Veronica Lindell had taught me a lesson. I learned that perhaps I could be wrong.
I realized that perhaps I should not have ended my mortal life so hastily. After all, I could have at least tried to escape the mob. Maybe luck would have been on my side. And perhaps, despite all of the odds, I could have found another woman to take as a sweet trusting young wife who would love me for myself alone. Someone like Veronica.
At first, our time together had been a simple blend of creativity and work.
When was it that our innocent collaboration turned into something dark and sensual?
It must have occurred shortly after we established our partnership…before that bothersome journalist roommate of hers arrived from her trip. That one evening when she was completing some research for our novel at the University Library...
A handsome boy with sandy curls, who must have been about twenty-two years of age, approached Veronica as she had been sitting with me quietly in the corner, making notes about the history of the little Sultana who had forced me to become an executioner. As he stopped to speak to her, her eyes lit up with feline interest. I hated the young whelp at first sight!
"Hi, Ron. What'cha doin'?" he asked in a highly impudent manner.
"Research..."
He noted the title of her book, reading it out loud.
"The Laws and Customs of Persia in the Nineteenth Century. Jeez, what is that for?"
"Costume History," the wicked child lied without hesitation. "How women were forced to wear certain garb of clothing during that time and what the religious significance was."
"Interesting. Just the kind of subject a whack job like you would write about, I guess."
The beaming smile on her face fell immediately. I could not help but feel instantly relieved that the boy was such a dolt.
"Thanks," she sulked.
"See you in class, Ron."
Veronica lowered her head and bit her lip. I could see the tears starting to flow yet again, staining the page of text before her.
I could not restrain my annoyance.
God's thunder, child! I roared, making her jump. Do not tell me that you give one whit about what that insolent boob has to say to you!
She narrowed her eyes at my provocation.
"Tim Canfield is one of the most talented actors in the Theater Department," she retorted. "I got to do an acting scene with him in class once and learned a great deal from him. In fact, it was one of the best times I ever had in this wretched place. It's just a shame that he has to date Jennifer Garland. What does she have that I don't…besides popularity and money and good looks?"
What nonsense you are spouting! It is true that your reputation and family circumstances could be better, but I will not hear you cast aspersions upon your looks. You are a fine specimen of a woman indeed!
She made a most unladylike noise as she argued with me.
"I have no tan. I'm about ten pounds overweight, at least. My eyes are a boring color..."
Your skin is a glowing ivory. Your womanly curves would drive a monk to give up his vows of chastity And your eyes are dark and mysterious...
"I'm not a blonde."
I love your dark curls. In my day, you would have had the whole of Paris at your feet.
"That's kind of you to say, Erik. It's a shame Tim doesn't see it that way though."
I had tried not to give in to my jealous nature, but it was impossible after such ambivalence to my compliments. Never was I a man to bestow sweet words lightly. For her to cast all of my sentiments aside in favor of that young ignorant puppy made me want to murder someone!
WHY IN BLAZES DO YOU WANT HIM TO SEE YOU IN ANY WAY AT ALL!
Veronica rose from her seat in fear, scattering her papers and books all about as she did so.
He obviously lacks culture and breeding! I am not sure what a 'whack job' is, but it sounds rather insulting and no description for a lady! Really, Veronica, I credited you with better sense and taste.
"Well, at least he's alive," she mumbled.
What was that? I asked threateningly, although I had heard her plainly enough. WHAT WAS THAT!
"AT LEAST, HE'S ALIVE!" she cried out loudly, stomping her foot on the ground. When the librarian and other students stared at her with fear and suspicion, she quickly checked out the book and started back towards her dormitory.
For some time, we did not speak to each other.
Veronica flew about the dorm room, brushing her hair, painting her nails, occupying herself with all sorts of silly female activities. Anything besides working on our book…on my story.
Suddenly, she took her hairbrush and threw it against the wall, hitting Bradshaw's picture directly in the face.
"You are the one insisting on haunting me!" she stormed. "Why do you have to be so damned mean to me while doing so?"
I have never been mean to you, Veronica. When have I ever said an unkind word to you? Was I the one who so charmingly called you a 'whack job'?
She folded her arms across her chest, stubbornly silent.
Why do you speak to that poster when you are talking to me? Do you really think that I look like that conceited actor?
