This is a submission for PotO Crack Week 2022.
Based on Leroux characterizations, but also not, because...Crack. I hope you have fun.
The rich, addictive fragrance of coffee filled the warm air of the modest sitting room of the Persian's apartment on Rue de Rivoli. A fire had been lit in the hearth and his best chairs gathered from all corners of the home to form a circle in the center of the room. He had placed a tray of biscuits and sweets on the coffee table. The comfort of his guests was of utmost importance. He had worked diligently to provide a safe and comfortable place for the members of this meeting.
For decades, the man they called 'the Persian', or sometimes 'Daroga', had shouldered the burden of his fraught and complicated relationship with Erik, but as his ceaseless and obsessive observations in the Garnier had revealed, he was not the only soul Erik had affected with his chaos and madness. It was his idea to invite some of the most affected to his home this evening—the night before Christine Daae was to make her debut as Margarete in Faust—so they might vent their grievances together.
As the clock struck nine, his visitors began to arrive, cups were filled with coffee and chairs were taken. The last visitor to arrive rushed in fifteen minutes late with an incoherent apology while the rest of the visitors fidgeted restlessly in their chairs.
When, at long last, everyone was in their proper seats, the host opened with an introduction.
"Greetings, all," he said with some nervousness, "My name is Ismaël. I have invited you all here tonight because we have all been afflicted in one form or another by the man who calls himself the Opera Ghost."
"That's not all he calls himself," Raoul, the vicomte de Chagny grumbled.
"Pardon?" Ismaël asked as his train of thought was interrupted.
Raoul nudged Christine.
"Tell him, Christine." Raoul commanded.
"He also calls himself the Angel of Music," Christine muttered while keeping her eyes trained on her hands clenched neatly in her lap. "It's…a long story."
"Yes, yes," Ismaël replied warmly, "We will get to stories in a moment, but you are right, this man does go by many names. When I met him in Persia he was 'the Trapdoor Lover', 'The Angel of Death', or 'The Magician'. Quite strangely, only a year ago he started to call himself by the name 'Erik'."
"It's my name," a young man in humble workman's garb angrily interjected, "That asshole stole my name!"
Ismaël set his small coffee cup with delicate indigo patterning back upon its matching saucer and leaned forward with interest.
"I don't recall inviting anyone named Erik to this meeting, monsieur. Because you had arrived late, and the rest of the guests were waiting so patiently, I failed to give a proper introductory exchange at the door."
"He insisted he join us," Firmin, one of the opera house managers gruffly piped in, his mustache twitching with vexation. "He overheard M. Andre and I discussing the invitation to this meeting—a meeting, mind you, that we were certain was just another one of these ridiculous Opera Ghost hoaxes, we anticipated to show up to a vacant lot or non-existent address—and he insisted he attend—going on with some clap trap about being a victim of the ghost himself." He finished his mini tirade with a large gulp of air which quickly dissolved the red in his oxygen deprived face.
Ismaël placed his cup and saucer down soundly upon the side table by his seat and clapped his strong hands together once.
"Right," he said sharply with a genial nod, "Perhaps we ought to move past any regular pleasantries and we shall begin to exchange our stories." He gestured towards the workman and continued, "We will start with you, monsieur. Please tell us what has brought you to this meeting."
The man in question straightened up in his seat and straightened the lapels of his workman's coat, as if preparing to speak to a noble congregation.
"Well, my name is Erik, and as I have already said, that bastard stole my name," he said with no shortage of frustration propelling his words. "I'm a janitor in the opera and I'm used all over the building. I clean everything from the lavatories to the chandelier and in between. If something needs cleaned, I'm your man." Here he gave a little smile of pride. "I was always respectful of the ghost. Once or twice, I'd seen him flit across a hallway or disappear through a mirror—he can go through walls you know, and he's always so sharply dressed, plus I've always had a deep fondness for skeletons—anyway, what I'm trying to say is that I never got in his way, so it's terribly unfair what he did to me."
"Would you please get on with it!?" Moncharmin, the other manager of the opera, snapped around a mouthful of crumbly biscuit which had deposited crumbs upon the fine wool of his slacks. He looked at the mess with irritation and carelessly brushed it off with two waves of a meaty hand while the rest of the group watched in silence as the crumbs fell like snow to the carpet.
