Hi there, this is The-Ghost-Who-Bleeds! I'll be updating this story weekly, so long as daily life doesn't get in my way too much, and I hope that you enjoy where it takes you! I would love love LOVE for you guys to leave your thoughts and opinions on this story, reviews keep me going and I know where you guys want the story to go as well! As usual, all rights go to Gaston Leroux and everyone else who has a claim in the wonderful original. A handful of characters belong to me but the rest (Erik, Christine etc) do not.
Anyway, without further ado, enjoy!
~oOo~
November, 2007:
November in New York was an odd array of weather. Recently, the sun had warmed the criss-cross of streets, harbouring off a cold spell that Erik was sure would set in soon. He had rather enjoyed the mild weather as he went about his day but now, a bitter wind had crept up on him and burrowed through his clothes. Erik braced himself against the barrage, remaining where he stood with his hand resting on the thick, steel barrier in front of him. Tilting his head upwards, he gazed through the sweeping steel cables of the Brooklyn Bridge and admired his surroundings. Though the sky above was an inky black, his surroundings were ablaze with light that reflected over the normally muddy waters of the Hudson. The glittering lights from the skyscrapers and buildings alongside the water's edge created an almost saccharine glow and he watched as the occasional boat left a trail of silver in its wake. And yet… His hand drew back into a fist, his flesh biting at the leather that encased it. This was a tarnished place for him now and he could not help but feel thoroughly disappointed in himself. A place that he had long admired from afar, from its majestic limestone, neo-gothic arches to its intricate web of thick steel cables as well as carnage of the roads that ran along its belly. He had scoured many blueprints of this particular bridge, had always appreciated its long construction and determination that went into the build. Now it was unlikely that he could ever return to it.
Erik peered over into the dancing ripples of the Hudson, wondering if he had done a good enough job. It was one thing to impress Sam, let alone the one he had to answer to. Impress Sam, you impress Howie and although he knew he had done well, the anxiety he kept at bay for so long had started to creep back up on him. He had never had this in London. He had always been self-assured with his work, satisfied even to a point he grew arrogant with his employers. What a mistake that had been. With one last long, forlorn gaze, Erik stepped away from the barrier, mentally preparing himself for his long trek back to his small abode, where the existence of the busy life melted away completely. As he turned to walk, his phone buzzed against his breast and an irritating little tone followed it, one he had still not worked out how to silence. He really wished he hadn't allowed Darius to set up his phone. Pulling it out of his pocket as he walked, he glanced at the screen to see if it was any one of importance or if it was someone he could ignore. With a grimace, he swiped right to answer and held the cold device to his barely revealed ear.
"Yes?"
"A hello would be a nice way to start off a conversation, Erik. Come on, I thought I taught you better."
Erik rolled his eyes, biting back his immature tongue lest he say something he'd regret. "Hello, Sam."
"There, was that so hard? How you feeling?" The thick, Bronx accent sounded funny through his electronic device and Erik smiled.
"Fine. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Oh you know… Various reasons."
Erik found himself shrugging to no one. He thought it a morbid achievement to have grown used to the sight of corpses at the age of twenty-two. This was not something he decided to tell Sam. "I am fine. Really."
"Ok, well… Anyway I was ringing to say that I think you should hang out in the den for a bit. Long days like this are stressful."
His stomach rolled at the thought of the den. It was a subterranean cellar of sorts, an old disused crapshoot den that had belonged to Sam's grandfather back in the 50's. Now it was used as a safe house, a place that lacked any inspiration or natural light that did no good for Erik's fragile state of mind. His anxiety went haywire in that wretched place, with little to distract him bar an old, badly tuned piano and his iPod.
"Oh come on, really?" He found himself saying, thrusting his other hand moodily into his pocket. It was the only act of defiance he could show, even if Sam couldn't see.
"Hey, it's not that bad. Listen, come to the Central Park on Wednesday at eleven. It's a great day for a catch up."
