Chapter 17

"There comes an end to all things; … and this brief condescension to my evil finally destroyed the balance of my soul. And yet, I was not alarmed; the fall seemed natural, … a return to the old days…"
from The Strange Tale of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
by Robert Louis Stevenson

I viewed the world through a crimson haze, seeing things not as they happened but rather in jerks and flashes of madness and violence. Like the fever-dream in which Christine—ah, that cursed name!—had moved and glided and jumped across my parlor floor, I felt as if my eyes, or my mind, could not keep pace with the world as it was happening. I could not, in fact, even keep pace with my own body and its fury-driven rampage; the tunnels, I saw in odd order, passages at the end coming at the start of my journey, and vice versa, while middle passages jumped and fled from reason and logic, refusing to fall into their usual sequence. It was as if my mind had taken in and devoured the journey, and then jumbled the thing up like a puzzle before feeding the information back to me.

My legs carried me through this maze of the mind's making, taking me onwards into ever more frightening delusions. I found myself standing outside the mirror door, staring through that glass into a rosy world that was not my own, a world filled with flowers and ribbons and smiles, the air vibrating with her sweet giggles of delight as Raoul presented to her with a flourish a new bouquet of freshly-cut roses—as if she needed another floral addition to her already overflowing room. I leaned heavily against the glass, panting as my still-recovering body struggled to recuperate from the hurried and maddened journey upwards.

"Come with me, Christine," the silly boy begged. "Tonight—let's go!"

Christine looked away from him, the petals of a single rose held against lips of similar shades. "Oh, Raoul," she whispered against the rose. "I cannot…" Her eyes had drifted, and now studied her vanity; upon it, tied to a red ribbon, was the key which I had given her.

"You can," he insisted, "and you shall."

She pondered for a long moment, before nodding slowly. "After the performance, I shall go with you."

"No, now!" he said, hands clasping onto her wrists. "Let us go now, before you lose your nerve again!"

Her head shook, golden curls bouncing against her cheeks. "No. I must sing for him once more, Raoul. As a farewell."

He sighed. "Very well, Christine. Very well…"

Their voices faded; I was moving away, though I could not recall having wished to do so. I moved through that madman's fog, uncertain of my direction, or of the existence or passage of time. It seemed all too surreal, all too like another dream of a sick mind. There were whispers of excitement on all sides of my little passageways, giggles and squeals and singers practicing their notes. Dancers stretched and warmed up muscles soon to be put to the test; I moved past them all, noting them only in one small corner of my mind.

The sweet sounds of Faust, the enthusiastic cheers of a debut's crowd—these things met my ears, but I was not sure if they were or were not truth. Could her "farewell" performance truly be such an ironic one? Had she chosen this out of spite? Did she mock me? My legs knew the truth of things, even if my mind did not, and they carried me upwards, to the catwalk—they wanted me to see, wanted to show me what must be done.

Beneath me was Christine, kneeling with her arms spread before her. It was the final song, the final triumph that would be hers—she begged me, pleaded with me as she stared up into the sky, asked again and again that the angel take her to Heaven above—or, more aptly, below.

As the moment neared Marguerite's redemption, I turned away from the stage, and traveled downwards, into the forgotten places. An old man smoking a pipe stared off into the distance, seated inconveniently between myself and my destination. I destroyed that which sought to retard my progress, and my eyes watched dully as I shut off the gas that fed every light in the building.

She was mine, and I would take her with me. There would be no sweet goodbye, tonight or any night.


"Erik?"

I heard his voice calling to me, heard the tremble of fear in those familiar notes as he listened to what must have seemed, to him, to be a horrible groaning and shuffling emitting from that horrible, that beautiful, darkness. I could imagine what monsters were dancing within his head as he stared nervously from behind the cracked door, those old eyes trying in vain to look past the shaft of light that lay upon the sandy shore of the underground lake. I did not call back to him, only dragged my swooning burden onwards, into the light he cast.