The janitor, Erik, gave an indignant sniff before continuing.
"As I was saying, I keep the opera spic and span, from the cellars to the stage.
That particular week, I had been required on stage to help some of the other staff with the task of rehanging the stage curtains after they had been given their cleaning—they have to do that every three or so years—and it's such a task they require a bit of extra muscle. That day, La Carlotta was practicing on the stage, but she was keeping out of the way of all the curtain work. I don't know what she was doing, but someone said she insists on doing all her practicing on the stage." He glanced over at the managers. "I can't say that I like her singing, but I'm not the cultured type either. As I was saying, she was practicing—some song that made her sound like this horrible bird I saw at the Exposition, brought all the way from South America—they said it was the loudest bird known to man—I think they called it the Bellbird, but it doesn't sound like a bell, just a shrieking that vibrates through your whole body."
"We did not come here for a philistine's opinion of La Carlotta, young man." Moncharmin barked while his hand reached for another biscuit. "Get out with it."
"I'm getting to it," Erik the janitor folded his arms over his chest in defiance. "As I was saying, she was squawking like a musically inept bird when the sandbag fell not two meters from where she stood and exploded like a dropped melon. It scared the life out of everyone on stage, most of all Carlotta who started to scream—which was actually a big improvement to her singing. The problem is, I was the only one standing near enough to the lines that held up the counterweights that La Carlotta immediately pointed me out and said 'Him! He did it!', but my fellow workers insisted, 'Oh, no, not Erik! Erik would never do such a thing!'. It was then that I heard a voice in my ear, clear as you can hear me now, the prettiest voice I had ever heard, but he said the wickedest thing. He said, 'Erik? I like that name; I think I'll keep it.'." At this point the janitor slightly deflated. "From then on, anytime something horrible occurred around the stage I would hear that voice in my ear, as if the devil himself sat on my very shoulder, saying 'Erik! Erik did it.'. Even the night of the chandelier…" And at this point the janitor grew pale and fell silent, but not before mumbling, "I'm beginning to think I don't get paid enough for this shit."
"That's it?" the young vicomte asked with no shortness of disdain and he let out a snort which fluttered the fine, silken hairs of his golden almost-mustache. "He stole your name? There have been far worse crimes committed by this fiend. He has taken unspeakable liberties with Christine!"
Ismaël's attention was diverted to Christine Daaé who now grew increasingly red from the vicomte's mention of her.
"Is this true, Mademoiselle? Has Erik taken liberties with you?"
"Please," Erik the janitor interrupted pleadingly. "Can we all agree to call this person by a different name?"
"Very well," Ismaël congenially replied. "What should we call him?"
"This is getting quite tedious," Moncharmin impatiently interjected. "We're not here to give this criminal a new pet name, we're here for answers!"
"Why not Jules?" came a willowy feminine voice.
The entire group turned to the woman in a worn taffeta dress and out-of-date feather bonnet, who had remained, up until this point, silent in her seat—so silent the group had nearly forgotten she had even been there.
"My poor husband's name was Jules," she continued. "We could call the ghost Jules."
"I hardly think this is appropriate, Mme Giry." Ismaël delicately replied. "We ought to give him a name unrelated to anyone present."
"Steve," Firmin cut in with annoyance.
"Pardon?" Ismaël replied.
"We will call him Steve," Firmin peevishly replied. "I find it unlikely anyone here has close ties to that name. May we please move on now?"
"Very well. He will be known as Steve." Ismaël decided aloud. The group all collectively nodded their agreement and Ismaël searched his thoughts, "Where were we?"
"Liberties," Firmin grunted.
"Ah, yes. Mlle Daae, this is quite serious, if he has—"
"Please, speak no further. Nothing of the sort has occurred," at this she shot the vicomte a look that make him wither in his seat. "I was deceived by this man. Nothing more. Anything he may have gained from me was freely given."
"What is that supposed to mean?" Raoul demanded and Christine blushed furiously in reply but licked her lips at some illicit memory,
"Please, explain a bit more, if you would. So, we may understand how you may have been wronged."
"He came to me as a voice, but he had such a divine and sacred voice I had assumed it could not have come from anything but a being from heaven! I admit, I assumed it was the angel my father had sworn to send! You've heard the voice, Raoul! You, too, can confess to its sublime nature!"
