Haunted
Christine had no memory of allowing herself to fall asleep, but before the fog of countless hours of unconsciousness even halfway began to dissipate, she was startled into full awareness by the pervasive resonance of Erik's voice:
"I'd begun to fear you would never wake."
Heaving herself up, she turned sharply in her bed to see him sitting in the chair near the nightstand.
He tilted his head, gentle concern filling his gaze. "You'd been sleeping so long…"
She was shaking with sudden chills, and her fingertips dug into the comforter where her hands clenched at its edge. Fully dressed and wearing his mask, he seemed nothing as she so clearly recalled from the night before, but she could not prevent the widening of her eyes as she took him in.
He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the ends of the chair's arms. Unmistakable sternness crept into his tone, "Christine."
She gasped and scrambled against her pillows to the other side of her bed.
He remained frozen for a moment as he stared at her in surprise, then he sighed and sank back into the chair.
"More nightmares?" he asked, his voice soft again.
She glanced to him. "I…" And then as she gaped at him, she realized his attitude at least appeared to have no reflection at all of the night before. In fact, he appeared hurt by her reaction. As if he did not know why she should fear his presence.
Her grip on the comforter loosened and her gaze fell.
"No…" she breathed, and she shook her head. Or had it all been a nightmare afterall?
Erik remained silently observant as she took her time to let slow the insanity that had become of her heartbeat before she spoke again.
"How long was I asleep?" she asked in quiet tenseness.
"Too long," he answered gently.
She lifted her face to look across to him once more. "You were worried about me?"
He leaned toward her just a little, studying the clarity of her eyes closely. "I think you should stay in bed today."
She stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I… I'm not myself."
He did not move other than to return her nod, but then after a few moments of silent examination, he stood and stepped away from the chair.
Her gaze followed his movements. "I'm hungry," she whispered.
He glanced down at her. "Good."
And then she thought, if she could have seen his face, he might have smiled at her before bowing politely and leaving the room with the unspoken promise to prepare something for her to eat.
He did not shut the door after himself, and Christine did not move to rise from bed. Relaxing, she smoothed the twisted covers and laid back to glance about the room. It appeared so strangely normal to her now. Lovely and old-fashioned in the charming brightness of the gaslights. Certainly not apparently welcoming to any ghosts of dark and fearful imagination. She closed her eyes then and did all she could to empty her mind of memories of the night while she waited until Erik returned.
What he brought to her, she ate in bed, and even after she finished and had began to feel much more at ease in the atmosphere of regained normalcy, he insisted she remain in bed for the day.
"I'll let you rest,. He moved to clear from the room the utensils that had been set aside.
"Erik," she began softly.
He paused and turned back to her. The tenderness in his gaze was so inviting that she finally found it impossible to any more associate the attentive gentleman before her now with the mad scientist of the previous night.
"Stay with me?"
As she spoke, he seemed to forget what he had been about to do and returned to the bedside, standing over her.
"I feel restless," she confessed.
"Rest Christine," he insisted with gentle firmness.
She nodded. "But don't leave me alone… Not in here alone…"
And so Erik, who truly could never manage the power to deny Christine anything at all, remained in her bedroom for all that was left of the day. That night, he gave her a draught so that she would sleep deeply and completely free of all the nightmares of both dreams and reality.
When Christine awoke the next morning, she found herself alone but strangely at peace. By the time she emerged into the drawing room, ready for the day, she was feeling more herself than she had in days.
Erik was waiting for her. "You have a rehearsal today."
Her eyes found him where he stood near the mantle.
"I do?" she asked, truly confused.
He moved toward her. "The new production will be blocked entirely."
"Oh…" She frowned and wondered if it were possible she had been away from the Opera for more than two nights and a day.
Before she could ask, Erik spoke again as he stopped just before her:
"If you do not feel well enough to go, I would rather you remain in bed."
She tilted her head up to meet his eyes as they studied her features closely.
