Down Once More

Etienne

Friday morning afforded me with my first opportunity to think about the mysterious events that had transpired below the opera house, as all other days of the week I had prior obligations that occupied my hours. Perhaps in retrospect I could have carved out a few hours in-between appointments, but truth be told I was nervous to pursue the case.

A night of sleep and thought made me realize the peril my foolish hubris had almost landed me in. Not afraid of him, I had told Raoul. I've dealt with his kind before. And I certainly had – only behind the secure bars of a prison cell or mental ward, with guards and orderlies always nearby! Never had I ever confronted a true madman out in the open.

It was true that I already knew Erik, and therefore could hopefully expect to be comfortably somewhere in his good graces. I had always been kind to him when he was a child, and had made every effort to answer his curious inquiries regarding the field of science and medicine when he approached me, despite Madeleine's protests. In fact, I could not think of a single reason why he would oppose to my attempts to help him… except if he had already made the unfortunate descent into psychopathic madness and was unable to recognize me as the helpful guardian from his youth.

So for the greater part of that week, I pondered my thoughts alone in my clinic and put off my return to the opera house. My only patient – Mademoiselle Christine - had flown away, scared off by the intimidating shadow of Erik, who was very much alive. To my knowledge, she was not taken in by her beau Raoul – or rather, she had refused his offer of residency - but instead returned to the home she shared with an old invalid on the Rue Notre Dame des Victoires.

Finally, this very Friday morning came along and I found myself out of excuses. I had no colleagues to catch up with, no friends to brunch with, and no peers to engage with. Facing the empty agenda for the day, I saw two options: continue to ignore my budding curiosity, or seek to satisfy it once and for all. The former was clearly the safer option, and yet I knew without a doubt that I needed to see Erik. I needed to know… what happened to a prodigy when all their natural gifts were ignored? He had gone underground, but what else…?

Thus I decided, early that Friday morning, that I would commence my investigation into the matter. The obvious first place to begin my examination of Erik's mind was the last place he was seen. I needed to garner knowledge for who he had become in these most recent stages of his life. With this in mind I struck out to the opera house once more, but instead of making for the mysterious underground gate on the Rue Scribe, I opted for a more traditional entrance to the building through the side portico.

The halls were empty and echoing, my footsteps haunting the air with each fall of my soles. I passed statue after gilded statue, admiring their artfulness as I went. Such technique! Such splendor! Ravishing features on carved busts that I had never laid eyes on before - it was then that I remembered I had never been inside the opera house before and had no idea where I was going.

I was an intelligent man, however, and found the Corridor du Management quite simply. Seven doors spanned the hall before me – three average mahogany slabs of wood on either side, with a gaudy and ostentatious door framing the hall's end – and I found myself halted by the problem of which door to knock on.

My problem was solved when the first door on my left opened, and two chattering men stepped out, stopping short upon seeing me.

"May we help you?" the older, squatter one said.

"I am terribly sorry, I am looking for the management."

"That would be us," the taller, primmer one said. "Do you have an appointment?"

"I do not," I answered, and then proceeded to ask what I believed to be a very reasonable request: "I was just coming to inquire about the man who lives beneath the opera house."

Neither man responded. I never thought two pairs of eyes could burn holes in a man's skin they way theirs did in mine.

Perhaps these men knew nothing of Erik's residence? That much was rather obvious in retrospect… I suddenly became acutely aware of just how insane I must have appeared to them. Clearly, if I wanted information, I would need to be more careful about the way I went about seeking it.

I was about to rephrase my question to sound a little less loony when the squat one finally laughed, clapping his partner on the shoulder. "Do you hear that, Andre? Another fable about our opera ghost! Quite a creative one this time, indeed!"

"Truly original!" the tall one, apparently named Andre, crooned. "Quite quite, indeed, Firmin!"

I glanced between the two, confused. "Opera ghost?"

"Oh, please, Monsieur, you must be jesting. The strange stories that float around in this opera house always lead back to one character in particular: the opera ghost!"