"I agree," Raoul agreed reluctantly, "It is a sensual and supreme voice—incredibly attractive. But Christine has yet to explain the worst of it. This demon aims to force her hand in marriage to him! He wishes to steal her beneath the opera and keep her there as his Death's bride for all eternity!"
"Bah!" snorted Moncharim, who was now working on his fourth biscuit of the evening. "What melodramatic nonsense is this?"
"It is not nonsense!" the vicomte shood on legs which quivered with fury. "Christine will swear that he is Death himself! Who else but Death would have the face of a corpse!"
Ismaël held up a hand to halt Raoul and the vicomte, remembering himself, took his seat once more.
"You have seen his face?" Ismaël asked.
"I have not, but Christine claims she has unmasked the monster herself! He's nothing but a skeleton in a fine suit! 'Horror, Horror, Horror', is how she describes it!"
Ismaël turned to Christine who had suddenly decided this moment was the perfect time to fetch herself a cup of coffee at the side table, an act which hid her countenance from the visiting party.
"Is this true, Madame? Have you seen Eri—pardon—Steve's face?"
She spent several tense moments pouring herself a helping of coffee into her demitasse and spooning in more than enough sugar to sweeten the cup.
"Christine?" Ismaël prompted again.
She spun around, abandoning the cup of coffee and let out an exasperated breath.
"No," she hastily admitted while fidgeting with the fabric of her modest dress. "I told that tale to Raoul because he was overcome with jealousy and I aimed to improve his mood. While I admit to having been in his home for an extended stay—I have not seen him beneath the mask. I only spoke of what I had heard from the rumors behind stage, namely Joseph Buquet."
Ismaël gave a disappointed sigh and Raoul visibly fumbled for his own words.
"Of course, you lied." Raoul grumbled while turning angrily in his seat. "I should have known better than to believe that a man with a skeleton's visage lived beneath the opera. Admit it, Christine, he's beautiful and sexual! All the things a man or woman looks for in another. I'm certain you've already offered yourself to him!" At this, he had risen his voice.
"Of course, he isn't a skeleton," Madame Giry scoffed as though it were the silliest thing in the world. "He's a ghost! He has no need for a body! But if he did, I reckon he looked much like my poor Jules."
At this point the entire party turned back towards Mme Giry, whom they had forgotten was in the room. She just stared into some far away fantasy with a dreamy expression on her face.
"I admit, I too, have not seen beneath the mask." Ismaël confessed. "It was the only item of clothing we would not remove during our brief affair—though I admit it wouldn't matter, as my attention was pointed elsewhere." Then under his breath, he added "If they put a marble statue of him in a museum it would be removed as being too obscene—he has a giant cock, is what I'm trying to say."
"Does he?" Raoul asked suddenly with great interest, as though starstruck by the thought.
Christine blushed an intense vermillion and remained suspiciously quiet while pursing her lips and averting her eyes to the ground.
The managers, seemingly having the very same reaction, coughed in shocked disbelief.
Madame Giry showed disinterest in the conversation and took to arranging the triangular biscuits on the serving platter into neat geometric patterns while Erik the janitor sat in rapt but semi-embarrassed attention to the juicy conversation.
"He may be hung like a horse," Moncharmin sputtered, "But blessed with the world's most glorious dick or not, he's committed extortion and made a fool out of Firmin and I. We want to know what this criminal looks like!"
"I don't believe anyone here truly knows what he looks like, nor do I believe he has ever given anyone his true name. I'm not even sure if he's even ever had one." Ismaël replied, bringing the conversation back on course. "I may not have seen his face, but I am privy to his other secrets. For example, I know all about his past deeds in Persia. I know he has killed while living here in Paris. Some of those murders even occurred right under the opera. Joseph Buquet is one such example. He has also used the underground lake to drown a great number of people, which he then fed to that Siren."
"I'm going to regret asking, but what on earth is the siren?" Firmin groaned while pulling down on his face with both hands.
Ismaël held up a finger, indicating the group to wait while he quickly left the room.
When he returned, he had a large wooden crate in his hands.
Setting it down upon the ground beside his chair, he lifted the lid of the crate and withdrew a shelled creature. There was a collective, disbelieving gasp from a few members of the group and one exclamation of 'it looks like my poor Jules' by Mme Giry.
