This story is rated M for some violence, coarse language, and adult themes.
It is not appropriate for readers under the age of 16 and should not be viewed by such.
Disclaimer—same as the other parts.
New York City, NY, USA—May 16, 2032
Gregory—9:00 AM
Once I'd found the book—a week ago—the moral debate had lasted all of twelve seconds. I was doing the spell. "Black arts" be damned—I was sick of seeing Mom upset and listening to her cry. I made sure the curtains were drawn, and then started.
I set up the circle just as the book showed me—first I put down the sand, pouring it in a large circle around the other stuff on the carpet. I wasn't overly worried about it—we had vacuums for a reason. I sat down inside the circle, setting up the other stuff—two candles: one white and one black, which I'd nicked from Aunt Margery's penthouse when she wasn't looking. It wasn't like she was using them. I set these in their holders and lit them. Between them on the floor, I set a small piece of yew wood. It had been a lucky find in the science lab at school—and without it, the spell would have been useless. I pulled a jar of sheep's blood—also nicked from school—toward me, and then I took off my mask, setting it on top of the yew.
I nearly laughed. My mask…ha. That piece of junk had gone into my father's coffin. The one I wore now was his. If my mother had known, she probably would have beaten me half to death for it, but I didn't care. I couldn't let the original Phantom's mask decay in a coffin.
Nor could I let the Phantom. Hence the spell.
As I unscrewed the cap from the jar, taking deep breaths to steady myself, there was a knock at my bedroom door. My head snapped instinctively toward it. "What?"
"What are you doing in there? I smell smoke."
I groaned softly. Damn my sister. "Go away, Ruthie. I'm busy."
"If you have pot in there, I swear to God…"
"It's not fucking pot!" I screamed. "Go away!" I heard her footsteps walking away, getting softer and heading down the stairs. I sighed. Turning my attention back to the task at hand, I finished unscrewing the lid of the jar and set it aside.
A few more deep, steadying breaths, and I knew it was time. I pulled the book into my lap, barely able to read the cursive handwriting in the dim light. I sighed—my French was atrocious. I knew Papa would be displeased if he knew. "Dans le sommeil, il attend le salut…"
There was another knock on my door, and I nearly choked on the final word in the line. Interrupting the spell was dangerous—even I knew that. "Gregory!" It was Aunt Margery. "Open the door!"
"I'm busy!"
"Open the door!"
"I'm studying! Is that a crime now or something?" I heard her sigh and walk away. Worried that I'd screwed up, I decided the best way to go would be to start the spell again. A deep breath…
"Dans le sommeil, il attend le salut,
Seulement maintenant dans mes rêves.
La voix, une fois la fréquentation et le commandement,
Maintenant fait silencieux par la tombe."
I took the jar of blood in my hand and poured a generous amount into the eyehole of the mask, extremely careful not to get any on the mask itself—only on the yew beneath it. I put the jar beside me and continued.
"Par les pouvoirs, laissez il dont la vie a été maudit,
Damné par ce masque,
Revenez maintenant…"
From my door came another knock. "Gregory Raoul! Open the door! Now!" Mom. Shit. Gulping, I continued anyway.
"Revenez maintenant, restitué à la vie!"
As soon as the final word was out, I felt something strange in the room—another presence, possibly several. Caught in the moment, I couldn't help myself. "Je vous attends, Père! Venez-moi!" There were various bangs and shouts coming from my door, but my ears were deaf to them now. "Venez-moi! Venez-moi!"
The air between the candles—over the mask—started shivering. Blue and gold sparks started appearing there. I leapt to my feet, unable to contain myself any longer. "VENEZ-MOI!" I dropped the book—it landed on the floor. Even in the dim, flickering light, the hand-etched title was clearly visible—Le Journal d'Étienne Chagny.
My door burst open. With the quick blast of air, the candles went out. From behind me, there was a pause, then a long shriek—my mother. "What have you done?!"