"I feel fine," she said perhaps too softly to be entirely believable.
He stepped back then, though he continued to regard her thoughtfully. He seemed as if he might comment on her tone, but then, perhaps deciding it best to leave certain matters unspoken while they may, he turned away.
"I want to go, Erik."
"Yes, Christine. I suppose you have rested long enough."
She offered him a smile, but he did not turn to notice it. And then as a contemplative silence stretched between them, slowly wakening thoughts of Elainie wormed their way back into Christine's mind. The other night… Erik had done what it took to find out how the little girl died…
"Erik…" she began tentatively.
He turned about to face her quickly. As if he knew just what she intended to ask.
"It is time we left," he said brusquely. "You are already late."
Christine took a small step back. And then she only nodded quietly in assent.
It was not until she was entirely without Erik's presence after he left her in her dressing room that haunted anxiety of the previous days reinstated nervous apprehension to her shivering frame. She did not want to be alone. It was cold in her dressing room (though not as frigid as the air in Erik's house had lately become), and the bouquet of white lilies she forgot the other night had already begun to die.
She opened her door to look out into the hall. Empty silence.
"I am late. Everyone is already at rehearsal…" The soft sound of her own voice gave her comfort and quickly, she made her way to the stage.
It was through the wearing work at rehearsal that Christine fully realized she was still not quite herself after all. Though she managed well enough, her effort was noticeably not up to standard and she found her thoughts drifting so often that she missed several cues and nearly jumped out of her skin as her name was called more than one time. Her apologies were accepted with the excuse of having been under the weather, but the moment the break for lunch was announced, she found herself dashing for the wings in drained frustration.
"Mademoiselle!"
She stopped, turning to face the voice that caught her attention and was stunned to see the Vicomte de Chagny in the doorway that led to a backstage hall.
"Monsieur," she managed after a moment, looking askance at a small group of people that emerged from the wings in the direction of the door.
The Vicomte was silent as he stepped aside to allow them to pass, then he approached Christine.
"May I speak with you? For a few moments?"
She continued to watch the group until all were out of sight, but even then she did not return her eyes to look at him. She pressed her lips together in a moment of hesitation then nodded, saying softly, "We have just been released for the hour."
He stopped as he reached her and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Perhaps in private?"
She shook her head with clear certainty. "Here."
His eyes remained fixed on her uncompromising expression for a moment of hopeful silence, then he lifted his gaze to glance about the backstage area and found that, at the moment, they happened to be alone.
"I tried to find you yesterday." He kept his voice low.
She lowered her eyes. "I… I wasn't here. I wasn't feeling well."
He paused for only a moment, then asked directly, "Have you spoken to the police?"
Her gaze snapped back to him. "The police?"
"Christine," his voice was hushed again and he stepped closer to her. "We must tell the police. We cannot keep this silent."
She tried to turn away, but he caught her with gentle firmness by the arm.
"You said you found her already dead, Christine. But if there is something you are not telling me…"
She shook her head quickly, turning back to him fully, and even as close as she was to him now, her voice was barely audible. "No, Raoul, she was dead when I found her. When I found her in the cellars… but…" She shook her head again. "I was wrong. We cannot tell the police. You must not tell anyone I've told you this, Raoul!"
And she could not contain a spasmodic shudder as the vivid images of the little girl being sliced open and pulled apart flooded her memory with sudden violent force.
Raoul took her by both arms in concern as she instantly paled several shades before him.
"No!" she gasped. "No one must know. Please, Raoul, promise me!"
"Why?" he whispered as he leaned closer to her, attempting to keep her still with his supportive grip. "Christine, tell me what has happened."
She lifted her hands to her face and tried to shake her head free of the remembered images. "We can't," she whimpered. "She's… She's not the same anymore. She's… She's gone, Raoul."
He took her wrists with his gloved hands, very gently removing them from her face so he could clearly see her tear-filled eyes. "What do you mean?" his whisper still sensitive though urgent.
