Chapter XX.

Mahtab sat up in bed, screaming. It was some minutes past two in the morning. Christine sat up as well in her bed worriedly and turned to the small girl and asked what was wrong. For a time, Mahtab couldn't reply. She was sobbing again and Christine had to hug her tight to herself. She was so scared for some reason. It seemed that even Christine letting her sleep on Papa's side of the bed did not help to reduce the little child's fear and uneasy feelings. She missed Papa, and felt something bad has happened. She couldn't explain what, but she was sure that Papa was in danger and no matter how Christine tried to calm her, she would just repeat a few words, paying no attention to the comforting.

- Papa… Papa…! – She was crying so hard that she had to cough.

Christine was softly humming to her, but Mahtab was crying unstoppably this time. Nothing worked to calm her. Christine was ashamed to do such a thing in the end, but she had to make Mahtab drink some warm milk mixed with rum to make her sleep again. She finally closed her mismatched eyes and fell sound asleep under the effect of the alcohol she received.

Suddenly the doorbell rang. Alarmed of the late visitor, and afraid that Mahtab or Florian will be startled up by the noise again, Christine put on her bathrobe and hurried to answer the door.

- Telegram for Mme Daaé- Spöke. – The young man handed her a small envelope. Telegram…? Her heart started sinking as she closed the door again and took a few steps in the hall again. A telegram never means anything good… especially not in this late hour…

As she opened the envelope and read the letter she fainted on the ground with a scream. The Daroga, as he appeared behind her, was already too late to catch Christine, but worriedly lifted the paper out of her grip. He gasped as he read the telegram he held:

St. Germaine hospital, Paris

Mme Christine Daaé – Spöke,

With deep regret we have to inform you that your husband, Erik Spöke passed away at ten-thirty, on ninth of May, 1889 after the completed operation. Receive our most heartfelt sympathies.

"Erik… Erik died…? No… No! It can't happen… It simply can't. Erik, my old friend… oh Allah… "

The Persian buried his face in his hands and wept for minutes, shamefully not even minding poor Christine, who eventually woke up on the floor. As she noticed the crying Daroga, she approached him and hugged him tight, sobbing. Both of them cried hard, without a single word, searching for support in each other's companion.

- It is my fault… - Christine sobbed, gasping for air, clinging to the Daroga's shirt he just put on to be at least minimally dressed properly to go out to see Christine. – It is my fault… he did not want the surgery… I convinced him…

- Christine, the doctor said that he might have had another case of the fever… and would most likely… die… anyway….

- But maybe not! Maybe… if I did not send him to the hospital… He'd still be with us… with me… and now he is no more….!

- The Angel of Music… is finally in Heaven… - The Daroga murmured under his breath, hugging Christine close to his chest.

Just as if Erik knew what was going to happen. He was so kind to everyone before leaving, he told everyone he loved them, he said good – bye to everyone… and the Daroga will never forget how he looked back at his home for that last time before entering the carriage. That's how the Daroga saw him for the last time – looking back at his beautifully built home.

Christine wasn't able to sleep any more during the night. She sat down to the sofa in the drawing room, and wept endlessly. She blamed herself for Erik's death and asked him in her mind, many times to forgive her and not to hate her for what she had done. She did not think this situation could end like this. Now what will they do without Erik? She loved Erik with all her heart, she got used to his appearance and her husband really had a good heart. He was a good husband to her, and now she will have to learn to live without him…? How she misses him already… his voice, his touch, however cold and bony it was, she learned to accept and even love it. She dragged herself to the bedroom and checked on Mahtab. She was still asleep. Christine did not want to wake her up now that she slept finally, she just lifted up the sound recording device from the table and carried it up to the music room to be as far as the bedroom as possible, not to bother her sleeping child and cranked it up to hear Erik speak. Only now when hearing his voice again, she was able to say his name between painful sobs:

- Erik… Erik… Erik…!

She thought back at their whole life together from the very night she heard his voice for the first time, she recalled the sweet and haunting memories she held in her heart about the Phantom of the Opera, and later, Erik Spöke, her loving husband.

