AN: Forgotten Melodies is now available on Amazon! Search "Forgotten Melodies Emmaline Westlund" to find both the kindle edition and a paperback edition! Thanks for your support guys!
In three years, the whispers about the Opera Ghost had grown to fearful gossip told in dressing rooms, in the foyer, even in the cellars with the so-called Opera Ghost within earshot. Fools, he thought as he listened to their wide-eyed professions of having encountered a tall, thin specter with glowing eyes and a death's head. He could be a breath away, enshrouded in darkness, and they would have no idea.
The ballet rats were the ones who spread the stories with the greatest vigor. They'd even taken to traveling in pairs throughout the Opera House so as to keep from being caught by the dreaded ghost.
Though money had worried him when he arrived, Hesham found that it had been a needless worry. He had all he needed within his grasp, and as a man who had killed hundreds of people he had no qualms about stealing what he needed.
It was as he raided the pantry one late spring evening that he was properly seen for the first time.
A pair of ballet rats stumbled into the kitchen with a clatter, surprising Hesham and causing him to drop the potatoes he'd been busy shoving into his bag.
"It's him!" One of the girls shrieked. He recognized her immediately as Meg Giry, the dark-haired, dark-eyed daughter of one of the box-keepers. "The Opera Ghost!"
He hissed at them and stole into the shadows once more, his heart pounding as he heard the echo of approaching footsteps beyond the doorway where the girls stood.
"The Opera Ghost? He's real!" the other girl shrieked as she turned to flee.
Hesham stole back through the secret passageway from whence he'd come; a door hidden behind one of the sinks that was hardly big enough for him to crawl through on his hands and knees.
"The Opera Ghost?" He could hear a chorus of girls asking as he closed the panel that hid the tunnel.
He wasted no time in returning to his home in the cellars, allowing himself to rest only once he had crossed the lake.
Fool! Blasted fool! You allowed yourself to be seen! Now we'll have to leave. He sank to his knees and covered his face with his hands. They'll find you. They'll find you and they'll force you out.
He could return to Perros. Perhaps his neighbors had forgotten the skeletal figure that hid his face from the world and spoke to nobody. Perhaps…
No, he thought. Perhaps I can use this to my advantage. Now they've seen me, they have reason to fear me. He thought of the empty shelves in his library, the empty bedroom opposite his own. He didn't know how it would work, but he was certain that there was a way to use the Opera House's collective fear of the ghost to gain wealth.
Perhaps this sighting will prove to be a good thing.
He tried not to worry that his home would be discovered and forced himself to continue with life as usual for the next several weeks, but with one small change.
Every so often when he found the need to venture to the surface he would cut loose a sandbag and send a backdrop crashing to the stage below, or throw his voice casually across the foyer before or after a performance.
He didn't do it too often; he didn't want the opera to lose business over its suspected haunting, not yet at least. No, his goal was to show how annoying it could be to have an unruly spirit haunting one's opera house.
Once he knew he had their attention, he would do something to make certain they knew what their ghost was capable of. That was when he would begin making demands.
He knew that people were beginning to notice the absence of the things he took, though nobody had quite decided to blame the Opera Ghost for their disappearance yet.
The managers of the Opera House were all too eager to ignore what they believed to be idle chatter about the ghost. Ghosts, after all, couldn't possibly exist. It was the wind. That was all.
Joseph Buquet, the stage manager, was quick to ask them, "Since when has the wind got a shape?"
When the opera managers looked at one another for answers they didn't have, Buquet asked, "For that matter, since when is the wind strong enough indoors to knock over heavy backdrops? Or accurate enough to put a clean cut through a rope?"
He had a point there. In three weeks he'd found more than six of his ropes had been cut with what must have been an incredibly sharp knife and a steady hand. There was no evidence of sawing, no fraying or evidence of practice swings. Just a clean, straight cut.
Hesham was pleased with himself, quite pleased with himself. That was, until a familiar voice reached his ears as he strolled through the nearly empty Opera House just before dawn one fateful day near the end of summer.
