How well I recall the first time I saw Veronica...

She was attending a play in a place called Deep Ellum. Sort of an artistic area in a city called Dallas. This was in the state of Texas in the New World. I like such areas as Deep Ellum. The naughtiness of such a place, complete with prostitutes and drug addicts and artists, must have been like what the Moulin Rouge had been like in all of its glory when Toulouse-Lautrec would paint his dancing chorus girls. Alas, I never had the opportunity to visit the Moulin Rouge during its artistic peak. But I had often dreamed of doing so.

"Man Behind the Mask" was the newest play based upon my life. It was a one-man show, telling the 'real' story of my life from my birth to my death. I have to admit the work was a noble effort, despite all of its lies.

As if that arrogant actor, Tony Bradshaw, knew anything about the 'real' story of my life!

Bradshaw not only played the part of "Erik" but he also had written, directed and produced this play. And that pesky stubborn man was the only reason why I came out of my sweet respite of oblivion.

Perhaps it was sheer prejudice on my part, but I did not care to have anything to do with Tony Bradshaw as an artist or anything else. He was too handsome with his swarthy Mediterranean looks and black eyes, like a Gypsy prince in times of old. Even wearing my famous half-mask along with dark hat and cape, he still looked too bloody dashing for my taste! Despite his constant grumblings to the contrary, he had led a charmed life. So what if he had occasional troubles making his way in the world? No one had forced him to become a playwright and strolling player! The truth was that everything had always been handed to him on a silver platter because of his pretty face and charming manner. Perhaps he reminded me just a bit too much of the Vicomte de Chagny. Who can say? But I had no intention on ever helping him.

Yet Bradshaw was not a man to be underestimated. He had determination as strong as steel. I will credit him with that. He would call and call for me nonstop with the persistence of a mule, pleading for my help and inspiration to make his show a success. Going mad with his constant summoning for me, I arrived one night in his dressing room.

When I aid those who call for me, usually it is in the form of mental telepathy. The methods I choose to employ depends very much on the individual. Most of the time, they are never even aware of my presence.

For example, when the talented Michael Crawford, the first Andrew Lloyd Webber 'Phantom', portrayed me on stage, I infused him not only with my emotions, but also with my physical essence and power. His voice boomed across stages all over the world with the violence and passion of my life. Yet he also knew of my tenderness, moving his beautiful hands in complete synchronization with my soul as he sang "Music of the Night", his voice soaring to unbelievable heights. I was quite proud of my accomplishment with him, particularly when he won that Tony Award. I believe that is some sort of celebratory statue that the people on the street of Broadway give out every year in the state of New York. At last, my talent was recognized in one form or another.

Andrew Lloyd Webber had also won one of these Tony Awards. His experience with me was obviously of a more auditory nature. With him, I would recreate my own orchestral compositions. I was always fond of bombastic sweeping music, especially as I would pound away on that pipe organ down in the catacombs of the Garnier Opera House. Being a man of uncommon genius, he only needed a little help from me before he was completely swept away in his own individual wave of creativity.

With the film actor, Gerard Butler, I planted images of my suffering in his mind so that his eyes shone with all of the love and pain and anger in my heart, perfect for all of those large images of him playing me on the motion picture screen. With that last precious kiss with Christine, I gave him the gift of knowing just how it had felt for me. To at last know those sweet lips, to have her so close...and yet I was finally faced with the knowledge that our love was impossible. I believe Mr. Butler showed all of those emotions perfectly.

No artist was ever the same. One cannot create great art by using an instruction manual. One must experiment and feel out what is right and what is false...what is moving and what is not.

With Tony Bradshaw, I listened to his monologue as he performed it. Some of the events of my life werewere astonishingly accurate while others were complete falsehoods. Whenever I heard details that were true, I would visualize the events and transfer them to his mind. When he spoke of the catacombs underneath the Opera House, I gave him a clear sense of just how cold it was, how dark and wet and miserable it could be. I let him see my lair with all of the candelabra and artwork. This was the sort of method I used with him.

And it was a brilliant tactic, if I may say so myself. For the audience fell in love with him. Suddenly, his photograph was on the cover of many local Texas periodicals. He had been interviewed for the television box. I was surprised that such a little of my expertise had gone such a long way with Bradshaw. But the man was nothing if not a self-serving opportunist! And again, life for him was nothing but a pleasant tea party!

Having missed the glory of the theater world, I decided to endure Bradshaw's presence a bit longer. At least, for a few more performances...

On one of these nights, I first heard the call of Veronica.

It was a sweet loud trilling song of a summons. I was shocked for I had never before been called by a woman.

At first, I was held captive by her big dark eyes. She was aglow, transfixed with all of the action unfolding before her on the stage. Her lips were slightly parted in wonder as she took in every one of Bradshaw's words with unremitting interest.

I barely paid any more attention to Tony Bradshaw. In truth, he did not need my help any longer.

And I could only gaze upon Veronica Lindell with fascination...