Morning sunlight lit the room when Erik finished reciting The Raven for the tenth time or so. Christine did not cry any more. She just sat there motionlessly, staring in the air in front of herself, trying to collect her strength to go and feed Florian at last. She still has to take care of the children, no matter what has happened. She has to stay strong and be a good mother to her children.

She tried her best to get some color into her cheeks and hide the redness of her eyes as much as possible before she went downstairs to feed and change Florian. As she held and cradled the small baby boy in her arms her tears were silently and constantly flowing down her pale face.

- Why are you crying? – Mahtab asked with suspicion in her voice when Christine placed a plate with freshly made toast in front of her.

- I am not crying, sweetie.

She sighed, trying to force the most sincere looking smile on her face. She did not feel strong enough to tell the news to Mahtab. Maybe later… the later she finds it out, the better… her heart would break, that tiny heart that constantly beats and aches for her beloved Papa. How could someone tell her that the Papa she is so eagerly waiting for, will never ever return? She did not know yet how and when to tell Mahtab that Erik died. She couldn't even word it yet, these words were just impossible to say yet. It is better if she just thinks that Erik was still in hospital, and maybe later she could just say Erik travelled somewhere for a time? How can a child get the concept of death anyway? She remembered she did not know and could not figure out where her mother went when she passed away. Papa tried to explain her that she was with the Angels now, but she was just waiting for her Mama to return. She knew that Mahtab will have a hard time understanding Erik's death, and this is going to be a difficult time for all of them. She could only hope that they will survive it without any serious problems.

The Daroga disappeared from the house without a word. Christine did not blame him. He must have walked home, but did not say good bye because he did not want to bother her. She understood. She wasn't even in the mood to talk to the Daroga and receive his sympathies right at that time. She wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone else but the children. Her heart ached for Erik. If only she could ever see or hear him again in her life…! Why does everyone she loves dearly have to disappear from her life so abruptly? Is this God's justice? At first, her mother, than Papa, then Papa Valerius, followed by Mama Valerius… and now… Erik? Of course, Erik was musch older than her, but she would have never believed she would lose him so fast and soon. Erik seemed to be so strong and unstoppable, like a young man. He was full of creativity and energy. And he is no more…? She can't believe it… that can't be true!

It was a reason behind Mohammed – Ismael's disappearance. The Persian, he did not even know why, but went to the hospital to see Erik for one last time. He wanted to spare Christine from the sight and the torture, but he, for some reason, wanted to see his friend once more before the funeral. Someone has to take care of paperwork and fuss about the whole ceremony anyway, and Christine sure wasn't in the right mood and state to do so. He is the man in Erik's home now as Erik asked him with his last will to take care of his family after he leaves this cruel world. He wanted to assure Erik that his children and wife will be in good hands and to say good bye to him, whether he hears it or not. As he reached the gate his heart became so heavy that he could barely breathe. He removed his cap, even before entering the building, to show respect to Erik's soul who might still be wandering around before being called.

As he told about the purpose of his visit, he was asked to wait a little in the hall of the hospital. He found this a bit of strange as people would be instantly led to the body in this case. Erik was sure still in his bed, maybe they aren't yet finished with… tidying him up…? He was sitting there patiently waiting, when a sudden nervous sentence hit his ear like thunder. It was much muffled as the male tried to talk softly, but he could hear every single word:

- What do you mean of "disappear"…?

- I swear to God, he is nowhere. Disappeared. – A young woman whined in horror.

- How can he disappear…? You are telling me nonsense!

- I tell the truth, it is just as true as I am standing right here, Doctor! I went to wash him to prepare him for the burial and he was nowhere!

- Did you look around carefully? Maybe he just… fell out of bed?

- He was nowhere! Not in the room, not around the room, not in the hall… not even in the lavatory.

- But he is dead! How can he disappear, being dead?

- I don't know! – She cried out in despair.

- Nurse, please… don't let your imagination play a game with you. Monsieur Spöke is dead. He had no pulse and he did not breathe the last time I checked him. He passed away and he must be there in his bed, just as he was.

- Come and see if you don't believe me!