"Oh, Erik! I—" He fell silent as his eyes found Christine, hanging limply in my arms. "Erik…" he breathed. "What have you done?"

"Leave us, Daroga," I panted, shoving past him and through the doorway. I released my hold on Christine, and she crumpled to the floor, appearing for all the world to be utterly lifeless.

"No!" Nadir moved forwards, hands again seeking out my arm. "Erik, listen to me. Please, you must—"

"Leave us!" I growled, and when he did not obey, I shoved him out the door. No one would interfere, not tonight—not even my old friend. My hands clasped one another tightly, twisting and tugging at each other's fingers. My lips moved and worked furiously; part of me wanted to hear what Nadir had to say, what he would tell me—the other part of me hated him for even considering meddling in my affairs. She was mine; she was mine; she was mine…

Christine whimpered, and I turned to find her eyes open and upon me. "Erik?" she whispered.

I stepped closer, and squatted beside her. "Yes, Christine," I said gently. "It is your Erik…" I reached out my hand towards her.

She gave a pitiable cry, and jerked away from me. "Don't, please!" she begged, eyes squeezing shut as tears began to stream down her face.

My fingers curled into a fist. In that one moment, I had offered her peace. I had given her the chance at gentleness, at civility, had offered her the opportunity to deal with my rational side, the side that so loved and adored her. And in those two words, she had slapped me in the face—had stabbed me through the heart. My fist slammed with all its force into the wall, inches from her head; she screamed, hands flying up to cover her as she fell onto her side, and curled into a ball.

"Very well," I snarled, rising and dragging her with me. "If this is how you wish it—" I was screaming now, hauling her down the hallway even as she struggled against me, "—then this, my dear," as I threw her with great force, into my study, "is how you shall have it!" And with a triumphant and flourishing bow, I slammed the door on her and locked it.


"Monsieur, Monsieur!"

Raoul turned, along with half a dozen other men, to watch as a strange-looking man in a red cap came running towards their little crowd. They were gathered outside the managers' office, each demanding to see proof that the management even still resided within; most were furious, but Raoul saw blood. Christine had been taken, and no one was even attempting to right that wrong! No one had been asked questions, no one had called for the authorities; it was as if nothing had even happened to her!

The lights had been relit in some places; the strange man looked like a demon in the hot light, which cast such frightening shadows on his features. He was nearly running, he was in such a hurry to reach them, and as he neared their group, his eyes locked onto Raoul's. Shaking hands closed on Raoul's forearm, and with trembling lips, he said, "Monsieur le Vicomte?"

Persian; there were enough of them that Raoul could recognize the accent. With a slight curl of the upper lip, Raoul brushed away the man's hands. "Yes? What do you want?"

Dark eyes darted around at the other men, watching intently; and then Raoul's arm was snatched up once again. "Come with me," the Persian instructed; he then proceeded to drag Raoul forwards, with a strength belied by his small, old appearance.

"Not that I've been given much choice," Raoul snapped, as he tried to keep pace with the man. "Where are we going, sir? I've no time for this sort of—"

Those eyes found his again, and Raoul found himself cut short by the horror he saw there. "Monsieur, I think I may know the location of something very dear to you, which you have lost." His round head turned forwards again, and his hands released Raoul's arm. "If you come with me, I will take you to it."

Raoul sucked in a breath. "You mean Christine!"

"Yes, Monsieur, I mean Christine."

It was the Vicomte's turn to grab onto someone's arm; he forced the man to turn around, as his fingers closed around the Persian's collar. "What have you done with her?" he demanded.

"I have done nothing, Monsieur!" the little man cried. "It was Erik, Monsieur—Erik has taken her!"

Raoul released the man, scowling deeply. "I knew the bastard was no good! I tried to tell her… I have never even heard the name Sartre mentioned, until that day outside her dressing-room…"

"His name is not Sartre, Monsieur," the Persian said, as he tried to smooth his wrinkled shirt. He motioned for Raoul to follow, and they continued at a hurried pace into the bowels of the opera, dark places with rooms that Raoul had never before seen, not even on his excursions with Christine. "That was a name he invented, to prevent being discovered. His true name… I do not even know if he knows it anymore, Monsieur."

