The Opera house was also becoming his. Erik wound himself tighter and tighter into Opera affairs as the years passed. By the time he was fourteen, the managers had ceased to view his hauntings in such an innocuous light. They worried that the ghost would deprive them of their livelihood. Performers who met with his disapproval had never lasted long at the Opera house, but his practical jokes had turned darker. Victims heard malignant whispers echoing in their boudoirs, saw strange shadows following them in the hallways, and found letters on their pillows threatening catastrophe if they continued to sing in "The Phantom's" Opera.
One bumbling pianist began finding bones on his pillow each night after butchering a particularly delicate piece in Aida. After a few nights, it became apparent that the bones were finger bones. The young man packed up and called a hansom cab without asking leave of the managers or telling his friends goodbye. The local police were called, but abandoned the case when the bones turned out to be plaster pieces from a fake skeleton collecting dust in the props room.
For those few not frightened by simple tricks, Erik was not above using violence. Though his body had retained the appearance of near starvation, his wiry muscles were deceivingly well-developed by heavy labor in the lowest basement. He could move with perfect stealth; his victims never knew he was there until the rope tightened around their throats. His intent was not to kill, but to warn. A raw, red rope mark served that purpose admirably.
Though he did not love hurting people, neither did Erik feel sympathy for his victims. How would he have learned such? The cruelties of his short life had far outweighed the few kindnesses; there were few shining examples of compassion for him to draw from. As far as the young hermit was concerned, the value of a human being lay solely in his or her ability to produce or respond to music. Composers, musicians, and singers were his saints, the music was his god – the Opera Populaire, therefore, was his heaven. Is it any wonder he so closely guarded the rights of entry?
And, acting as guard, he was huddled in the narrow passage behind the managers' office the day the Swedish fiddler auditioned. When the first sweet sounds of Mozart's concerto pierced the thin paneling, Erik relaxed against the wall and closed his eyes. He had heard many performers set bow to string, but the muted passion of this performance spoke to him as a language. Erik heard the violinist's heart as the talented performer made the violin sing of a lifetime's sorrow and rapture. When the piece drew to a close Erik sighed profoundly, stood up and stretched. I shall savor this artist's performances, he thought. This one will…
For Erik, the world froze. The candle fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers and extinguished itself in its own wax between his feet. He placed his palms against the wall to steady himself. A child's voice, an angel's voice, wrapped him in soft wings and lifted him heavenward. He was stricken as he had not been since his first night in the Opera house, listening to his first symphony performance. If the end of the violinist's piece had inspired regret, the end of the Miserere Mei brought moisture to his eyes. Sing again, Angel, he silently begged, but the song was ended. He groped his way to a hallway panel and cautiously stepped out. Where was the person who possessed that amazing instrument?
Somewhere in his Opera house was an ingenue with a talent so great it was frightening. For a dizzying second he allowed himself to imagine his voice mingled with hers. Then he remembered that the voice belonged to an untaught child. When she was older, she would need a teacher with talents beyond those of the resident voice coaches. She would need someone with a talent to match hers who would teach her, not only to sing, but to cosset and preserve her voice. She would need him, but not for a few years. His voice was still in flux. He was still mastering the piano. Erik dodged back into the shadows seconds before a gossiping group of servants turned down his hallway. If he could prepare himself adequately, he could take her voice and make it his own instrument; he could shine through her like light through a stained glass window.