"I… She…" Christine adverted her eyes. "I lost her…"
Her voice was so low then that Raoul did not hear her words. "Christine?" he promoted, pressing her hands.
"I lost her," she hissed a hush more audibly and her eyes returned to meet his.
It was then, at the same moment, they each heard someone approach from the direction of the stage. Raoul immediately released Christine's hands and took a step away from her as she hastily wiped at her tears. But the effort proved needless as whoever made the sound did not appear. They breathed together in silence for a few uncertain moments, and then Christine turned to face Raoul again, extending a hand to him.
He took it at once, pressing an ardent kiss to its back as she spoke.
"Please, Raoul, don't ask me any more. I… I cannot explain. Please… Please forget all of this I've told you."
He folded his other hand over hers he held and stepped to her again. Concern for her emotional reaction knit his handsome brow into an expression of dear and sympathetic anxiety.
"Christine, you would tell me... If there was something else, you would tell me? For your own safety..."
She nodded quickly, but again her eyes could not meet his.
"Then I will ask no more of you about it... Unless you tell me." He pressed her hand between his once more before releasing it and putting his fingertips lightly to her face. "I never meant to upset you so. I was only thinking... Thinking of..."
"I know," she cut off his words before he could finish and turned her face away from the smooth material of his glove, moving to grant yet a little more space between them.
"Let me make it up to you?" Though his voice was still soft, he was no longer whispering.
She glanced back to him.
"Let me take you to lunch." He managed a smile.
She sighed and began apologetically, "I don't have time..."
"You have the hour," he offered, keeping his tone light.
She shook her head and kept her eyes downcast. "Thank you, but I would like to be alone just now."
He nodded silently and turned his own eyes away, also taking a step back. "Then I shall let you alone." After a moment of hesitation he added, "If you have anything else to tell me, you know how to reach me… Day or night, Christine."
"Good day, Monsieur," was all she offered, and she did not look up again until she was certain he was gone. Truthfully, the last thing she wanted just now was to be alone, and as she looked about she shivered to find herself very alone in the dark and cavernous backstage area. Raoul had closed the door to the hall and the only light was that which filtered back from the auditorium between flats, set pieces and curtains.
Something moved behind her.
She whirled about and gasped. "Who's there?"
Silence. Then a soft female voice responded through the darkness, "Christine Daaé?"
"Who?" she asked all the more desperately as her heartbeat seemed ready to choke her.
Laughter. Bright and childish and enough to send chills down her spine.
"Don't be afraid," the voice came again.
Christine backed toward the hall door. "I…" she stammered, barely able to breathe. She felt lightheaded and her vision began to swim before her.
But then, through it, she saw a young woman push aside a black curtain and emerge finally into sight. Christine at once recognized her as one of the girls her own age with whom she used to sing featured parts before Erik began to procure her the leading roles. Her immediate relief was so great, that she could not even speak, and she sank against the wall by the door.
The girl laughed again. "Oh, don't look so terrified! I promise I won't tell a soul that you were back here alone in a dark corner with the Vicomte de Chagny." She smiled brightly as she moved around the prop table and approached Christine. If anything, Christine could gather that she seemed absolutely thrilled to be a part of such a secret.
"I'm… I'm not afraid." Christine straightened slowly. "But thank you."
The girl opened the door while continuing to keep her focus on Christine. "Are you going to the café?"
Christine nodded, and after taking a moment to make certain her limbs were no longer shaking, she moved to accompany her out the door.
"Though if I were the one who had the Vicomte whispering sweet nothings to me in a dark corner," the girl continued, keeping her voice respectfully low as they walked together down the hall, "I certainly wouldn't mind the whole company knowing." She put a hand to her lips to stifle another childish giggle.
Christine managed a smile, but made no effort to make conversation as they made their way to the café. Once there, however, she accepted the invitation to lunch with her travel companion at a table where already seated were a few other women singers she knew but ordinarily would not have thought to join. She was certain she would have joined anyone just now to avoid being alone.
