Chapter 2
I have to admit I don't like this chapter too much, but Erik's in it. Suggestions and opinions are very welcome and much valued. Please, tell me if I should continue this or if I should just shut up. I can cope with criticism. Really. grrr :-) No, honest!
I'm not used to writing fan fiction, so I don't know if I am to disclaim once again… well just to be sure… I don't own the phantom!
Mr. Harry Postman thought that this day had gone very well. He had clearly impressed the psychiatrist, calmed his wife and evaded meeting the prince of Denmark. It was not as if he would not feel honoured by the attentions of one of the greatest fictional characters ever, but when Hamlet was around he felt more than usually insane and he had sworn himself to never fully lose his grip on reality. It went well with the audiences but not with his publisher. He had told him that if he ever again brought a living chicken to a meeting… but that was beside the point now. The point was that he was currently enjoying his newfound fiction-free time in his ridiculously expensive living room, staring at ridiculously expensive piece of art: His wife.
Shirley was younger than he was, but he had not allowed that to stand in his way when they married. Now they were married this was the only thing that was not in his way. She probably despised him, although he doubted that she thought about him long enough to decide since she never seemed to have anything but dinner parties on her mind.
On the sofa, reading a book was their daughter. The only annoying thing about her was her lack of silliness. How could anyone be ten years old and so grave? He had never mustered up that much gravity in his thirty-five years. She didn't like the bible. She thought it was frivolous.
"There's somebody at the door." Little Emilia said with a composed voice.
He had closed his eyes and pretended to sleep, but obviously he fooled no one, as he felt his wife sending him an angry glare before she left the room for the front door. Harry yawned.
After only a few seconds she came back in, looking totally flabbergasted. "There's a man with a mask. He says he wants to speak with you."
"Why didn't you tell him I was out?" he demanded, annoyed by her lack of common sense.
"He… he was very intense about it." She replied rather tonelessly and motioned for him to hurry up. Muttering to himself he heaved himself into a standing position and went out to meet the man that dared disturb his evening with his masked presence.
He was met with a glare. Before he could take in more than a white mask and a black cloak, his visitor had pushed him inside again and banged the door shut behind them, all the while grabbing Harry's collar with a tight grip.
Harry was too shocked to put up much of a fight so he just let out a pained grunt.
"You must excuse me. I do not intrude stranger's houses on a regular basis." The stranger whispered with a dangerously silky voice and a slight accent. "In fact you could say I am new to the field. Nonetheless, we do surely not want to upset your family while talking business, so would you be so kind as to lead the way into your study?"
Finding that the stranger had softened his grip enough for him to speak Harry cleared his throat and replied hoarsely: "Of course... The study. Whatever you say…"
He considered adding a warning, but discarded the idea quickly. His study was not for the unprepared since it was the place where he wrote and thus fictionally overcharged. He led the scowling stranger upstairs opening the door carefully before entering very slowly. The place looked as messy as hell and it was quite as hot, too. Books and plastic ducks (they were a constant source of inspiration to him) were scattered on the floor of the medium-sized room and his Louis XIV style furniture. Two enormous chairs stood in the left hand corner, amidst lots of more or less used gadgets of all kinds and sizes. He half expected to find the furry science fiction animal that he had left there an hour or so ago, but it seemed to have either vanished into nothingness or worked its way back into his imagination. Sighing he motioned the stranger to sit down, dropping into the smaller chair himself.
"You see before you a desperate man, Mr. Mask. There is nothing you could possibly say that would surprise me. Do you want money?"
The stranger had refused to sit down. He stood quite stiffly in the middle of the room, surveying the room from behind the mask, with what Harry guessed to be a look of mild amusement. His voice however had a hard edge to it.
"No. Pecuniary matters are of little importance to me." He seemed to struggle with himself, but come to a conclusion. "What I want from you is quite simple, but requires some explanation. I am very uncomfortable with that. I must tell you that for me it seemed far easier to simply put your life to an end, Mr. Postman. But unfortunately my fiancé is very easy to upset and she talked me out of taking this, I have to admit slightly uncivilized, course of action. I am in need of your cellar."
Despite his earlier statement Harry was quite taken aback. "Excuse me?"
"I remember faintly that I told you there was to be an explanation. Do not try my patience!"
Harry fell silent immediately. He was wondering if this ghostly man was again some sort of fictional outburst of his. This was really getting worse every day. He should call his psychiatrist tomorrow. Perhaps there was something wrong with his relationship to his mother.
"Your cellar, Mr. Postman, is just perfect as a refuge for a man such as I. It is dry, it is ridiculously spacious and it is wet. I never thought I would find a place quite like my opera home again, but when he told me about your lodgings Hamlet taught me to hope…"
Here Harry interrupted him with an exasperated cry of: "I knew it! You are fictional!" He earned a disapproving shrug.
"Do not be so narrow-minded. But in a way I suppose you are right, however, let us speak some more of that cellar of yours…"
"No! Leave me alone! I had enough trouble already…" his voice trailed away when he saw the phantom – for it was, of course, the phantom – pull out a short lasso, which he twirled around his fingers absentmindedly.
"You are more unreasonable than I expected! I come to you with the sincere wish to acquire your cellar for my future bride and you receive me with an astonishing lack of courtesy. My fiancé is very keen on living in your brutish country, and I would do anything for her. But old habits die hard. I need a lair, Mr. Postman, and you own just the place. If you insist of being a nuisance, however…" He gently picked up one of the inevitable plastic ducks and placed the noose around its head.
Suddenly a knock on the door startled them both. Emilia entered calmly, scanning their surprised features. Her eyes came to rest on the plastic duck. She frowned.
"Your friends seem to me as unreasonable as you yourself, daddy." She scolded.
Harry frantically gestured, but Erik laid down the duck calmly.
"It is for demonstrational use, you see. Let me introduce myself: My name is Erik and I am moving into your cellar."
