The Phantom

At certain times, I loathe her.

I have tried to avoid such a feeling. The Phantom is allowed some emotions, of course. Few. Humour…arrogance…a sense of justice. I do not let myself love, and I do not let myself hate. But I cannot keep my cover of extreme indifference easily when she speaks directly to Erik, especially when he is so receptive.

At times like this, I loathe her.

I turn from her, and quickly fill my mind with the knowledge that she is merely exercising her power over me, taking advantage of my unwanted and, during moments like this, unheeding soul. Overwhelmingly confident that she did not mean what she said at all, I smirk. She hasn't as much power over me as she thinks.

Why else, then, are you letting her into your home? the voice persists.

The flight of stairs broadens, and the steps lengthen. Above our heads, the ceiling disappears, and we entre a wide, cavernous stairway. Against the wall that rises above us, the torchlight faintly grazes the shredded edges of long-since closed Opera posters. With a brief glance over my shoulder, I can see Madame's head turning silently about her body, her eyelids wide. This is as far as I have ever brought her, and she knows it well.

She is frightened.

My heart has been vacant, where she once occupied it, for years. I am a ghost. A ghost can fall out of love with great effort and distance, but the whispers of what once were and what may have been never die—like the human, the one who loves her, the one I hate, will never fully die.

Tentatively, without uttering a word or breaking my stride, I reach my hand backward for her.

Her gaze leaves the vast walls of the cavernous stairway and falls to my outstretched fingers. She is entirely alarmed. I probe her eyes with my own, opening my lips and breathing through a set jaw. I may have nodded slightly in encouragement, or perhaps my confidence in walking my dark stairway without even looking where I am going is what encourages her. Her small, strict hand moves ahead of her until I feel her palm merge with mine; I watch only her eyes, softening with hesitant trust, beneath the graveness of her defined face. Slowly I remember why even her face would mesmerise me. She is like a cat, and a snake, and a swan, all at once. Something deep within me is studying and registering every detail of this moment, where for the first time in my life, she trusts me.

And I am at last going to show her why she can.

I turn my head away from Madame Giry and the memories her gaze springs within me. I have made myself very good at doing this; and this moment when such a bond is forming between us is very dangerous. I must not look at her. My labyrinth is only the beginning, I want to tell her, but I know she will see for herself soon enough. I am finally going to show her my lair beneath the Opera, and she will finally see exactly the extent of my haunting existence. She will see my soul, as I once longed to show her above everything else. My soul has changed, however, and I am no longer an uncertain and tormented creature she found in the sewers of the Gypsy carnival, or a destroyed remnant of a man besieged by natural human love and self-inflicted torment, so inherent of the desolate and corruptible animal that is mankind. Upon entering my house, she will finally see why it is better this way.

I am not soulless. This I know. My soul rests within dots of ink which dance over staffs that guide their steps about parchment—trembling in its wait to be released within the grand swells of an orchestra or the pure lilt of a voice, so it can spiral heavenward and for a moment, just for a moment before it reaches the turned heads and condemnation of the Angels, it can believe a place is held for it within Heaven's unadulterated gates. Music.

After twisting upon itself innumerable times in the darkness, the stairway ends. A soft gasp escapes Madame's lips from behind me as she beholds my lake for the first time. I look upon it with a hard smile. "This is where it begins," I whisper to her, and bring her around in front of me. She lets go of my hand, and I watch her, in her long black dress and knotted bun, as she steps to the edge of the water and kneels. Her white-gold hand breaks its surface in a soft motion, and she stands, turning to look at me. The questions in her eyes are countless.

I level my gaze with hers, unable to keep a grin of arrogant amusement from my features. The stone wall beside me hides an inconspicuous lever, and I drag my hand over it while dropping the torch in place. Obediently, the lever springs the door which holds my gondola out of sight, and it comes floating to the shore from the shadows. Madame turns and takes a sudden step back as the ghostly vessel comes to a rest at the edge of the lake. I offer her my hand again, and she steps into it; I follow.

She remains standing, even as I motion for her to sit. Soundlessly we move through the dark waters of the underground lake, and the torches I have kept lit guide our way through the maze. Great stone monuments of ghouls and beasts and giants glower silently back at us from the walls, and though I know she is afraid, her bewilderment that such a realm exists below the Opera still possesses her.