She was just the sort of woman that I would have passionately lusted after in my human days. With her dark black flowing curls and her ivory skin, she was a delicate beauty. Her curves were lush and full, a paradise for any man. She was wearing a black dress with too low of a neckline and too high of a hem. Her legs were long and lovely, bare of any stockings. A pair of strappy black high heeled sandals adorned her feet. I fantasized of what it must be like to tear of those flimsy shoes and kiss each one of her exposed toes.

I swore that I would never get used to seeing the fashions women wore in Two Thousand and Five. Every woman was in a virtual state of undress. Queen Victoria would have been prostrate at the sight of such flagrant boldness! Naked arms and legs and bellies and hips constantly on display everywhere. How could mortal men stand such constant temptation all of the time? If I were mortal, I should have gone mad!

But sadly I confess that while I have always been an avid admirer of the female form, I could do no more than appreciate women from a strictly aesthetic point of view in my ghostly state. When one is a haunting spirit, one is relieved of the burden of sexual desire. I admit that this had been no great hardship on me. During my life on earth, physical yearning was nothing but a source of angst and unfulfillment for me. Indeed, such base instincts often served as the catalyst for my crimes and sins. Who knows what sort of life I might have led if I had not such a desire for flesh and feeling?

I should have been relieved that the lovely Miss Lindell could never have such a hold on me. She could not possibly drive me to murderous rage and jealousy as Christine had. It would be impossible now. But curiously, I was rather sad about my supernatural impotency. I could not say why I should ever want a woman again.

Even so, I could not resist her call to me. Immediately, I abandoned Tony Bradshaw and looked deep into her heart and soul.

She was a writer, an amateur one to be sure, but she had talent. Her stories had originality and wit and emotion. She was also an actress, but that part of her creativity had been stifled with constant rejection for quite a few years now.

As Bradshaw described my life, I could see vivid pictures in her mind. And then those images became laced with her own words and descriptions, stimulating her imagination until her own stories began to form. I found the way her mind worked fascinating.

Then I was shocked by a startling image in her mind. One where she was kissing me. And we were both as naked as the day we were born!

Good Lord!

Or was she with Tony Bradshaw?

It was hard to tell which man she was with precisely, but I was already seething with jealousy at that charlatan's interference.

I left her psyche at once, quite distraught at what I had seen.

Too many women fancied themselves in love with me when they did not even know me! They wanted Crawford or Butler or Bradshaw or any one of those actors who pretended to be me with such seductive skill. At that moment, I hated every single one of those cursed actors! How many times did they get to lie with a woman who was fantasizing about me? And where would any of those strutting peacocks be without me!

If any of those lovestruck women had seen my real face, they would have fainted in horror just like Christine had! For my face was the real article, not an assemblage of stage makeup that could be taken off at the end of the night. It was true mottled flesh and blood and bone, plastered to my skull in an unholy mess!

Even in my rage, I wished that I could be that nude man kissing Veronica...even when all reason and physicality was against it. Although I was no longer prey to of any sort of physical discomfort or frustration, the thought of a girl like her fantasizing about me made me horribly low. Where had she been when I needed her? Back in Eighteen Hundred and Eighty One when I was still alive? A fine time now for a woman to want me! When I was of no use at all in that capacity!

Was this to be my Hell then? To constantly wander the earth as a ghost yearning for what I could never have?

Disgusted with the entire human race, I went back to my peaceful oasis of non-existence. Maybe this time I could stay there forever.

But Veronica still called for me...like one of those sirens who caused sailors to shipwreck at sea...

While I remained steadfast in ignoring her, the calls became increasingly more pitiful and frantic as time passed. Something had happened to her. I could sense her pain. In her despair, I knew that she needed me...and not for fame or fortune...but in order to keep her soul intact somehow.

I resigned myself to my fate as I once again returned to Texas and Veronica.

Soon, I observed the cause of her turmoil. She was suffering with grief at the death of her beloved grandmother, Elizabeth Hannah. So clouded were her thoughts with alcohol and nightmares, I feared she might even hurt herself. Even as her grandmother's soul faded in and out, hovering between life and death, I also could hear her call as well.

Please do not ignore a dying woman's last wish, Erik! Help my darling Veronica! Please...it is the least you could do after the suffering you caused our family. You owe it to us...

What prattle are you relating, Madame? I owe you and your brethren nothing!

Look into the history books, Mr. Phantom of the Opera. Look up the line of the Hannah family. We are descendants of Joseph Buquet...one of your many victims during your Reign of Terror in Paris...

Indeed!

Yes. His wife committed suicide out of grief. His children were orphaned and had to commit their own crimes just to survive. Much chaos resulted for the Hannahs due to your selfish obsession. For once, try to atone for your sins. Help my dear Veronica.

I was shocked at Elizabeth's revelation. Damn, I didn't even know that sod Buquet had a wife and children!

Reluctantly, I agreed to the old woman's request. Not so much because I gave a fig about her drunken stagehand of an ancestor, but because the girl needed me desperately.

I did something that I had never before attempted with a human. I called out to her.

Write for me!