He had returned to his lair of darkness to find his manuscripts in shambles, strewn about the floor. The candelbra atop his organ was lit, the flames flickering as they hissed in the wax of the long burnt candles. All of his posessions were covered in a lgiht film of dust, undisturbed since he had left...after Christine had gone with the Vicomte..
Choosing not to dwell on past Hells, he gathered up his opera, Don Juan Triumphant, and shuffled the papers. The siamese cat was gone, her pawprints leading to the lake and disappearing. He pitied her most likely grisly death.
Replacing the faded notes on the organ, he whipped around, cloak following with a swish. He tilted his head to the side, than stalked to the bed. He jerked back the covers, revealing a child, hunched into a ball, delicate hands clasped to her throat. She was clad in the rattiest of clothing, and a dank smell wafted from her. Her dark curls were in tangles, and he could see bruises marking her adolescent body.
Supressing his cry of rage, and wondering who it was that hated him so, he threw the silk sheets back, turning on his heel, and clenching his fists. His breathing was heavy, and his contorted face made his mask look sinister. He kept himself from reaching murderous, although his eyes showed how close he had become. Leaving the child to her own devices, his rapid exit into the drawing room blew out the candelabra.
Sometimes later, he knew not when, he awoke. The room was dark, but it was always dark beneath the opera house. He sat, curled up, his mask twisted on his face, his large hat off. Angrily, he ran his skeletal finger through his hair, adjusted his mask, replaced his hat, and remembered the girl. He shook his head wearily, eyes showing all the age of one who's lived for an eternity. He stood gracefully, slamming the door open, it bounced off of the wall with a jarring clang.
The girl had been standing in front of the organ, eyes still squinted from sleep. Her lithe fingers were splayed across the keys, and she was peering intently at the manuscripts. She jumped at the sound of the door, but did not turn.
He cursed, wondering if he was losing his knack. Would he scare none anymore? Was he just a dilussional, senile old man? The girl pressed down a key, and attempted to sing along with it.. Her voice was quavery, cautious, almost frightened.
Without meaning to her stalked over to her, standing behind her, placing his own fingers on the familiar keys. His voice was harsh, harsher than he meant it to be, but she reminded him of Christine. She was so eager for praise..
"Sing it like you mean it, child. Listen!"
He played the note again, singing out loudly, dying down slowly. The note echoes around the walls, and the girl looked stunned. She turned in his grasp, dark eyes wide, reaching up gentle fingers to caress the curves of his mask. For a moment, he didn't move, didn't blink, didn't breath, for fear or harming this fragile creature.
Suddenly he wrenched away from her, and she was left standing, hand outstretched. He panted slightly as he spoke, but his voice was still melodious, harshly, gratingly beautiful.
"Go away from me now, child. Before I do something terrible!"
He turned towards her, eyes blazing. She backed up, pushing through a door, into a woman's room that smelled of lilacs. Through the door she heard him roar, "LOCK IT!"
She locked the row of locks down the edge of the door, backing still until she fell onto a bed. She collapsed, moaning, burying her face into the sheets, her tears cutting streaks through the grime.
She heard a horrible concession of jointed notes, weaving themselves in and out, screeching through the house. She covered her ears, and fell into a sleep full of nightmares.
*****
She woke, feeling pinned beneath large amounts of blankets. She glanced towards the door, it was unlocked. Folded at her bed was a dress of the lightest blue, the color of her eyes. Beside that was a brush and a mirror.
Outside, from the organ, a light ballet was being played. The notes were stacatto, too light and pretty for this lair. She was perplexed at this change in music.. But who was she to judge the infamous Phantom? By now, she knew he was Erik, the tortured soul who wandered the halls of the Opera house. She also knew he hid something ghastly beneath his mask. She heard that he had even murdered some, this heartbroken soul. Such heinous crimes for a man with the voice of an angel.
Quietly, she pushed her door open, leaving the dress at the foot of her bed. There he was, his fingers dancing across the keys. Suddenly, the ballet turned into a low, sad tune, and she began to hum a counter-melody. She spun around, feeling his eyes on her, singing the melody now, eyes closed as she floated on the notes. All too soon, the melody faded, and she could feel him standing in front of her. "What is your name?"