Yes, of course, I nodded, suddenly understanding. These men knew nothing about Erik. But it seemed they knew of Erik, even if they didn't know it. This opera ghost story would assuredly be my introduction to the sorry tale of Erik. Even the idea of an opera ghost, little that I knew at present, reminded me immediately of the mischievous pranks little Erik used to pull on his poor mother. This had to be my lead.

"Can you tell me more about this… opera ghost?"

Firmin flicked his eyes down the hall, resting briefly on the large, dark door at the end. Leaning in, he spoke to me in a low voice. "What's there to say beyond rumors and fables? Some say they hear a disembodied voice in the chorus girls' dressing rooms. Others blame the most trivial things on the ghost… from torn music sheets to falling sandbags."

The more I listened, the more annoyed I grew. This opera ghost lead was seeming to be more and more like a red herring; the company was just being overtly superstitious and blaming every little nuisance on a made-up phantom. But still…

"Has anyone ever seen this ghost?" I asked.

Andre nodded. "Many have claimed to have seen him. The loudest story I've ever heard was from a stagehand named Joseph Buquet. Apparently, he said the ghost has a horrible death's head, skin like yellow parchment, and glowing specks of fire where his eyes should be."

That… sounded much more like Erik. "What do you mean by 'Apparently, he said…'? Did he not tell this to you directly?"

"How could he?" Firmin scoffed. "He hung himself on our first day!"

Suicide, I noted sullenly. What a terrible tragedy, even for a lowly stagehand. My psychiatrist heart wept… truly more people could do with counseling.

I was just about to inquire further when a voice interrupted our conversation. "Gentlemen, who is this?"

I turned to find a tall man in a dark wool suit approaching from the direction of the large gaudy door. His footsteps were so quiet I doubt I would have realized he was near until he was directly beside me. The managers faltered in an introduction, and I realized I had never explained who I was or what my business was being there.

"My name is Doctor Etienne Barye; I was just inquiring about the opera ghost."

"For what reason?" the newcomer asked, a hint of anger sizzling beneath the surface.

"Pardon Monsieur L'Esprit," Andre murmured to me. "He does not appreciate talk of the opera ghost."

The man, apparently L'Esprit, barked a dark laugh. "Andre, don't get it twisted. I just don't see the point in talking about some inane fable that doesn't exist."

If only L'Esprit could know the things I did! The opera ghost was very real – as flesh and blood as him or me.

"My apologies," Andre sighed, looking pointedly unapologetic just as Firmin was looking somewhat exasperated. It appeared this was a point of contention among the three of them.

L'Esprit regarded me intently, his gaze cold but intense. "There is no opera ghost. There never has been. Anything you have heard or seen otherwise is a lie. Do you understand?"

"I suppose I do," I said, in a small voice that was quite uncharacteristic of me. Something in his tone told me it was better not to argue with him on this matter. Not that I had any problem with it – there was no opera ghost, only Erik.

"And I suppose it's for the best if you run along now," L'Esprit said, flicking his gloved fingers away in a shoo-ing motion, "seeing as your purpose for being here has been proved entirely pointless."

Such rudeness! I could not recall ever being spoken to in such a brash, curt manner. "If you may, Monsieur L'Esprit – I was not actually here to inquire solely about the opera ghost – a tale I have only just heard about…"

He raised his eyebrows, but did not look especially shocked. "If you're not here about the ghost, then what actually brings you here? Looking to find out about our summer schedule?"

The truth, of course, was that I was here to find Erik. But, as I had found out moments earlier from talking with Andre and Firmin, Erik's circumstances were far too fantastical to be believed without proof. "I had some questions about the cellars. The fifth one, to be precise."

L'Esprit narrowed his eyes at me, a warning blazing in his gaze. "We do not use the fifth cellar."

"Are there access points?"

"Of course there are," L'Esprit said uneasily, as if the very act of giving me this detail was very uncomfortable for him. "What use would a cellar be if there was no way to access it?" His tone suddenly lightened up. "But there's no cause for any of us to go down there. All that is down there is a shallow cistern, leftover from the construction period due to an issue with the water table. I make sure routine maintenance is done semi-annually, but otherwise it is best to leave it undisturbed."