"What is that?!" Raoul exclaimed
"This is Siren, Steve's pet." Ismaël replied as he carefully held the turtle out. "It's an African Snapping turtle."
"That thing? That little thing eats people?" Raoul was in disbelief.
"Well not all at once." Ismaël admitted. "He feeds them to it little pieces at a time, but I'm told it can be quite insatiable."
"Where did he get it?" Christine chimed in.
"How on earth am I to know? I just know he's threatened me with it on more than one occasion." Ismaël considered the turtle in his hand who was extending its neck out as though curious to see the rest of the group. "I absconded it from down below just this morning, I'm sure he's worried sick over it."
"This is absurd," Moncharmin laughed. "Are you trying to tell me there is a man living below the opera feeding human beings to that silly little turtle? I swear, this joke has certainly gone on long enough." And at that he extended his hand out to pat the curious creature on the head, but before his hand could make contact, the animal's maw neatly snapped open and clamped tightly on the expensive fabric of his jacket, narrowly missing the hand altogether. Panicked, Moncharmin tore his arm away from the beast, slicing through the fine fabric of his suit sleeve, leaving a flapping shred to dangle in the wind.
"A safety pin!" he cried as he clutched to the pathetic shred of fabric. "Give me a safety pin at once!"
"That thing is vicious!" Firmin cried as he searched his pockets for a nonexistent pin.
Ismaël thrust the creature back into its crate and closed the lid. While the rest of the group sat in shocked silence.
"I did not expect anyone to try touching it!" Ismaël exclaimed. "I didn't believe anyone could be that empty headed!"
"You are all speaking of a man," Mme Giry laughed like a schoolgirl over the commotion involving the turtle. "There is no man! Only a ghost! I know! I've heard a voice without a body!"
"Mme Giry," Ismaël said slowly as though speaking to a small, lost child. "I assure you that the Opera Ghost is nothing but a man. Aren't you angry with him as well? After all, his hijinks nearly caused the managers to take you to the police for theft."
"Oh no! He couldn't be! Even if he is a skeleton in a suit, he couldn't be from this lifetime! He's assured me little Meg will become an empress! How could he know that unless he's dead and he could see the future? He is the kindest, gentlest of souls! He's so much like my poor Jules, to whom I was married for many beautiful years."
The fuming Moncharmin, still fretting over his torn jacket let out an angry retort.
"We still haven't ruled you out as being this criminal's accomplice, Madame!"
"I very much doubt she is an accomplice, sir. She is very much an innocent in all of this." Ismaël defended the poor woman who seemed like she was on the very edge of reality.
"Are you sure?" Firmin pressed, "How are we to know these two are not romantically involved? She continues to compare him to her dead husband! At the very least there must be some attraction between them."
"Oh heavens, no!" Mme Giry cried with despair. "The ghost already has a lady! I would never dream of interfering with their immortal love. Even if he were the most handsome of skeletons, I could NEVER!" The pathetic feather in her bonnet shook like a sick lamb as it punctuated her despairing confession. "Even if he were to ask, I'd have to refuse him—it would be so hard, because he certainly looks like my poor Jules—but I could never!"
Moncharim then stood from his chair, still in a rage over his poor jacket and turned towards the pathetic box keeper.
"I have no doubt of it; that woman would fuck a skeleton!" He bellowed, his posture so rigid it gave him the appearance of a taut bow, as he pointed straight towards the poor, quivering woman with a shaking, accusatory finger.
The poor woman wailed her indignation and nearly fainted straight away from shock.
"Monsieur that was quite uncalled for," Ismaël scolded. "Can you not see she in a delicate state of mind?"
The manager harrumphed as he sat back into his chair.
"This room is just full of skeleton fuckers." He gritted out between his teeth.
"All this arguing is very unnecessary," Raoul cut in. "It's quite possible that I've already killed the monster."
"Killed him? How?!" Christine fearfully demanded, her face turning white as a sheet.
"I shot him, naturally." Raoul replied as he lifted his coffee cup in a mock toast.
"Under what circumstances?" Ismaël demanded with great dismay, for even though the man in question was a menace, he was still quite thoroughly attached to him. If he died, who would Ismaël obsess over? There was no replacing Erik—or Steve—whatever his name is.