She hesitated, looking up almost shyly to gaze at his dark eyes beneath the mask. Her voice was soft, with the slightest musical lilt, "It's Marie, m'sieur.."
He nodded, turning slightly. "I assume you know who I am, Marie?"
She nodded, all traces of fear left from her face. "You are The Phantom of the Opera... The heartbroken Erik." She was so confident, so trusting. "And you let me stay here, in your.... home. Why?"
Erik stayed silent, choking back the lump in his throat, the tears in his eyes. "You reminded me.. of my dear Christine, Marie." He sighed, turning, shoulders rising in racking sobs. The sobs turned into a hacking cough, tearing through his bosdy. He stumbled back to the organ, leaning onto it for support. He continued, voice soft and raspy. "As if I had the strength to make you leave. I have murdered enough."
She stepped closer, torn clothes rustling. Again, she touched the mask, outlined his contours. He hissed slightly, drawing back. "Go change, Marie, that is why the clothes were there. I went to great trouble to get them.... La Carlotta would be upset if her costume for tonight was not used." He flashed a smile, and she returned it cautiously, slipping into her room.
*****
His back was facing the door when she emerged, the dress fitting her perfectly. Her curls were light tumbles, bouncing with each step she took. Her eyes looked exotic, her cheeks were a light blush color. She stepped in front of him and twirled, sending the skirt of the dress out in a circle, a look of bliss on her face. When she stopped moving, it swished lightly against her, than settled over her legs. He smirked slightly, than blinked, murmuring.. "This is the best you've looked all day, Marie." He extended his arm, and she took it. He walked over to the organ, and she followed. A lullaby was on the organ, and he sat down at the bench. Quietly, he played the intro, and somehow, she knew she was to sing.
She closed her eyes for a moment, than looked down at the words. Her voice slid and curved down the notes, cascading gently. Before she knew it, the music had died down, and she was singing the last note. Erik looked up as she finished, with a nod of satisfaction. She offered a weak smile, not sure how those wonderful sounds had been drawn from her.
Erik studied her, than stood, the bench scraping on the ground. His expression changed almost imperceptibly, his eyes filling with tears. His voice was soft,"Marie... stay here with me forever." He shook his head, continuing.."You are the daughter I was never given, the child I was refused. You have the voice of an angel!"
Marie stood stunned, hands fluttering in front of her. She thought of her abusive father, the one who had beaten her, and thrown her out. Her mother, never really caring. Slowly, she nodded to the man in the mask. Her voice was caught in her throat as she reached out to brush his tears away. "Forever, Phantom. Father."
The creases in his face disappeared, his face was solomn as he offered her his arm. He led her to the edge of the lake, helping her into the small boat. Almost ackwardly, he followed, placing a lantern in front of her. His voice was shaky, quavery. "Marie.. daughter.. We wouldn't want to miss La Carlotta without her outfit." He paused. "Off to the opera."
She echoed softly as they began across the lake. "Off the the Opera, Father."
***
Remour spread through the Opera like wildfire. It hadn't reached the managers yet, and Madamoiselle Giry had the pleasure of telling them. She ran in one day, throwing the door open, her cane clattering. Her pinched face looked excited. Firmin and Andre looked startled to see her. She burst out. "The Phantom! The Phantom of the Opera, monsieurs!"
Andre leaned back, rolling her eyes. "Damn that Phantom. What about him?"
Madamoiselle Giry's eyes sparkled, her could see a group of chorus girls outside the door. "He has found someone, m'sieur! A girl, sir..They've been seen stalking the hallways, both wearing identical white masks!"
Firmin slapped a hand to his forehead as Giry handed him a letter. He opened it, and the ink was the same bloodred, but the handwriting was more defined, more elegant.
Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur Andre,
I return to you today, as I am sure that you have heard, with a new companion. This is only a brief reminder - our salary has not been paid.
The Opera Ghosts