"Christine Daaé," someone spoke up to catch her attention. "Have you met Jacqueline Galerne? She is new to the chorus."
Startled, Christine looked from the light lunch she had ordered but for which she had found no appetite, to be introduced to a pale, dark haired girl, perhaps a couple years younger than she, who was seated across the table from her.
Someone laughed. "Christine Daaé, you have been on the edge of your nerves all day."
"It is a pleasure to meet you," Jacqueline said softly. "I have read so much about you lately in the papers' reviews."
Christine offered her what she could of a smile and responded politely before returning her attention to the food she had barely touched. She found it incredibly hard to focus on cheerful conversation when every one of her thoughts were haunted by the ghost of a dead child. Elainie's blue eyes blinked out at her from each flash of light through the café windows and her pink dress fluttered in each gust of breeze that caressed the curtains…
"Miss Daaé has been managing to astound us anew almost every day," someone near Jacqueline joined the conversation.
"Although today she can't seem to keep her mind on the opera," the woman sitting next to Christine teased as she patted Christine's arm gently.
Another stifled giggle from the girl who had found her backstage. "I don't blame her!" And then several prolonged moments of hushing curious inquiries as with beaming pride, she denied the secret she kept.
"You're always so mysterious, Christine," someone said in benign frustration at the unanswered questions. "Usually new stars can't wait to share the stories of their success. That's why they say it's supernatural with you."
"Supernatural?" Jacqueline asked the speaker.
"Didn't you say you'd read the papers?"
"But there is no such thing," the new girl said firmly in the natural softness of her voice. "Not really."
"There is so," someone else spoke up. "Not with Christine Daaé, but there is."
Jacqueline laughed lightly. "Always so superstitious in the theatre."
"This theatre happens to be haunted."
Christine dropped her fork, her eyes snapping up to the faces around her. "Haunted?"
The girl who had spoken pursed her small red lips together. "Yes, of course. You don't believe either? I would have thought of all people, Christine Daaé, you would not be surprised."
"Every theatre is haunted," someone laughed.
The woman sitting next to Christine turned to her in startled concern as she'd begun to tremble, and she laughed comfortingly. "Don't let their talk put a fear of ghosts into you."
"Ghosts aren't real." Jacqueline nodded.
"They are so," the girl sitting next to her, across the table from Christine began. "This one is. I heard a voice!"
Christine was on her feet immediately and nearly upset a glass of water as she reached across to grip the girl's arm fiercely. "What did she say?" she gasped, her voice hoarse in sudden terror.
A moment of shocked silence as all eyes turned to Christine… And then a ripple of tense and gentle laughter made its way down the table.
The girl she gripped lifted a hand to pat Christine's fingers comfortingly as she said with somewhat strained lightness, "The Opera Ghost is a he, silly."
Christine stared at her for a moment, before she glanced at all the others who continued to stare back at her. She blushed then and her hand relaxed, releasing the girl's arm, and she moved slowly into her seat. "The Ghost…"
"Well, I don't believe in ghosts," Jacqueline reaffirmed with an amused smile that was shared by most at the table.
"Neither do I," someone else added.
"I never did," Christine said softly as she found her fork again. And it was true. She had never believed in ghosts. Not before now.
She found it impossible then to focus on anything that was left of the group's conversation for the remainder of the lunch, and so on, her lack of concentration for the second half of the afternoon's rehearsal was unforgivable. How she hoped Erik was not watching. How she prayed he did not know it was thoughts of ghosts that filled her mind.
If he knew at all, he said nothing of it as he brought her back to his home that evening. When he did comment on her distant state, she confessed she probably should have stayed in bed for another day as he had suggested. And then he nodded in agreement but also duly lectured her on the consequences letting anything-anything at all take her mind from her singing. The strictness of his tone had made her wonder if he had perhaps witnessed her exchange with Raoul… But she did not dare ask.