"This," I murmur into her ear, "is my home."

The grate comes into view, and with the oar I press into one of the underwater switches that lifts it. Loud drops of water fall from each bar in the grate as it rises, and white reams of light cast themselves in every direction against the protruding stone. I manoeuvre the gondola into the narrow pass until we at last encounter the vast expanse of lake that breaches at the foot of my house.

"Oh!" Madame's voice is sharp and breathless, and her hand comes to her chest as she finally beholds the cavern I discovered in my first year at the Opera Populaire, and the dwelling I made of it in my second. I push the gondola through the misty lake toward the shore. Everything here radiates of an ageless and ancient aura. Thick drapes and untouched gold and deep-rooted stone and stained glass and petrified wood, with a heavy airborne aroma of jasper and smoke and the sweet, dark scent of fresh and dead roses. The only sounds are those thrown unnaturally against the walls, borne of the water slapping against the shore, and the unexplainable echoes of music long-since played and screams long-since silenced. And everywhere, I note with pride—Christine. Colour-drenched painted likenesses of dancing, framed in gold, or black and white pencilled images of slumber, scattered with deep red petals. Highlighted by flickering candlelight or cloaked in artful shadow, my precious ingénue both smiles and broods back at us in every direction.

The gondola bumps against the stone. I ease it to a gentle pause, and swiftly leave it, taking the ballet mistress with me. Her wide gape explores every detail, every corner and every shadow, in her awe. She breathes deeply. I approach my most recent drawing of Christine and lift it reverently at the edges. Her wide doe-eyes stare into the distance, the little birthmark at her cheek nearly disappears into her dimples. My lips part in the briefest smile of chaste adoration before a sudden and equally unwanted ache springs into the deepest region of my body. I close my eyes furiously and lay the picture back down, demanding my thoughts to refocus.

It works.

It has been years since I've had the need to force this part of my mind into submission, and finally I am remembering how I once did it. It is a process that became routine within the first years of my slow and deliberate detachment from the woman who now stands in my home. It is physical, mental, and spiritual. By removing myself from the temptation, I am exempt from falling victim to it and therefore suffering the guilt that obediently follows. There are always times, of course, when a simple redirecting of thought and sight do not suffice—those times, I am inclined to physically punish myself. Physical pain, while minor when compared to emotional pain, is often enough of a distraction to keep my thoughts at bay. Holding my breath until my lungs beg for relief, or bruising my wrists against a solid slab of stone; sometimes, a small cut to an inconspicuous place on my body, if it becomes intense enough. It is not often that my human lust will fight to such a drastic extent, but when it does, I am determined to smother it. I cannot allow such emotions. It is far too dangerous.

Fortunately, my sudden desire for Christine fades with only the resolute efforts of my mind. I dread knowing that such desires will return to me in the future, with greater fervour, and I will again someday resort to damaging my physical self to tame my mental self. But for now, I am safe.

"You have lived here for years, then," comes Madame's voice.

I open my eyes and round to face her.

Her mouth has fairly dropped, and her head shakes in incredulity. "I don't even know…what to think." She surveys the room shakily once more before coming back to look at me. It is clear that she has great difficulty speaking. "All of this time…all of these years…you have been creating your music within another of your creations. This." Visibly she trembles, and half of my mouth turns up in a smile. Her hands come around her forme, and she fights off a shiver. "How did you do this?"

I move toward her, past her, my legs taking me up the steps toward my organ. My hand rests on it deferentially. "Surely you didn't think I only hoarded my money, away from the world and its resources." I turn to her, smiling. "I may be apart from humankind, but I do…know how to use it to my advantage." My hand flays gracefully out in front of me, motioning to each piece of furniture. "Of course, I have taken liberty with some abandoned props from long-ago dead performances. But some of what you see here," and I glance sideways at my organ, "is the honest merchandise spared by my hard-earned salary and fine-tuned by my natural gifts. Such things are not available for my taking even within this Opera. Each of my instruments have been bought in excellent condition, only to be perfected by my sensitive ear and talented hand. With the exception," I admit, "of Gustave's violin."

She seems entirely unfazed by my light attitude toward the thievery. I believe this is a good sign. Her eyes wander up the great pipes towering over the organ, and higher up, to the ceiling and the natural vents. "Then this is where the unearthly playing originates."