"What madness is this?" Raoul followed him, eyes darting about, trying to penetrate the shadows. This part of the Garnier had yet to be returned to light; as they shoved past sweating men and weeping chorus-girls, Raoul found the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand at attention. "Is he a madman, this Erik?"

"I am afraid that he is, Monsieur." The Persian opened a door, and motioned Raoul inside. "For you see, this Erik, you know him, though you might not realize it." He shut the door, and turned to lift up an ornate box. "This Erik, Monsieur—he is the Phantom."

Raoul's lips parted in shock; the Persian opened the box, to reveal two heavy dueling pistols. "We must carry these with us, Monsieur… for protection." Raoul reached out for one, but the Persian suddenly pulled the box away.

"What, man? What is it?" he asked impatiently. "If he has her, if he truly thinks himself this 'phantom'… then there is no time to spare!"

Those dark eyes studied him for a moment, and then in strange tones, the Persian asked, "Do you love her?"

"Of course! What sort of question—"

"You answer quickly, Monsieur, but consider: Do you love her?"

Raoul frowned, suddenly uncertain what the answer to that really was. He had always loved Christine… hadn't he? "I…"

"Enough to carry her from this place, tonight, and do what must be done? Enough to give up anything for her, to give everything for her? Enough to give even your life, Monsieur, for hers?"

Raoul looked away, down into the corner of the dusty room. He found himself unwilling to find the answer to those questions, for he feared that he knew exactly what the answer would be, and he did not want to give in to that. Finally, he set his lips in a grim line, and took up a pistol. "Take me to her."

The Persian gave a sigh. "As you wish, Monsieur."

He was not sure why, but as he followed the strange man through a hidden door at the back of the room, as he trailed after him into the darkest shadows, he began to feel as if he had failed a very important test.


Nadir found himself regretting having dragged the Vicomte into this horrible mix. When he had seemed a noble young man, vying desperately for Christine and all her love and happiness, it had appeared to be the wisest choice of action. Now, however, Nadir had seen the doubt in the young man's eyes. He was infatuated, and he had been infected with the fever of chivalry, had sought to rescue Christine from a danger he did not fully understand. He would not be a reliable companion, not against Erik and all his wrath.

The tunnels were dark, darker than usual, it seemed. Nadir steeled his nerves and plunged into the depths of Hell, with Raoul not far behind. They could take no light; it would make them too easy to be spotted. He had to rely on his memory alone, one which he had worked many long hours at honing, in case of just such an emergency. He forced his ears to listen, to hear the quiet breath of the Vicomte, to hear the slight echo of each step the two of them took, to hear the rustle of each man's clothing.

Only a few well-rehearsed turns had been taken, however, before Nadir began to hear a third step, a third rustle, a third breath. The pattern of the dripping of water that seemed a constant in the tunnels was broken by this out-of-place sound; Nadir halted, and Raoul did as well, but still the rustle continued—ahead of them, around a corner. Nadir's heart began to pound as he considered the options. Surely Erik would not be so clumsy, were he stalking them; Nadir had seen how silently Erik could move. But then, if it was not Erik, who was it? Or perhaps Erik was not aware that they were in the tunnels—but then, if he were not after them, and if Christine was below, why would he ascend?

They crept forwards on cat's paws, and peeked around the corner. There, enwrapped by a halo of light emitting from a lantern, was Erik. He was crouched at a wall, hands fiddling with something on the ground. Raoul moved forwards; Nadir caught his arm, and dragged him back, out of sight.

"We must attack!" Raoul mouthed. "While we have the chance!"

Nadir shook his head viciously. "We must follow!" he mouthed back. "To find Christine!"

