Evangeline sat there numb for ages. The chilly evening swallowed her form as she lay there shrunken.
Her hands seemed to clasp shut her mouth in attempts to remain silent and obedient to the voice. She wanted to appease him. She had to, She thought. Yet her nagging mind bit at her, what other choice have I but to invade upon him? Yet even now the mysterious voice watched her, and she felt him do it.
She ran for the dressing room, she need not linger where he could see her, though she feared there was no place where he couldn't.
The door slammed shut, crumbling an outside pile of ashen furniture. Her legs shook as she stared down at the dress. Was this what the creature screeches for? She corrected herself, the man. She clawed at the laces in the back of the dress, ripping at them frantically.
The gown dropped to her ankles and she ran for her old dress, which took her only moments to secure.
She had been wrong about one thing; the new dresses and her own were vastly different for keeping warm. She hung it back up on the rack, smoothing it and minding the lace. She sat on the sofa chattering soon after, as her body trembled for any heat.
She began pacing the rooms in hope of gaining some, but felt it was to little or no avail. She began to worry, but quickly remembered the curtain fabrics in the corner of the room. These surely weren't hers.
She had just grabbed the curtain when she realized the room was bright. To her shock, there on the vanity were four lit candles, matches, and a letter. A letter addressed to her, sealed by a skull. Perhaps I will be sealed by a skull soon enough. The idea ate at her as she picked at the edge of the crimson wax and opened the message.
"Evangeline,
I have come to observe it is your idea that you will be staying here; it has also come to my understanding that you cannot provide any compensation for this, contrasting any others to tenant my opera. I do not request of you to clear box five for me consistently, no, I most adamantly demand it. Disobedience is not an option, and neither are second chances. If incomplete by midnight every night starting tomorrow, I will, most assuredly, take action.
With the deepest sincerity,
O.G"
she peeled the wax skull from the envelope, and kept it on the vanity. She was deeply tempted to hold in her hand the only piece of the opera ghost that was visible until it crumbled in her palms.
She began to feel fear, most rightly. How was it that he knew she could read? What would he have done if she couldn't?
Her head felt dizzy with stress and she felt nauseous. She hurried to the couch, and soon found herself fainting onto it.
Evangeline woke to the burned out candle smoke, and kicked herself for not having managed to blow them out. She frowned imagining half eaten candle sticks, and decided to use them only out of necessity in the next case. She eased herself from the sofa and removed the drapes from her beaten body while her eyes adjusted. As she rose to the floor, her feet met with some sort of material, and she quickly launched herself towards the candles in fear.
The light filled a portion of the room, "Oh my god." There she saw on the floor was her white dress torn and scattered. She gasped and her mind raced at the idea of the ghost in her room while she slept, perhaps even watching her sleep. she immediately grew weak from the idea, but straightened herself quickly enough. midnight was the greater worry, she thought. Box five was probably in ruins right now, and she felt noon air creeping about her in the room. She would work quickly.
She hurried off in search of the box, and was stopped by the voice once again. She savored the sound every depth of the song, and trembled at the words of intimidation.
"Little pigeon, faring well?
T'would be a pitty should I ascend, from my
burning lakes and scalding metal cages,
from my hell, just to improve your situation."
her mouth pursed in a surprised O shape.
"voice yourself little pigeon, is the pest faring well?"
She nodded dumbly, and spoke "Yes, yes I a-"
The velvet voice turned murderous, and she began to recognized the lyrics as attacks.
"I said voice yourself."
She felt confused, and spoke louder, to no avail. His own voice grew louder, and fiercer as he sang at her.
"Are you shy to voice yourself wicked rat?
I refuse to recognized the garbage in your tone
as something of the same species to my melodious own;
little pest, sing, and I will judge"
a silence engulfed the room after the peaked note, and the final rung dark and sweet in the opera
"if you can."
He glared down at the weak mind he played with, and noted the unusual shade of red her hair was.