As the quiet evening they afterward shared wore on, left to her own thoughts as Erik read from a large medical reference book in his chair by the dark fireplace, Christine found the idea of ghosts becoming less and less alien to her mind. What had she seen the other night in her room? Surely she had seen it… Seen her. She knew she could not have been dreaming. She was certain of that. Every theatre was haunted… Was that true? Every Opera House had a ghost. That's what they'd always said.
"The Phantom of the Opera…" she whispered.
Erik looked up from the heavy volume he was reading and over to Christine. "Yes?"
She jumped where she'd been sitting on the carpet in thought, startled by his answer, and looked back to him, shaking her head. "No, not you."
He closed the book and set it aside. "Is there another?"
A moment of shy uncertainty, and then she moved over to sit at the base of his chair, leaning up to put her hands on its thick arm. "Erik, do you believe in ghosts?"
"Real ones?"
She nodded.
He laughed.
"Erik…" she frowned, disappointed.
"Like angels?" he asked.
She released the chair's arm and turned, sinking to sit with her back to its side. "I don't believe in ghosts," she insisted too weakly to be believed.
Erik turned where he sat to look down at her. "Would you like something more to help you sleep tonight?" he offered kindly.
"You laughed at me," she murmured.
He lowered himself from the chair to kneel before her so that their eyes were level. "Forgive me…"
She lifted her gaze to meet his, but said nothing.
He waited for only one more moment before standing and offering her his hand. "Come, it is too cold in here now to be sitting on the floor."
She accepted it and stood. She was very cold.
"If you'd like another blanket tonight…" he began.
"Erik," she said with sudden uncharacteristic sternness. "How did she die?"
He turned away from her.
She stepped after him. "You promised you would tell me."
"I don't know yet," he sighed as if he'd hoped she had forgotten altogether.
"But… Didn't you…?"
"Yes," he all but snapped, sudden disgust unmistakable in tone. "But I didn't finish. It was not as simple as I'd anticipated. I…" He turned sharply back to face her. "You were right, Christine. She did not drown."
Tears were already pooling in Christine's eyes. "Then how… How… Who could ever let her die? She's so young… So pure… She…"
Erik's tone softened. "I will find out, Christine."
She reached to take his sleeve. "Let me see her…"
He began to shake his head.
"Please," she begged. "Before… Before you… finish with her."
He stared down at her for a very long moment, and then he looked away and gently pulled his sleeve from her grasp, turning to lead her to the laboratory.
The moment they entered the room, Christine began to shiver uncontrollably although she had been dressed warmly all evening. Erik removed his suit jacked and draped it about her shoulders as they walked together around the shelves into the main part of the room.
"We have been four days without heat now," he explained. "The air in the house is finally reaching the actual underground temperature." He followed Christine's gaze to the corpse on the steel table, adding flatly, "It is the principal reason why she has yet to begin to smell of decay."
Elainie lay still on her back, her entire body covered to the neck by a clean, white sheet. And Erik was right, there was no stench of decay. However there was another odor that permeated the air… That faint but distinct smell of chemicals that could have quite easily been masking any smell of death. She studied the body now as if she knew this would be the last time she would see it. Only her face was visible and, if Christine chose to ignore how sunken the area about the eyes and had become and how blue the lips had grown, she could imagine that the girl was still nothing less than a living child tucked away to sleep. But Christine knew what was under that sheet… Oh, how she knew.
She said nothing. Just stared in silence for far too long. And ever observant, the moment her gaze drifted from the present into thought, Erik took her by the shoulder and led her from the room.
Once in the hall, she shrugged off his jacket and held it out without turning back to look at him. "Please…" she whispered. "Please… I must know."
Erik took the jacket from her but said nothing.
She nodded slowly, and then, wrapping her arms tightly about herself, she started for her room in an exhausted and numbed daze, not once looking back to say goodbye.
She would not need a drought to sleep tonight.