They both turned to look around the corner again, at Erik. His head had risen, and those horrific eyes now stared down the passage, in their direction. "Good God," the Vicomte breathed, upon seeing the Phantom's true face. Nadir put a finger to his lips, and Raoul looked away, eyes wide with horror, and a hand pressed against his lips. He had gone lily-white; Nadir suppressed the urge to chastise the boy for his weak stomach.

It seemed an eternity that Erik stared their way in suspicion. Finally, however, he looked away from them, and back to his work. Only a few more moments passed, before he stood and, lantern swinging at his side, turned to hurry back down the passageway, with nary a glance over his shoulder. The two men moved forwards with him, always keeping one corner between them, waiting until they could just barely see the glow from his lantern before going forwards again.

When they came to where he had been crouched, they paused. It took them a long moment, but finally Nadir's old eyes picked out the glint of a wire stretched taught. He pointed it out to the Vicomte, and the two of them stepped over it with ease.

Feeling somewhat smug, though he ought to have known better, Nadir allowed himself a slight smile. Erik was getting a bit clumsy in his old age, it seemed. They marched onwards, ever following the wavering flame of Erik's lamp. Twice more he paused to work at something on the ground, and twice more they found the wire and stepped over it. After the third, Erik's pace increased, and they found they had a more difficult time keeping up with the Phantom's liquid-shadow motion.

Soon, they had taken so many turns that Nadir was not even sure where they were anymore; his knowledge of the passages was not extensive, and he was certain he had never before tread this ground. His palms grew sweaty, and the smile vanished from his lips. If they lost him—if they fell but a few steps too far behind—they would be lost, eternally, in this horrible darkness.

Suddenly, Erik's lamp went out, and they were plunged into complete shadow. Panic wrapped its icy fingers around Nadir's heart as he realized exactly what sort of death awaited them in these tunnels. No one would find them… No one would know where they were… With each step, and each turn, they would become a little more lost, and a little more terrified… Dehydration, starvation; these two things were not even on par with the worst symptom of the tunnels: the rats. The rats would eat them, even before they were dead; they would be able to listen—but not watch—as the wicked rodents chewed and slurped at the pitiable flesh on their bones...

He edged forwards, hoping against hope that he would find an end to the passage, or at least something familiar—but how would he recognize it, in this darkness? It seemed as if the world were brighter when his eyes were closed. Raoul he felt close at his shoulder, one hand hooked around his arm, to prevent separation.

Just as suddenly as the darkness had descended, it vanished; a light had flared up, behind them this time. Both spun around, to find Erik, eyes glowing, teeth bared in a dead man's grin. The shadows cast by the lantern did nothing to flatter his appearance.

It was then that Raoul realized what had happened. It had been all a trap, a complete farce. How could he have believed Erik so stupid, believed himself so smart? The wires were meant to be seen; Erik had wanted to be heard; he had moved slowly and carefully, ponderously, loudly, stupidly, only so that he would be followed.

His mouth opened wide, and he began to laugh, coldly, cruelly. That laugh was the most horrible, most frightening sound… Nadir felt his stomach turn to ice-water. He tightened his hold on Raoul's arm, and pulled him back a step. Erik advanced on them, drawing his Punjab lasso from the pocket of his coat. Nadir cried out, lifting both his and Raoul's arm up before their faces. "Erik!" he cried. "Erik, do not!"

But there was no Erik, he realized. Erik had vanished; there was only the Phantom now, only that wicked and horrible being that lurked beneath the Garnier. This was not even the Erik of Persia, which had so frightened the Daroga; no, this was something crueler, something more basic, something that was evil by instinct. Never before had the words "the Phantom of the Opera" struck fear into Nadir's heart—but now, their full meaning caught him, and he understood just why that being was so dangerous.

The Phantom continued to advance, and they continued to back away. He was laughing again—such chilling laughter!—and Nadir had only a moment to wonder why, before the earth dropped out from beneath their feet, and they fell into an eternity of darkness.