"She sang your song," the devil cackled.

Erik laid on the floor, weeping uncontrollably, his cloak spread across the floor like an injured bat's wing.

"I forgot to tell you that once she sang your song, anything covering that thing on your neck would melt," the devil said evilly.

Erik lifted his head, glared at the red devil, holding his blistering hands with the melted mask caked on them.

"You son of an ass! This wasn't part of the agreement!"

"Oh but it is!" the devil said, perching on Erik's precious organ scratching his black nails against the shiny finish of the ivory keys, "You cannot hide your face, it's plain as water right there." With a flick of his wrist, a contact appeared in a cloud of sickly green smoke. Gold words in italic cursive popped out,

"Once pathetic lover has sung enchanted song, you shall not hide your face from her. Anything placed on or over will melt and/or be destroyed instantaneously."

Erik grinded his teeth and hissed furiously,

"Miserable wench! You added that part!"

Smoking from the ears, the devil grabbed his fire hot pitchfork and gave Erik a vicious jab with it.

"NO, you withering, pathetic, lovesick fool! You were so excited at the possibility of keeping Christine here that you barely took the time to read through it!"

Glaring at the pitchfork a finger away from his eyeballs, Erik knew better than to argue.

"Why are you arguing?" the devil asked as he jumped down from the organ, scattering pieces of music, razor sharp tail whacking Erik in the face, "The girl is yours. All you have to do is sing to her tonight, and she'll be with you."

"I don't believe you," Erik growled, holding his now bleeding face.

"Look on your finger," the devil replied with a careless gesture of his broken hand; ignoring the fact that Erik was bleeding.

Erik did and was astonished to find Christine's secret engagement ring from Raoul on his pinky finger. He tried to take it off, but his finger was so swollen that he couldn't get it off.

"Your rival cannot take her from you. Shut up and get ready for your party."

In a puff of black smoke and several heart wrenching screams, the devil returned to Hell.

Erik sighed, rubbing the remains of his melted mask off his hands. Strangely, though Christine was his, he didn't feel any joy. Only despair. She wouldn't love him! Especially now that he had a deformed face. Peering into the mirror that hung over his bed, he noted gloomily that bits of his mask stuck to the angry scars of the devils burning hand print, after he had signed the contract. There's no way Christine will ever want to sleep next to this, he thought sullenly.

"Remember, there are ways of beautifying your face," the devil's voice said in his head.

"I'm not that kind of monster!" he shouted to the empty room.

"Thought you might want to know your options. I assure you, you won't be getting any action with a face like that!"

Screaming with fury, he grabbed the cold mirror and smashed it against the stonewall; causing some of the candles that lit his house to flicker out.

"Temper, temper," the devil's voice muttered sarcastically, with a hint of amusement.

"Shut up!" Erik shrieked, holding his hands over his face, hands bleeding from the shards of glass that had rebounded and cut into his skin.

"Suit yourself."

Meanwhile, preparations for the party before the world première of an opera by an unknown composer (to the public that is). The managers were fussing and irritating everyone in their meticulous detailing according to Erik's wishes. They did not want another chandelier incident.

"Those roses don't look fresh enough!" Firmin, a short, stout man with thinning hair barked to a gruntled looking man, grass stained, hands bleeding, "Throw these out and get new ones. Everything must be perfect!"

The florist huffed, grabbed the flowers and rushed off to find new ones. Meanwhile, Andre, a tall imposing man was threatening the cook about the meal.

"This has to be the crème-de-la-crème, Lorenzo! If the Opera Ghost is displeased, it'll be your head and one of your children for every disaster that occurs tonight!"

"Yes, Sir!" the cook replied gruffly, face flushed from laboring over the stove for the past two days. Already he had baked a magnificent cake in the replica of the Paris Opera House. Candles flickered in the windows, giving it a lively appearance. Long oak tables with rich linen tablecloths held various assortments of delicious food. Ruby red punch, stuffed duck, roast boar, ten different kinds of potatoes, veggie dishes and fruit cocktails carved into shapes of famous singers, most of which were of Carlotta.

"Monsieur? I don't think the statues of Carlotta are a good idea," a pimply-faced door shutter said nervously to the cook.

"I don't have time for this!" the cook shouted angrily in a thick Italian accent, "I have done what the managers have told me to do!"

"Y-y-es sir," the door shutter said nervously, backing away from the butcher knife the cook pointed irritably at him.

At least a dozen servants were on their knees polishing the floor. A heavyset man sat in an easy chair shouting instructions.

"I want to be able to see my nose hairs on this floor! That's how shiny it needs to be! Pick up the pace! Do you want to meet the Ghost's magical Lasso? The party starts in five hours!"

Several smartly dressed maids were polishing the silver frames, wooden stairs, readying the dance floor for the Red Death Masquerade that the Phantom had requested before his opera was to begin. Everyone was highly stressed, mainly because the managers were getting in the way more than helping. By the end of the day, as the masquerade grew nearer, everyone was about to crack and kill someone.

Erik hunched over the lake, blood streaming from his neck. One of the shards of glass had cut his neck open. Cursing at his folly, he held the bloodstained cloth to his neck, in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Tears ran down his face, from pain and love sickness. Christine was his, but he didn't feel anything but grief. When he was handsome, she could have loved him. All he would have to do was control his temper that frightened her so. Now he had this horrible deformity that would make even the lepers quake.

"You there is away out of this," the devil's voice said cunningly.

"Forget it!" Erik cried, trying to block out the persuasive voice that had gotten him into this mess.

"You know you want to," the devil continued, "There are several people who wouldn't be missed."

Erik fell to the ground, twisted uncontrollably as his efforts caused his body to spasm.

"Carlotta, her maid, the managers…. Raoul."

"Stop it! Stop it! I'm not that type of monster!"

"Look at yourself! You're vile! I can barely stand looking at you, and I come from Hello for crying out loud! You're already damned, as your soul belongs to me. What difference does a couple deaths make?"

Erik stopped twisting and screaming, sat up, eyes filled with a new demonic light.

"That's more like it," the devil purred.

Erik ran back into his lair, threw on his cloak, grabbed his dreaded Punjab Lasso and a knife.

"I assume you know what needs to be done."

In response, Erik's lips curled into an evil grin.