The door next to him opened and a young nurse hurried out of it in excitement, followed by Doctor Boucher, who could not even get a breath from being so astonished. The Persian stood up and followed them without those two noticing. He was a policeman and well, old habits die hard. He didn't even have to be too careful to hide – they weren't paying attention to him. They hurried to the end of the long corridor and entered the very last room there, then after he could hear some more arguing about the missing body, then they hurried outside, ran towards him but did not notice him as he hid, and they went back to the room they were before and locked the door. He thought they even forgot about him, as they started arguing again, not even mentioning his presence. No problem, there was something to get investigated, and they would just bother. Slowly and carefully, he opened the door and walked in. The room was really empty. Not a single person was there and the silence was waking up uneasy thoughts in him. Obvious signs showed that someone used the bed not too long ago, the sheets were wrinkled, the covers slipped off to the ground, and a head's mark could be seen on the pillow. He opened the door of the nightstand, but nothing was stored there. He went to open the locker where the patients could place their belongings, and Erik's suitcase was missing as well. Not a piece of clothing was left there in the room, and save for the signs of the used bed and the bit of strange blood- smell still lingering around it could have been mistaken with an empty, never used hospital room. Contrary to the frightening ghostly experience of the whole situation, it still showed a good news.

Erik isn't dead. Or at least, he wasn't some time ago. He got up and left. But where could he go, weak from the torture of the operation, still under the effect of medication and just waking up from clinical death, with a bleeding wound in his throat? If they don't find him soon, he will really die. Without another word, he turned around as fast as he could, and ran out of the building and the gate, just as if he never visited that place. He knew that Erik should be somewhere in Paris… and he had a thought of where to find him.

The Opera House was so far away from the hospital. The other end of the city, to begin with. The Daroga just hoped Erik didn't bleed out yet, reaching his old house, as he was sure that the ex Opera Ghost retired there from the danger he survived. For the hundredth time at least, he descended to the cellars with routine – no one noticed him and he walked just as fast as he could. He could find no spots of blood on the way to the scenes of King Lahore, and nor did he find any signs of anyone being near. Maybe he was successful to get in the house? He knew that he will end up in the torture chamber and just hoped that Erik will be conscious enough to let him out. As he dropped to the floor he noticed the door to the house was open. The torture chamber wasn't closed?

- Erik! – He called out in hope but his voice echoed through the empty rooms.

He could see nearly nothing of the old house of Erik, and it was unbearably cold down there, five cellars below the ground. The arches of Erik's home made every noise ten times louder, His footsteps were loud due to the changed acoustics of a place without any useable furniture left. He shuddered to the thought but he had to peek in Erik's bedroom that contained the coffin. Erik sure isn't feeling well and he maybe went to bed. He stepped in the room that he thought to be Erik's room of what he heard of Christine's description of the house and the directions of the sounds of his voice when he and Raoul were in the torture chamber. The door to that room was open as well and nothing but the coffin and a church organ were located in it.

- Erik…? – The Persian called out again, then tried to catch the tiniest of noise in the dark funeral chamber.

Not a single sigh could be heard and no light flickered from those cat – eyes anywhere. The silence was choking him and so did darkness that covered him up from head to foot, like a dark cloak. Erik wasn't there. He had no idea how in the name of Allah was Erik able to live down there alone… wasn't he afraid? He ran out of the bedroom and turned his back to the door, but he did not feel comfortable with the thought of having a coffin behind his back, so he ran back to the torture chamber. Now that the machine wasn't working, maybe it would be easier to get out of there, hopefully alive.

- Look, Mama! An ugly old vagabond!

- Good God, Robert! Don't touch it! You might catch some kind of illness! Come, we go to eat an ice cream, leave that thing alone!

He opened his eyes as he heard those scared and disgustful words of the mother, dragging the small boy away from him. He did not know how much time he spent sitting on that bench, but it seemed like a decade. Only now that he was feeling somewhat better after a long sleep, he realized he wasn't wearing his mask. Other times, it would have annoyed and worried him, but at that time, he did not really care. He did not care of anything at all. He was still a bit of sick, his throat was very sore and he was thirsty again. Maybe it is a good sign. He couldn't solve the whole puzzle about what had happened to him. He was aware of having a surgery and being in the hospital, getting very sick, but after he did not remember anything for a long time. He had some blurry and foggy memories of running through a dark corridor with all his necessities, fleeing from danger, but he could not recall anything else. One thing was sure: he had to seek medical help as he knew he wasn't going to survive for too long without a doctor. Only one person could help.