He'd know that voice anywhere, he'd spent years with its owner. All at once his plan nearly came crashing down around him all because of the sound of Saeed's voice.
He froze, heart pounding, hidden just behind a large statue in the foyer. Crouched down, he was just hidden by the smooth marble figure. He listened intently, trying to pinpoint where the voice was coming from. If he could locate Saeed, he could keep away from him. He had no doubts that the man would work to take away all he'd worked for, and he was not interested in having to either return to Perros or find a new home for himself entirely.
How he wished the man would speak up. Mumbling would get neither of them anywhere. He had half a mind to return to his home in the cellars and fetch the Punjab lasso to finish the man off—
—But he knew he couldn't do that. Part of him, a very large part of him, still cared for the man, even if he had been all too eager to accuse him of matricide. He wanted to hate him. It would be easier that way.
He followed the sound of Saeed's voice to just outside of the dormitory for the ballet rats and the girls attending the conservatory. Is Fautimeh really old enough to begin learning at the conservatory already? How can this be?
He watched from a safe distance as Saeed bid a tearful goodbye to his daughter, who had blossomed into quite the beautiful young lady in the time since Hesham had been left behind.
He found himself desperately wanting to chase after the man who still looked just how he remembered, though perhaps with just a little more gray hair than before. It took much of his willpower to stop himself doing so. Instead, he watched the man walk briskly out of the Opera House. He kept a watchful eye on the man until he rounded a corner and disappeared into a small crowd of street vendors preparing for their day.
It wasn't until three days later that Hesham began to visit the small dormitory nearly daily to catch a glimpse of the girl who reminded him so much of his past. Without her, he was certain he would still be employed by the Shah, would still be killing criminals with minimal effort, still be rich beyond his current comprehension.
She did not stand out amongst her peers from what he could gather. She was a meek and mild girl who rarely opened her mouth, much less raised her voice enough to properly enunciate the lines she was to practice singing.
The girl that took the bed next to hers, however…
Hesham was certain that he recognized her, but he couldn't quite remember where he'd seen her. She was a slight girl with a pale complexion and hair like spun gold. She was lovely, but what drew him to her was her voice.
She could sing like an angel, he could hear the potential in her whenever she sang, but there seemed to be something missing, something quite important, but he couldn't tell what. All he knew for certain was that he wanted to hear her voice the way he knew it could be, not the unimpressive half-hearted way she used it.
If only he could find a way to help her without having to reveal himself to her.
It was shortly after deciding that he was far more interested in the golden-haired girl than in Fautimeh that he decided it was time to draft a letter of his demands to the opera managers. If he wanted to help her reach her potential, truly reach her potential, he would need access to books that he would not be able to pilfer from within the Opera House. He needed time to learn how to be the teacher he knew she needed and he knew she wasn't finding at the conservatory.
He hoped she wouldn't become frustrated and leave before he had the means to help.
In his first letter to the managers, he identified himself as the Opera Ghost and demanded that box five be kept unsold and empty for his use only, and that once a month a princely sum of money be left in the back of the costume cupboard in the first cellar beneath the stage for him. If his demands were not met, he warned them that a great disaster would befall the Opera House.
The letter was left at the center of one of the managers' desks, scrawled in a childish script in bright red ink that shone under lamplight even when fully dry. Hesham was delighted to discover how much it resembled blood. It gave his words a sort of gravity that his handwriting would otherwise have robbed them of.
It would only take one additional letter and the complete destruction of three of their most well used backdrops to finally get his way.
By Christmas, he was receiving ten thousand francs per month, and in return for that small fee he was refraining from further destroying the opera.
By the new year, he had amassed a collection of books that would teach him everything he needed to know about music, and he voraciously devoured each one of them.
He became an expert without really thinking about it, absorbing each new piece of information like a sponge. He chuckled darkly to himself as he imagined the kind of work he could find were he not so hideously deformed. Perhaps he could even be a part of the opera. He knew it was nothing but the lonely dream of a desperate man.