Before Erik could splutter a word of protest, the line went dead and Sam had gone. With an irritated sigh, Erik turned his phone off and dropped it back into his pocket. He did not want to be contacted anymore tonight. The hint was clear in Sam's message that he shouldn't contact anyone until Wednesday anyway, after hearing the secret code in that last sentence. He knew that he'd be meeting Howie on his own, probably for a catch up on how things were going or maybe, Howie had a job for him. He wouldn't find out until then. With his eyes fixed on the path ahead, he set off in a brisk walk sticking well to the left, avoiding the cycle lane lest some irritated, jumped up lackey whizzed past on their bike. A couple passed him, merry and inebriated but did not seem to notice the man that had melted into the shadows and that is what Erik loved about his new home. He had ceased to exist.
It took a while but at last he was walking alongside the railings that encased the botanic garden, a marvellous sanctuary of peace that he found soothed his troubled mind. He had spent many an hour overlooking the peaceful Japanese Hill-and-Pond garden, with its lobster red Shinto shrine that somehow managed to look simultaneously out of place and yet blended in with its surroundings. It was in spring, when the dappled light filtered through the various trees of the Japanese maples and white pine, that he had admired it the most. But, that had been at a time when he was ready to start new beginnings, to not fall into the trap of the person he used to be. He clenched his teeth as he thought how quickly he had fallen into bad habits like a misbehaving child and carried on pounding the streets, quickly forgetting the sanctuary he had made his.
Instead he turned left down a street filled with red bricked houses tattooed with graffiti and fenced off land hiding nothing but rubble. It was down this street that a shuttered, squat building sat with a local artists tag already scrawled across the corrugated metal. That had irked Erik, but what could he do about it? At least they thought it was abandoned. This was where the safe house was, not in the building but below it. He quickly unlocked the padlock, heaved the door open so that he could slip in quickly and slammed it back down shut, making sure that all five inside locks were heavily secure. It had been a while since he had been here and the smell was a mixture of damp and Darius's cheap cologne, who had probably been here to stock up for Erik's arrival. Though quite squat, the room was large enough to encase a large, cage elevator that plunged down four floors to the safe den and Erik wrenched the shuttered door open. It was such a stiff old thing that it took several minutes for him to pull it back shut again before he could descend down into the coldness and he subconsciously found himself digging his hands further down into his pockets.
Finally, the safe house appeared, a large cavernous room with only two exits, the one he had just come down and the other being hidden behind the enormous, oak bookshelf. When Erik had first discovered this cliché means of escape, he had laughed until his belly hurt and wondered what sort of a mess he had gotten himself into now. Now, as he stepped into the living room, he eyed the bookshelf with scorn as he peeled his gloves off and slapped them onto the small kitchenette counter. It was equipped well enough, with a small fridge and cupboards stocked with dry and tinned food that he could heat up in the world's worst microwave that sat in the corner, with its industrial strength radiation that Erik swore gave him a headache every time he used the damn machine. Luckily for him, that wasn't very often. He had never really had much of an appetite. A quick search revealed that Darius had cleaned the fridge bare of any alcoholic substance, something Erik cursed him for, so instead he settled for a glass of water that he sipped at gently as he put his phone on charge. Two doors on either side of the room led into a small, basic bathroom and the other contained a single bed with a side table, lamp and a narrow wardrobe. He didn't have to check if his clothes were in there for he knew Darius would've brought some along with him. There was sofa bed in the main room, it was a dowdy grey thing that sat square in front of a box like telly with a scattering of channels, though the signal was so weak down here Erik wondered why they even bothered. His main source of entertainment were the books he had scoured through hundreds of times and, of course, the piano that sat flush against the far side of the room. He was delighted to see that Sam had listened to his requests and had left a large stack of paper with an array of pens for him to write down any compositions he should happen to come up with whilst in his isolation. Removing his coat and scarf, he sat down at the piano and continued to tune it before he was happy to play without stopping. It would be a long few days down here and so Erik composed, mildly aware of the anxiety that was slowly scratching at his brain and the fact that a whole city sat on top of him. He felt crushed and yet, he played.