"The fiend crept onto my balcony and was spying on me. I had a sense he had done it before, so that night I aimed to test it out." Raoul took a sip that emptied his cup completely. "I had just retired for bed when I felt a male gaze upon my naked backside. When I turned, I saw two bright stars on the balcony. I drew my weapon and shot," Raoul smugly said as he leaned back in his chair. He took a sip from his coffee cup, but it was already empty.
"I have many questions," Daroga replied with a perplexed sort of wonder fueling his words. "Why did you have a gun in the bed with—"
"Do you always sleep naked?" Christine interrupted.
"A fine cool breeze from an open window upon the bare buttocks poised towards the sky is good for improving circulation, everyone knows that." Raoul sternly defended as he took another unfruitful sip from his empty cup. "Besides," he continued, "I'm prone to have my valet give my backside a through massaging before bed from time to time. I often fall asleep shortly after."
The room sat in an awkward silence until Christine blurted out.
"Would you define 'a through massaging'?"
"The particulars of that are a private affair between two men, Christine. They certainly do not concern you," Raoul haughtily replied as though this knowledge was common.
"Raoul, is it possible that you prefer the company of men?" Christine asked with a practical tone in her voice.
"Of course not! I make a large enough show about wanting to marry you, don't I? It's absurd you would even consider it. Having eleven or fifteen experimental encounters with men hardly makes me a homosexual, Christine. And even if I were, I do not want to fuck your mysterious musical genius with his slick underground lair and his big, raging—probably sporting the proper number of veins—cock."
Christine blanched.
"You may be in denial, young man." Ismaël responded. "I, myself, have struggled with my own feelings where, Erik— I'm sorry—Steve, is concerned." He threw up his hands in exasperation. "I'm sorry, I know we all agreed, but Steve just doesn't have quite the same ring. I've grown quite attached to the name."
"I'm certainly not going to sit around while you two have a debate over whether or not I'm fuckable!" Erik the janitor exclaimed while folding his arms neatly in stern defiance.
Raoul gave the janitor an appraising glance up and down but said nothing.
"Are you certain you shot, Steve?" Ismaël demanded, moving the conversation forward to more pressing matters. "Could you have been mistaken when you thought you saw his eyes on your balcony?"
"I must have shot something, for there was a bit of blood on the balcony, but my brother insists it was probably just a cat" The vicomte replied, abandoning his coffee cup after finally realizing its state of emptiness.
At that point Firmin shot up out of his chair and jerked a furious finger at the young vicomte.
"You!" The manager cried, "You are the one who shot Fifi!"
"Who is Fifi?" Raoul responded at the same volume.
"My prized Abyssinian!"
"Oh dear," Christine softly replied.
"What's an Abyssinian?" Erik the Janitor interjected.
"A cat!" Firmin replied angrily, "The cook mistakenly let her outside and when she returned home, she was missing half her tail. She'll never win a blue ribbon at a cat show again!" At this he threw the back of his hand across his forehead in melodramatic fashion.
"You can't prove it was me! Anyone could have shot her!" Raoul replied.
Firmin did not have the opportunity to scream curses at the vicomte for the sound of the front door of the apartment could be heard opening and slamming.
"Who could that—" Ismaël wondered aloud.
"Ah, Daroga," came an unearthly voice from the entry of the sitting room, followed by the appearance of the origin of such a voice. He filled the entirety of the doorway with his unusually tall and slender build. He paused to lean like a suave, indolent youth against the doorframe as he took in the scene with a flash of his strangely luminescent eyes from behind his stark black mask. "I see you have company. You're meddling in my affairs as you always have. You know how much I dislike my secrets seeing light. And also, you have stolen my turtle."
Moncharmin rose out of his seat to join his partner, Firmin, who was already standing and appearing poised on the verge of reckless violence. Christine bolted from her chair and searched the room for possible exits. Raoul curled up and cowered in his chair like a guilty puppy. Erik the janitor looked restless. While Madame Giry hummed to herself as she stacked biscuits onto a plate, oblivious to the new member of the room.
"You left me no choice, Erik, you were ruining people's lives! You've ruined mine!" Ismaël cried.
Erik the janitor cleared his voice in disapproval of the use of his name again.