Andre and Firmin shared a curious glance, no doubt thinking thoughts I was not privy to. But I had my own thoughts that they could not have, for they did not know the same information that I did. "If nobody goes down there, do you suppose a squatter could have taken up residence there?"

It felt terribly wrong to insinuate Erik's residence in that cellar was anywhere close to the realm of squatter, considering the extraordinary structure he had built down there, but in the end I was forced to admit it was an apt description. If the management had no idea he was down there, then he clearly had no formal permission to be residing there.

L'Esprit crinkled his face into one of extreme displeasure, assuredly from the thought of a squatter living in the cellar of his opera house. "No. There is absolutely no one living down there."

"Are you so certain?" I asked.

"Yes."

"But you said yourself that none of you have been down there," I countered, looking at all three managers now. Andre and Firmin frowned in agreement with the reasonableness of my statement. "What if I were to tell you I have been down there and have seen with my own eyes that there is proof of a squatter?"

L'Esprit's eyes flashed. I could tell he was very angry. But there was no surprise in his expression. No… somehow he knew what I was going to say. It was all very strange. And thus I readied myself for his response. I expected him to ply me for more information, or to argue against me. I knew he would not believe me, and thought he would ask me to doubt my own memory. Already words were issuing themselves in my head, words that could not have possibly come from his lips for they bore knowledge he could not have had, but they bore his reprimanding voice all the same – I am sure you only think you saw that house down there, Monsieur, for it is truly too fantastical to exist in real life – and I found myself doubting myself without his prompting at all. Was it possible I had imagined it all? Where was Raoul? Where was Christine? If they were real, why would they have disappeared from my life as quickly and as completely as they had arrived in it? I had not seen a trace of either of them since we said good-bye at the top of the week, and now that I had folded up the cot there was nothing left in my flat that showed I had ever had a patient there at all… save my notes. Perhaps the two of them were just a dream after all, and my old mind had concocted the story to stave off the boring mundanity of retirement. Perhaps I would return home this evening to find only blank pages in my journals in the place where I had written my clinical findings…

So it was to my complete surprise, in the midst of my sudden bout of self-doubt, that I heard L'Esprit's voice break through and request: "Show me."

With a flustered nod – I truly had not expected such an easy acquiescence to my statement – we started off down the hall at a brisk stride. My intention was to return to the cellar through the Rue Scribe gate, and it was quite a ways to get there.

"You two," L'Esprit suddenly said, spinning on his heel. I turned, too, at the snap of his voice, and found Andre and Firmin right behind us – nearly crashing into us, in fact, as we stopped short without warning. L'Esprit pointed a gloved finger at the door they had just exited. "Stay here."

"But L'Esprit, surely -"

"There is no point in dragging all three of us down into that old musty cellar and wasting all of our afternoons on this matter. No, only one of us needs to go. You two will stay here and review the budget I drew up this morning. I will proceed with Dr. Barye."

With that prompt dismissal, L'Esprit turned back around and began down the hallway once more. I had to hustle to catch up with him, and as I hurried down the corridor I found myself amused with the fact that he seemed to be leading the way when I was actually the one who knew how to get to the cellar. I caught up with him near the staircase, just as he was about to go straight instead of down.

"This way, Monsieur L'Esprit," I gestured to the stairwell. "The way you're going does not lead down."

He allowed me to pass in front of him – a rather poor choice, I realized, as we began to descend several narrow flights. By the time we reached the bottom, I leaned on the rail and threw him an apologetic look. "One moment, Monsieur, I just need to catch my breath. I guess this opera house wasn't designed with old men like me in mind."

"No, it certainly wasn't," L'Esprit huffed under his breath, standing impatiently a few steps above me.

At last I regained my energy, and I began to lead us further. As we crossed through the side portico and began down the outside ramp, L'Esprit voiced some concern. "What are we doing out here?"

