed a cold, white mask, in stark contrast to the black shadows around it. Shining from the right eyehole was that pale yellow stare! The terrified man took in the rest of the cold visage, the predatory smirk, the intense green of the one exposed eye. Buquet let out a soft squeak, for that mismatched gaze had pinned his feet to the boards.

The Phantom-Buquet had no doubt as to who it was-leaned closer and breathed in his face. The soft hiss jolted the paralyzed man into action at last. He spun away and fled down the long pathway. Below the Hunter and its prey, the ballet played on. The lithe figures leapt gracefully into the air, spinning in their folk-dance costumes as wooly white sheep bleated. The orchestra was slowly working past its cacophonous noise into something recognizable.

As the confusion lessened below, it only intensified above. Everywhere Buquet ran, the Phantom was there, teeth bared and black gloves extended. Buquet grasped wildly at the rigging and pulled himself up to the next level. He could hear the ghost coming after him as it pulled itself up with an easy flowing motion. He caught sight of the dark black shadow separating itself from its brothers, smoothly leaping across to block the exit.

Buquet was now alone on his catwalk, trapped. He saw the white flash of the Phantom's mask, directly across from him. Only ten feet away stood that cursed ghost, a vicious smile plastered on its face. Buquet jerked right, but the Phantom was already there, anticipating his every move. The stagehand jerked back left, and again was blocked. Buquet tried to scream, but his voice was still gone.

One last desperate chance he had. He turned his back on the ghost and staggered down the long catwalk. There was another door on the other side; he needed only to reach it. Without warning, the catwalk shuddered as the Phantom made a flying leap and landed on it. Buquet felt the footsteps resound through the wood. It was gaining on him, purposefully shaking the unsteady platform. It was only a matter of time before Buquet lost his balance and fell face-first onto the boards.

He flipped madly onto his back and saw the dark creature approaching, a long rope in its hands. Buquet whimpered as he saw the noose at the end. There was nowhere to go, and the unreligious man found himself praying to whoever would listen. There was no time to move and the noose came sailing over his head as the Phantom leaned in for the kill. The circle tightened around his throat mercilessly, cutting off his next gasp for air. Buquet groaned and pulled at the unforgiving rope about his neck. He looked up and saw the snarl of pleased hatred on the creature's face, determination to kill.

"No one hunts the Phantom," he heard it hiss, "for all is the Phantom's prey…" The rope constricted again, and Buquet saw flashes of light. Coherent thought left him and he became like an animal forced to choose between fight or flight. Flight was impossible, so he let go the rope and lashed out blindly. It was blind fate indeed that his hard fist found the Phantom's throat. The ghost gasped out in anger.

For a brief moment Buquet felt the noose loosen, and he surged upwards. No ghost was going to stop his earthly indulgences, not this one. The devil take him if he was not going to put up a fight! His desperate fingers wrapped themselves around the pale, slender throat above and squeezed hard. The creature snarled in his face and jerked the noose tight again, slamming its elbow into Buquet's chest. The two crashed to the boards in a mad race to choke the life from each other. How can I kill a ghost? Buquet felt his vision beginning to darken from lack of oxygen; his fingers spasmed. Something under his hand gave way to his grip.

The ghost choked loudly and slammed into him again. Its actions were more pronounced, and did he dare hope that it was struggling like he was? He held on tenaciously, the rope cutting into his flesh, blood dripping from his nose. The ballet played on in a waking nightmare. His hand was finally torn away from the Phantom and the creature was leaping back with a mighty pull on the rope. Buquet made a strangled cry, felt himself pushed over the edge of the catwalk, plummeting down towards the stage, the stage that he would not reach. Just before his life came to an abrupt halt, Buquet pondered, so he really did have a nose after all…

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The Phantom cursed the dead man swinging from the catwalk beneath. Screams of disbelief and terror sounded from the stage and audience. The Carlotta-induced humor was gone immediately, but the ghost was in no position to triumph over it. He leaned back against the railing with a gasping wheeze, feeling as if his throat had been torn open. The pressure had been immense; something had snapped inside, and he was having enough trouble just breathing.

No, there was not time for celebration. Stupid, stupid man, cursed petty stagehand, he seethed as spots danced before his eyes. He hoarsely gasped in another heaving breath, and clung to the ropes around him. He had to escape, to get back underneath, away from the prying eyes that now roved to the ceiling. Shouts sounded beneath as someone caught sight of his dark shape struggling to rise. "The Phantom!" they screamed and pointed.

The Phantom gasped hatefully and rose to his feet. Adrenaline now guided his leather booted-feet down the catwalk and into a side passageway. Voices were coming this way! He calmly did what he did best, and what human beings called "disappearing." The search party scurried through the small hallway without a second glance, determined to trap the ghost on the catwalk.

He would have smiled, if he could, as he staggered down the secret passageway. His silent feet led him straight and true, down to ground level and below, deep into the depths of the Opera House. His throat burned and every little movement sent waves of pain down his spine. Oh, to have that snoop Buquet alive for a few moments more; he would have made the death so much slower. He wanted revenge for the pain racking his body; a deep rage had settled in his stomach. His perfect plans for defending his home had unraveled briefly, and he had been spotted once again. Box Five had been purposefully filled, he had been hunted. (The hunter-turned-prey was now dead, but the Phantom did not care.)

No one bested the Phantom more than once; he was a very fast learner, and even faster to even the score. The Opera House would pay for this night, dearly. One fist clenched tightly, and the other lifted to rub at his throat. He still had some morphine from his last surface raid, and he intended to dull the fiery pain. Into the dim flickering light of his candles he came, sliding down onto the easy chair in the corner. A strangled growl lifted from his depths.

He raised his head and stared into the nearest mirror, gazing at the stark white of his mask, rubbing his throat. "You will regret that you did not do what the Phantom asked of you," he started to snarl loudly at the small figurines on the table. To his everlasting horror, no words came, instead a garbled choke emerged. He gasped for air.

No! This could not be happening to him! He could not speak! Bitterness and hatred welled within him, and he smashed his hand forward onto the small panorama. The small figures splintered under his gloved fist. His yellow eye blazed with venom. A wretched sob of anger ripped itself from his ruined throat.

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A moment of silence for our Phantom's poor damaged larynx (aka voice box).This is a new story that has been bugging me for quite some time to write. Guess that makes it not so new.

Anyway, is the poor guy's voice gone for good? How will he manage if it is?

Word of warning. My version of the phantom is not going to be the kindliest, friendliest version out there. I have read the novel by Gaston Leroux, and I have seen the 2004 movie. I'm taking elements from both. His overall appearance is going to be similar to G. Butler's, since that's the way I first saw him. But small things have been changed to be similar to Leroux's version as well. This story may well deserve its T rating before it's over.

Please, read and review if you would. I'm always open to suggestion.