It was late afternoon when Doctor Bonsanté was sitting in front of his desk with a cup of hot tea. Contrary to it was May, the weather changed to rather chilly that night and it was raining heavily. He was doing some paperwork and opening up his letters. He got a letter from St. Germaine hospital as well, he was sure it was about Erik's surgery as none of the other patients he had were in a hospital, but Erik. As he read the letter, he gasped in horror. It was Erik's death report. He sat there, quietly for some time, listening to the knocking of the raindrops against the window, and silently blamed himself. He was the one who recommended the operation to him – and now that poor woman is left alone with two young children! If he knew that it will end up this way – he would have never said such a thing to anyone! Suddenly there were three taps on his front door. He already finished his business for the day – but of course, a doctor is a doctor. He has to go when he is needed.

As he opened the door, it was nearly him who needed medical treatment as he nearly had a heart attack upon recognizing his visitor. It was a soaked, obviously ill and weak Erik Spöke. He did not say a single word, he just stood there in the doorway, squeezing the handle of a suitcase in his right hand, nearly passing out, holding a handkerchief in front of his deformed mouth. He was paler than usual, nearly as white as bedsheets. Water was dripping from his clothing, his hair and the rim of his fedora.

- Erik! God… - The Doctor gently took Erik's arm as he saw he was about to faint and guided him in, seating him carefully in his chair, and removed the wet hat and jacket from him. – Erik what has happened…? You should be in hospital!

To this sentence Erik lifted his head up a bit with a terrified expression, shaking his head violently. He protectively held his hands in front of his face and looked at the doctor with pleading eyes.

- Erik, I am not allowed to treat you here… I am not a surgeon, only a family doctor.

- They… nearly… killed Erik… - these were the first words he managed to squeeze out since the surgery, but his voice was very faint and it hurt to speak so he rather stopped it and pointed at the doctor's desk to ask for pen and paper.

- I don't even think you should write in this state you are in, Erik. All right, you stay here, and I help you the best I can, but then you do what I say. Deal?

Erik nodded to assure the doctor of his agreement. He was led to the treatment room and asked to remove his clothes and change into nightwear. The doctor gave him some minutes of privacy to undress in peace and only when he was wearing a clean pair of pajamas and was in bed as Bonsanté ordered him, the doctor returned and started examining him.

- What did you drink today? - He asked.

- Nothing. – Erik moaned in pain.

- Then you drink now, a lot. We have to keep you and the wound hydrated, if it gets too dry it can bleed more and then you know what happens. I am going to bring you a pitcher of tea and you drink it right away.

Drinking wasn't an easy task, as Erik felt with every swallowing that his throat was being sliced by a razor, but he did as he was told. Bonsanté nodded and put his hand on Erik's pale forehead.

- You have fever. I am afraid it is either a side effect of the operation, or the worse possibility is that you are catching a cold. The weather today was nothing like you should have walked through whole Paris in, especially not freshly operated. Well, you should stay in bed, not getting up, unless it is really necessary. You have to take care of yourself. Now try to sleep. If you need something, I am here, but please don't yell. You are a singer, you know what to do with your voice, right…?

A nod came as a response and Erik lay back on his pillow, yawning. Suddenly a thought hit his nearly drifting off mind and sat up again.

- Doctor…

- Yes? Are you feeling sick? – The man turned around and hurried back from the door as he was just about to leave. – Please try not to vomit, it makes the wound bleed.

- No… - Erik groaned in displeasure. He wasn't feeling sick at that moment, and it bothered him that the old damned leech isn't paying attention. – My wife… tell her I am fine… and here…

- Oh. I was just about to do that, Erik. Don't worry.

Erik sighed in relief, lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes to finally take a rest.