"There is a gate…" I said, leading us around the edge of the building to the Rue Scribe gate that Christine had led me to just days before.

It was then that I recalled the definition of a gate – and the need for a key. A key which Christine had so easily provided from the folds in her skirt. A key which I didn't have.

I grabbed at the iron bars blocking my entrance to the cellar, and pulled at them in the hopes that the gate would just happen to be unlocked. As fate would have it, there was no such luck for me that day.

For a long moment, I stood there and peered into the long stretch of darkness beyond the gate. It teased me, taunting me with its presence, knowing I could not access its hidden depths. I feared the annoyance L'Esprit would have with me for wasting his time, bringing him to a locked gate that I didn't even have the means to surpass.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" L'Esprit asked impatiently.

"I apologize for the…" I began, just as L'Esprit's restless hand reached out and grabbed onto one of the gate's tall iron bars and pulled it at it testily. Amazingly, the gate swung right open, as if some miracle had unlocked it just at that very moment.

Now the unyielding darkness stood before us, readily accessible. L'Esprit ushered me forward, his tone now a little more playful. "Lead the way, Doctor."

We moved through the stone passageway carefully. Rather, I went carefully, watching my step as rats scurried past, but L'Esprit – well, I hardly heard the man as he followed just a couple steps behind me! For all the echoing taps my footsteps made against the stone, I heard nothing but silence from him. I even turned my head a few times to make sure he was still following my lead, he was so quiet. I chalked it up to the clumsiness my old age had instilled in me. In my youth, I must have certainly moved as quietly as he.

The passageway dumped us onto the shore of that enigmatic cistern, which was really more of a lake, and I turned to see L'Esprit's reaction. Unfortunately, his face revealed no note of surprise, and I was impressed by his dutiful adherence to the old Parisian custom of le visage de marbre, the marbled face. Let your face be like stone and reveal nothing, indeed…

The gondola was docked where Raoul and I had left it days earlier – or perhaps a few feet to the left, it was difficult to say. Perhaps it was my imagination. Regardless, I suddenly remembered I had no idea how to command a boat!

"Would you mind rowing, Monsieur L'Esprit?"

"Rowing?" His voice was peculiar. "Wherever shall we be rowing to?"

"Why - across this lake there is the strangest sight. You will not believe it unless you see it with your own eyes."

"I see…" he paused, but only to survey the lake. "I trust you will be able to tell me which way to steer? It's rather dark."

My confidence was slowly dwindling. Raoul was the one back then who led the way and steered, as I had only sat and watched the cavern walls pass us by in child-like wonder. Would I be able to lead us properly? There was no reason it should be overtly complicated to navigate, I reasoned. It wasn't an actual lake after all. "It is not a difficult path -"

I cut myself off as I happened to glance in the direction of L'Esprit. In the depths of that darkness of that subterranean cavern, his eyes appeared to be glowing, like golden specks of sunlight.

"Doctor?"

"Your eyes…" I whispered disbelievingly.

It was enough to send a shiver down my spine. I had seen eyes like those before. Those were, without a doubt, Erik's eyes.

His stare intensified, and the golden specks grew larger before me. "Is there something wrong with my eyes, Doctor?"

"They're – glowing -"

"Quite unusual, I suppose…" he murmured, closing his eyes and making the specks disappear. I heard him lean down and light the lantern at the front of the gondola. A bright light sprang out around us, pouring forth from the lantern cage. L'Esprit faced me again, his eyes glowing noticeably less bright, yet still the scleras had a golden hue. He allowed me to look into his eyes for a long moment before he chuckled belatedly, "Doctor, is it possible you have never seen jaundice before?"

Jaundice? No, that wasn't jaundice… or perhaps it was. They looked so normal, now, in the light of the lantern. Perhaps my eyes were just seeing things. Erik had been on my mind so much lately, I was starting to see him everywhere. "My apologies, Monsieur L'Esprit… my medical mind never stops being curious about these types of things."

"I'm sure it doesn't," he said, under his breath as before.

