Disclaimer: See chapter one.
Author's Note: Hello and Happy Thanksgiving to those living in Canada. Well, a long weekend is upon me, so I have time to write. I hope you enjoy this chapter.
On a different topic, has anyone seen this Thursday's CSI episode? You guys see that whole Sara/Grissom thing at the end? Man, I hope those two get together. I'm a complete Sara/Grissom shipper and I think they'd be perfect for each other. Screw Hank.
Turah!
~Ayesha
Chapter Five
Arms crossed, his back against a wall, and one foot taping on the ground, Francois eyed me impatiently. I couldn't blame him. He was, after all, the police officer. For him it was: go to the scene, listen to the problem, fix it, maybe throw in a few quick chases, and then you're outta there. I was the CSI. Long hours in one space was easy work for me. I was used to it. Francois was obviously not. Finally, he seemed to have had enough. He walked over to my current position and looked down. I didn't even notice his approach until two feet materialized close to my face. I looked up from my kneeled position on the ground.
"Penelope. We have been here for three hours. Please, go to the room with the coffin and look at that skeleton."
"I can't look at the skeleton in more detail yet," I replied, my head going back down. "I need to get acquainted with my surroundings first."
"You have been staring at that same wall for twenty minutes," he complained. "It is a stone wall."
I decided not to grace him with a response. According to Leroux's book, Erik had built Christine a room, which stood hidden in the underground house. If this was indeed the Phantom's lair, then one of these walls must be playing hostess to the secret room.
Francois sighed good naturally and stepped back. He started wondering around the room, stopping at a massive bookcase crammed with books. He wiped away the cobwebs and blew the thick layer of dust away from the spines, squinting his eyes to make out the titles. Finished with the wall, I stood up and walked over to him.
"This is an impressive collection of literature," he commented. "From Alexsandre Dumas to children's fairy tales. It is all here." He then went on pouring over the titles, occasionally picking up a book (very carefully so it wouldn't fall apart) and flipping trough it. It was almost at the same time that we noticed it: only one book had a bookmark. I reached for it, balancing the heavy volume in my hands. In English, the title read: "The Complete Stories of Edgar Allen Poe." Curious, I went to the bookmark and flipped the book open. In glorious detail, the portrait of Red Death stared back at me.
"In Leroux's book, did not Erik go to the masquerade ball as Red Death?" I asked Francois.
"He did."
"Interesting," I muttered. I gazed at the picture. The costume it wore was magnificent. Long robes pooled to the ground in an almost royal manner. Bony fingers held a long staff, which had a miniature human skull at the end. I looked at Red Death's skulled face. It looked very real; the artist did a very good job. My eyes traveled over the hideously grinning mouth, the hole where the nose was supposed to be and the empty eye sockets. I gazed into them, staring into their blackness when all of a sudden -
it winked at me.
I jumped back with surprise, slamming the book shut, which caused a mushroom cloud of dust to rise up. As if it were red-hot iron, I carefully pushed the book to its original spot and took a step back. I then turned to Francois, who was watching me with curious worry.
"Did you see that?" I asked, pointing to the book.
"See what? Penelope, are you all right?"
"It - it winked at me," I stuttered. I didn't care that I must have sounded like a raving lunatic. I know what I saw, and it is common knowledge that pictures are not supposed to wink at the reader.
"It winked at you?" Francois repeated slowly.
"Is there an echo in here? Yes, it winked at me!"
A thoughtful expression came over Francois as he looked at me in a new way. But as quickly as it came, the look disappeared, and I soon found myself being led towards the door by a hand at my elbow.
"I am sorry, Penelope. You are tired. You have just arrived in Paris and I already led you away on this charade. Your eyes must be playing tricks on you. We shall come back tomorrow after you have had time to rest."
~***~
The door burst open and slammed shut as I thundered into the hotel room.
My eyes playing tricks on me?!? Imagine that!
I went straight to the mini fridge, dimly noting that my luggage has arrived and is standing in a pile by the door. Rummaging through the fridge's contents, I pulled out a red wine. I then went over to my suitcase. After pulling out my pajama, I took that and the wine and went to the bathroom, drawing myself a bath.
Francois was hiding something, of that I was sure. There was more to that damn cellar than meets the eye.
~***~
I had four hours of sleep that night. Usually I would sleep deeply and soundly, but that night I slept light, dreams plaguing my mind. In my dream, scenes flashed before my eyes, so quick and suddenly that I could barely recognize them for what they were. First it was a scene with a lot of color circling around me. Music reached my ears - they were dancing. Masks were everywhere, unseen eyes staring at me from empty eye spaces.
Then that scene changed and another took its place. I was somewhere high. I could see all of Paris below me. Behind me, a huge statue of Apollo reached into the heavens. The night wind was blowing on my face, hallowing in my ear. But then the wind's hallowing changed. It was no longer wind, but… human. Agonizing cries of sorrow flowed into the night. The man (for I was sure that it was a man) sobbed with such pain that my heart went out to him. Every so often, he would quietly moan a name. Christine…
Then the scene changed again. I was in a small room with a huge mirror. There was nothing special about the room, just a desk with a looking mirror, a small couch, and a dress rack filled with various dresses. A dressing room. Suddenly the soft glow of gaslight went out. I stood in total darkness, but I could hear something. Something was opening…
Then the scene changed again. I was standing in a beautiful house. Two squishy armchairs stood in front of a blazing fireplace. Rich Persian carpets covered the floor, my toes sinking into their softness. The room was alight with color, provided by the beautiful tapestries that hung on the walls. A pipe organ covered a wall, sheets of complicated music scattered around it, the ink of the notes still drying. I could see a Siamese cat purring in its sleep on top of a bookcase. I started to walk towards it, passing leather couches that looked so very comfortable.
As I stood on front of the bookcase, a book slid out and fell to my feet, opening to a page. I looked down and saw the portrait of Red Death staring up at me. The book then slammed shut by itself. Startled, I took a step back, only to walk into… someone. I quickly turned around, my eyes widening. Standing before me was a man, who was dressed in a beautifully tailored evening suit. A black velvet cape hung about his shoulders, and on his head a black hat prevented me from seeing his face. From what I could tell, he was about 6'3."
I was brought out of my musings by a beautiful voice, so rich and melodious, that if I were religious, I would think it belonged to an angel.
"Penelope," he said.
It was then that I saw his face. His skin was very pale, his raven black hair making it look whiter. It was almost the same shade as his mask.
His mask!
A porcelain mask covered the right side of his face. But my attention was soon drawn away from the mask to his eyes. They were the most unique eyes I have ever seen. The left one was a warm brown with gold specks around the pupil, while the right eye was a deep gray - blue color. With an elegant hand, he handed me a crimson red rose, and with a small bow, he said:
"Welcome to my Opera House."
It was then that I woke up. I would have fallen back to sleep. Four hours was not enough. But I stayed awake. For when I awoke, in my hand was a crimson red rose.