"You have had a difficult time overcoming my rejection of you, Ismaël. It was one night, and you underperformed. You did not make me hit my high notes—a true hit it and quit it situation." The man in the mask's reply was caustic in tone. "Our time together has been over for decades, yet you continue to seek me out. You've chased me across continents hoping I'll break you off another piece of this big D. And now, you have involved the opera managers in your ridiculous campaign of harassment."
"You…" Firmin stated in a slowly boiling realization.
"Christine, come." The man in the mask snapped his fingers like calling a dog to heel. The rich authority in his voice made the command nearly impossible to defy. Christine stopped her search for another exit and drew towards him like a reluctant sleepwalker.
"No, Christine, don't 'come'" Raoul angrily insisted, and the girl halted her progress.
"Come," the false ghost, again, instructed with a hint of annoyance in his voice.
"Don't Christine" Raoul again insisted.
"Come," this time angrily.
"Stop telling her to come!" Raoul exclaimed.
The man in the mask neatly folded his arms and smoothly replied.
"Why? I certainly doubt you will ever be the one to make her come."
The vicomte looked down, a bit perplexed by a conspicuous new bulge in his trousers.
"I can't explain why, but I've gained an erection from your belittlement of me." He said.
"He has that effect on me also," Ismaël replied while looking upon his own growing bulge. "Although I cannot explain why it is happening to me now. I may just enjoy watching." At this he shrugged.
The two men exchanged a look of revelation as they both sized the other up.
Erik the janitor sat watching the whole scene, wide-eyed with disgust while Madame Giry had abandoned her biscuit project, seemingly come back to the present world.
"Who's that?" Mme Giry asked, pointing to the man in the mask, having only just noticed him.
"That's it!" Firmin cried. "I've had enough of this ridiculous farce! Is this truly the notorious 'Opera Ghost' here? Is he the one who has been extorting and taunting us? Did this man truly kill Joseph Buquet?"
"He may have killed others, but Buquet was in self-defense." Christine defended.
"Joseph Buquet attacked you, Steve?" Ismaël asked.
"Who the fuck is Steve?" The masked man recoiled at the name.
"It's what we're calling you now." Christine replied.
"Well, cut it out. That name is atrocious. Do I look like a Steve to you?" The man bit out while his gold eyes flashed with annoyance. "Joseph Buquet got a bit too friendly with a knife, Ismaël. You couldn't possibly blame a man for breaking the fool's neck."
"It's true," Christine added shyly. "I've seen the stitched wound on his right thigh beside his groin."
"Like you, Ismaël, Buquet had a difficult time with rejection." The masked man snarked.
"Christine," Raoul inflamed, "For what purpose would you have needed to see his thigh?"
The young woman threw up her arms in frustration.
"Raoul," she bitterly retorted, "You act as though you're the only one here who is allowed to suck some dick. Stop pretending as though you have ever wanted me, as it is clear you have no taste for women."
Raoul gasped.
"I have great interest in you, indeed!" He responded ardently, "I enjoy that you are weird and mean and sometimes downright cruel to me! I just never made a move because—" Here he stamped his foot in frustration. "Women are so complicated! Your anatomy requires a user manual! It's always squeeze gently here, wiggle vigorously there, in and out—but not too hard or not too soft—all at the same time! And all women are different! You all have your own secret combination that you never care to share with us! Can you blame me for diverting my attention elsewhere? Men are easy—UP AND DOWN—that's all it takes!" He gave a snort, "Although, I doubt your 'Angel' here is much better at it than I am."
"He's a musician, Raoul. He can multitask and he knows about tempo." Christine dryly responded and the man in the mask made a curt bow in mockery of the vicomte then flashed a crude display of his cunning finger work.
"He can't be THAT musically informed," Moncharmin interjected, "He fails to see the skills of Carlotta."
"Ha!" The masked man's laugh came out like a bark, "You only keep Carlotta around because she caters to your very particular needs."
"What is he talking about, Armand?" Firmin demanded.
"Oh, did you not know?" The mask man replied with a smug and knowing smile wrapped around his voice. "He enjoys dressing in nothing but a corset while being pelted with fruit."
Firmin gasped and slapped his partner hard across the cheek with enough force to fill the room with its sound.
"I thought you were MY dirty little fruitcake!" He cried.
