Chapter 3

Chronicles of the Silent Ghost

I turned to my music as well, dear girl.

I sat at the organ of my lair—the cellars beneath the opera house and further down still into the dungeon of my black despair and into the prison of my mind. There you will meet darkness deep as Hell itself. It remains untouched by those of the mortal world…those above. Only a ghost knows the way down that dark pathway—over the glassy lake and through the maze of tunnels is my domain: a cavern down below my opera house. A dark and dank place filled with my inspiration and my miseries...and my music.

My sanctuary and my prison.

And my beloved music.

I had been composing a new piece unlike any I had done before. It was my own raw heart, blood, and sweat in these notes. I played the torture part. I played in frenzy with my long fingers clad in black. They glided skillfully over the ivory keys. My music could not carry me up and out of this misery; it was time for anguish, and I knew and the symphony of my emotions knew. No matter what happens or when what tormentors come the music continues and keeps me going for whatever sick purpose.

It is angry and vulgar music, the music of some one walking vengefully up a steep mountain. It goes on and on and on, as though the person refuses to stop their determined trek. Then it comes to a quiet place, as if the person is suddenly breathless and exultant and has the view of what he so desperately wants. It is quiet and subtle music here. I could almost taste the peace and stillness of the person standing there, but then...

Then the intensity returns. And the uphill march begins again, the determined walking and walking. Walking and walking. It is endless and a futile effort to try to reach the top. He—this person—never reaches his goal; it is always just beyond his reach. Always and forever.

You can dance to this music if you so wish. That is why I write it—in hope that one day she will perform it. You can dance, swing from the waist, back and forth like you are mad, or turn in circles, making yourself feel quite dizzy. You can walk round and round. Pace and pace in a grim circle, as I do, fists clenched, going faster and faster...and then the music disappears. But…

This is relentless music. This person is not going to give up. Onward, upward, forward, it does not matter now—hills, mountains, woods, rivers, or hell, it does not matter. All that matters is music and that you walk...and when that little bit of hope comes—terminate it in the advancing steps. Because there is no stopping. There is no time for hope. There is no hope.

Not until it stops. Not until the music stops and my fingers lay gently above the keys. I am shaken and out of breath, covered in a new layer of sweat. I am exhausted.

But I shake it off and start again, bow my head, and let the movement go on, independent of all else. Human fatigues and hungers are forgotten, to me. All that matters is my music. And maybe everything would someday be understood and this life is worth it. I have yet to be proven that either of these things are true.

So, I shall return to my music...


My music...music...Every time I type "my music" or just the word "music", I can hear the phantom singing it darkly inside my head.

Happy Reading,

Erik's Other Lover