"I don't like talking to an empty room all of the time! I feel stupid when I do that!"
Why do women always complicate matters with such silly trivialities? No one is here! Why do you care in what direction you are speaking?
"It makes me feel funny!"
I should have known better than to get mixed up with a woman again. You would have thought I would have learned from my last mistake.
"Don't you dare compare me to Christine Daae!" she screamed out into space. "Don't you dare!"
Well, you are just like her, throwing away everything for a pretty face.
"Maybe she didn't do that because of Raoul! Maybe she did it because of you! Maybe all of your murdering and bullying and frightening people sort of killed the romantic mood for her! Did you ever think of that, genius?"
Hurt beyond belief, I no longer spoke to her at all. Indeed, I was on the verge of just disappearing back into oblivion again, but I couldn't bear the thought of leaving her.
For several hours, we remained silent towards one another.
Sitting at the computer, Veronica scowled.
"Erik?" she asked.
I did not answer.
"Please come back. I'm sorry I said what I did."
She bowed her head down, looking completely dejected.
"It's not easy…"
Although her words ended, I heard her silent thoughts: "It's not easy…loving a ghost."
Veronica Lindell had taught me another lesson. Even as a spirit, my heart could still ache with pain. How unfair to find a woman to love me now!
You are forgiven, Veronica. Of course, you want to be with the living. Indeed, you have no choice.
At the sound of my voice, her eyes gleamed with relief.
"Why do you always call me Veronica? Why don't you call me 'Ronnie' or 'Ron' like everyone else?"
You are too beautiful to be called 'Ron' or 'Ronnie'. 'Veronica' suits you. I like the name. It is feminine and rather exotic sounding.
She laughed a bit at my musing.
"No one has ever said that about my name before."
It is late, my dear. Shall I sing you to sleep tonight?
"Oh, I would love that, Erik. You know how much I love your voice."
Even as a ghost, I had not lost all of my powers. I could still hypnotize and control a woman's mind with my voice, even from the dead. As she reclined upon her bed, I began to croon to her with the most seductive song in my repertoire. Although she was no maiden, her body and mind were practically untouched for my purpose. She was still impressionable and innocent enough for me to take her psyche and mold it to my own with my song.
She gasped out, eyes wide in the darkness as I caressed her with my voice.
"What are you doing to me, Erik? Oh, my God, I feel so strange!"
Simply singing to you, my sweet Veronica. Does my voice please you?
"Oh, yes..." she sighed, shivering slightly.
For a moment, I hesitated before continuing. Was it wise to manipulate her in such a way? For if I continued, she would possibly be ruined for any other man. Yet, I wanted that. I wanted to bend her to my will. I wanted her to be so dependent upon me that no boy would ever turn her head again.
Some would accuse my actions as being akin to rape. I contend that is nonsense. Very special conditions must exist for a woman to truly be suggestible to the magic of my voice. If a woman is unwilling to receive pleasure, my song would simply be that: merely a melody with romantic words. Only women of a certain temperament could experience bliss from my voice. Part of that temperament is willing desire.
Yet Veronica was a surprise to me. No woman, not even Christine, had been so sensitive and responsive to my singing.
I felt a great deal of satisfaction as I watched her body suffuse with a rosy pink blush as I continued to torment her senses in the warm and welcoming cocoon of her mind. No schoolboy could possibly take her away from me now. What a vision she was as she writhed about on the bed in her sky blue nightgown of silk, perspiring and shaking with passion. Moaning out in helpless pleasure, her cries were in perfect accord with my musical notes! As I reached the climax of my song, she screamed with violent tremors of release before swooning into a deep sleep.
Even in her repose, I could not bear to leave her side. In her dreams, I took her with me to dance by moonlight aside the Seine in Paris, crooning in her ear softly as I held her close. She would tremble sweetly in my embrace, wanting so much more from me than I could ever possibly give her.
Once having tasted the forbidden fruit, she was insatiable, longing for the sensations I alone could give her. Every night, she would beg me to sing her to sleep as desperately as a drug addict needing his opium. Every night, I was her willing slave.
And I knew I was as foolish a ghost as I ever was a human.
For once again, I had fallen hopelessly and passionately in love with no chance of ever seeing my dreams reach fruition.