"You never want to bring in others!" Moncharmin wailed. "At least Carlotta includes Piangi from time to time!"
Madame Giry look at Moncharmin and said, "Do you know you look just like my poor Jules?"
The man in the mask, formerly Erik, currently Steve, had taken the argument between the managers to grasp Christine by the wrist and draw her to him. Ismaël had noticed he was aiming to leave the scene and willing to abandon his beloved turtle behind.
Erik the Janitor shot up from his seat, as he too noticed the sudden movement in the doorway.
"Not so fast," Erik the janitor boomed with all the authority his trim frame could muster. From the pocket of his workman's coat, he withdrew a pistol and pointed it directly towards the masked gentleman, the black barrel glinted menacingly in the light. Everyone in the room dropped in silence and raised their hands in surprised defense, save for Madame Giry who shrilly screamed at the sudden drawing of the deadly weapon.
"A gun?" Moncharmin asked nervously.
"I had my own suspicions and came prepared," Erik the janitor easily replied.
In a flurry of skirts, the man in the mask had shoved Christine Daaë far away from himself and out of the line of fire before stepping forward.
"I think you want to put that gun down, boy," the voice of the pseudo-phantom was syrupy and hypnotic.
Erik the janitor rolled his eyes, unaffected by the voice that usually bent men and women to its will. All eyes in the room grew glassy with the drug-like effects of that vocal sorcery, save for Erik the Janitor's.
"Your charms have no effect on me," he said, "The things I like to fuck don't have voices, so you have zero appeal to me."
Steve, the opera ghost, the Angel of Music, or whatever else he was known by, froze in his place, eyes growing wide with genuine fear. Perhaps he would have turned to run, perhaps he would have made a move to fight back, nobody would ever know for a loud BANG filled the room and the mysterious man fell dead.
Panic ensued.
"Why?!" Ismaël cried.
"Angel!" Christine wailed.
"We need to get the fuck out of here!" the managers yelled in unison. They scrambled towards the exit together. "We can't afford this sort of scandal, you see." They explained as they leapt over the body and left the apartment.
Madame Giry simply rose from her seat and approached the body.
"I suppose he is a man, after all, but he does look just like my poor Jules." she said vacantly before stepping neatly over the body and making her exit as if nothing unusual had occurred that night.
Ismaël, Christine, and Raoul stared in stunned silence at the body on the floor.
"Take off the mask," Raoul said to Ismaël.
Ismaël bent down with quivering finger to remove the full-face mask made of matte black leather, but before he had removed it, Raoul preemptively turned his face away, throwing the back of his hand against his own forehead melodramatically.
"Oh!" he wailed, "He was handsome, and we killed him!"
"Not quite," Ismaël replied.
Raoul stopped his drama and turned to observe the revealed face.
"Oh," he said stupidly as he took in the death's head with skin pulled tight against bone and a cavern in the center of the face for a nose. The lips were incomplete, missing a large split on one end to reveal crooked teeth. But the vicomte shrugged inconsequentially, "I'd still fuck that," he confessed.
"Buquet was right," Ismaël said, then he kicked the body hard, "Seriously, Steve? You let that pig, Joseph Buquet, see your face but not me? You ARE a fucking ASSHOLE!"
"We need to get rid of him," Christine said with a curiously dark edge to her voice.
"I'm very good at cleaning up messes," Erik the janitor said with pride. "I've become an expert with blood in carpets. I've helped La Sorelli clean up a number of her messes—we have a great arrangement—that woman loves to use that dagger."
"The ballerina?" the vicomte paled, "She's killed?"
"All the time," the janitor replied, "Your brother helps. We all have our little quirks, you know."
Raoul didn't seem to know what to do with this news, simply half-tripping over the body in a daze on his way as he exited the apartment. Christine didn't seem to care, she continued to look at the dead man on the ground with a morbid fascination.
"How do we dispose of the body?" she asked.
As though conjuring the same thought, all three turned their eyes toward the turtle crate.
"But what do we do with the skeleton?" Ismaël asked with deep concern.
"I'm going to keep it," Erik replied.
"Whatever for?" Ismaël asked.
A large, hungry smile curled across the janitor's face.
"Isn't it obvious?" He replied, "I'm going to fuck it."
Thus ended the reign of the Opera Ghost—formerly known as Steve.