My arms are crossed. I nod.

Madame Giry cautiously approaches me. "Even five storeys below the opera house—even five storeys above this lake, the music you compose still reaches us, and frightens…my students."

I am significantly curious. "Does it frighten you?"

She responds with a chilled shiver and a deep breath.

I am not only curious, but twisted, and nearly smiling because of it. I turn to the organ again and sit before it, removing my gloves so I can feel the cool ivory beneath the tips of my fingers. My hands rest atop the keys, and gently I press into them. The ethereal attack of music soars upward into the immense space above us in one long chord. A ghostly tumble of five consequent minor triads ensues it, and I hold the last chord before bringing the abridged scale up again. It is, I note with a powerful ardor of supremacy, the signature aria of the Opera Ghost's reign, and without seeing their faces I can feel the terror it strikes into every one of the residents' hearts now and every time I play it. I continue to grind into the keys, and the familiar melody proceeds to haunt both the bowels and the heart of the opera house, with Madame Giry struggling to maintain herself wordlessly behind me.

My hands stills as the song courses to its end. I let the acoustics carry the lingering music upward. The hairs that grace the back of my neck stand on end as a wave of chills passes through me. Smoothly I turn in my seat to face Madame; she is clutching the candelabra and blinking furiously. I observe her with great interest, until finally she regains control of her eyelids and meets my gaze.

"Christine…Christine is the only one who does not fear the Opera Ghost," says she. I can nearly feel her wild heartbeat.

"Christine fears only her Angel," I return, "and trusts him, and his promise to protect her from O.G."

Madame steadies herself at last, and looks about her again. "I cannot begin to tell you what a contradiction that is…but you know it, don't you?" She does not look at me, but turns around entirely, still hugging her arms, and takes two wondrous steps. "You know all. You understand on a level greater than anything I can fathom." A deep, shuddering breath, and I study her black forme against my dark and golden house. "I will not pretend to grasp it. I have no choice, after seeing this…I have no choice but to trust you."

A pleasant gratification settles about me. Her response to my lair does not disappoint. If only I had brought her to this place long ago.

"What will you do with her?"

I study her back. "I will fulfil her father's promise. Do not doubt what I have done with her already; even today her talent exceeds, and her readiness trails just behind, the greatest names in this art. I have transformed her from a hopeless child and an even more hopeless ballerina into a soprano worthy of my music, and soon I will transform this Opera by placing her in the limelight where she belongs."

She fingers a painting of Christine, and I smile in pride for a second's time before I sense the rigidity in her shoulders. I stand, indignant and unsure as to what such a stance implies. Before I can speak, though, she says, "You have…hundreds of these."

I say nothing. I have more.

"I cannot deny that I still fear for her…well-being," she admits boldly, and finally rounds to face me again. "I have known your obsession intimately, and it alarms me that you have become so—"

"Obsession is wrong, Madame Giry," I correct her, and with two simple strides I am beside her, taking the picture from her hands. I smile lovingly at it, and before setting it down, I glare at her from the corner of my eye. "I am her obsession; therefore, she is the reason I exist. She is my purpose."

Madame's eyes drop, and she nods sullenly. "Please…for my sake…swear once more that you know what it is you are doing, and I will never question you again."

I no longer owe anything to her, regardless of my words to her only less than an hour before. I am not anymore who I was when we stood in her flat. But instead of tiring myself by reminding her, I oblige. "You have the word of the Phantom."

This does nothing to calm her. She implores me again, pleadingly.

I sigh, and fold my arms. "Whom else would you have me swear by?"

And she understands this, and nods her solemn head.

My senses hone in at once on the long, shrill, indignant wail that I recognise, even five storeys below, as Carlotta's. I raise my eyes in the direction of the opera house and beneath my mask I can feel the corner of my mouth lift in an eagre smile.

Madame also glances at the ceiling. "What was that?"

I refuse to miss the escapade of this moment, and neither will I let Madame Giry. I walk quickly down the steps and toward the gondola. Madame's light feet follow me. I move aside and allow her to entre before me, only smiling at her inquiring glare. Reluctantly she steps into the black vessel, and as we slice through the fog-dusted lake she stares behind my cloak at the glittering domain, drinking it in desperately before it passes from sight.