Without further delay, we climbed aboard the gondola and set off on our course upon the solemn lake. Raoul hadn't thought to light the lantern during my first journey across these waters, but since L'Esprit did I was able to see much more of my surroundings. Unlike before, when we had slowly drifted in darkness, now we were sailing steadily past large limestone deposits that dripped from the ceiling like subterranean icicles. Some of the deposits reached so low I feared we would knock into them, and I suddenly longed for the ignorance of the darkness once more.

"It's truly like a cavern down here!" I murmured in awe.

L'Esprit swept us onward with a long stroke of the gondola paddle, and replied dismissively, "Then you've obviously never seen a real cavern."

I turned back around to look at him. "How is it that none of this impresses you?"

He blinked, pausing momentarily with the paddle halfway out of the water. "I beg your pardon?"

"We're living out the dream of Professor Otto Lidenbrock and journeying to the center of the earth – not for real, of course, but just look around, Monsieur L'Esprit. Look around and tell me this place doesn't make you believe at least a little bit in miracles. A cavern! Underneath the Paris Opera House! Why, it must be the most incredible wonder I've ever seen in my long life. It's truly like a miracle – truly, I say! Oh! Do you know how long stalactites take to grow? Millions of years, Monsieur – millions!"

"Oh?" L'Esprit dragged the paddle across the water again, before drawling slowly, "You must have incredibly low standards, to be impressed with this."

Now it was my turn to blink back at him. "Excuse me?"

He pointed out at a rock formation dangling precariously from the ceiling, a little too close to us for comfort. "Those are calthemites. They grow sometimes when concrete reacts with acid from the rainfall. It only takes them a few years to develop. They're the result of cheap materials and poor drainage systems… common shortcuts during cellar construction." He sniffed. "Hardly feats of divine intervention."

"Whoever said anything about divine intervention?" I quipped back testily. This man was insufferable! "I said it was like a miracle."

"Is this what you dragged me all the way down here to see?" L'Esprit replied. "Am I to actually believe you brought us here to go spelunking in a not-even-twenty-year-old cellar?"

"Just keep rowing, good sir," I demanded, losing my patience with him. "We shall be there very shortly!"

"I would very much like to keep rowing, doctor, if I knew which way to go!" L'Esprit fired back. "I'm going to row us straight into that calthemite spire if you don't tell me quickly if I should take us left or right!"

My eyes flickered between the two paths that were now fast approaching. Even in the lantern light, they looked the same to me. I decided to take a guess. Either one most certainly take us to the other shore, for it couldn't be that big of a lake. "Left, take a left!"

I heard him sigh. If I didn't know better, I would have thought he sounded disappointed. "As you wish…"

With a hard jab in the water, the paddle pushed the gondola to the left and we were eclipsed by a tunnel of claustrophobic stone. Carvings of gargoyles and demons' heads lined the walls, leering at us as we drifted by. Our passage through this section seemed to be the slowest of all, despite the lack of obstacles in the water to avoid.

At last, we rounded the corner of the tunnel, and the strange house on the far shore of the lake came into view. Overcome with astonished relief – it was real all along! – I gasped… but L'Esprit did not.

In fact, he was almost too quiet as he pushed us to the shore and docked the boat. I recalled my own amazement upon my first sight of the house. My God, I had gushed. How did this get here? Awe-struck and wondering, I had stared open-mouthed. One glance at L'Esprit showed no such reaction. Merely… nonchalance.

More of that Parisian visage de marbre, I supposed.

"So you see," I gestured once safely ashore, standing on the silty gravel of the underground beach, "there is this house."

Understatement of the century, of course. There is this house. A house indeed! But I did not need to profess its praises; couldn't the man see it for himself? Certainly under all that marble, he was just as impressed as I.

"There certainly is a house here," he said at last, not taking his eyes away – my one hint that something here had finally caught his attention.

"Now, Monsieur L'Esprit," I began. "I didn't just bring you down here to sightsee." Ah, and how nice it felt to be the patronizing one in our little tête-à-tête! "I am sure you are wondering to yourself what in the world this house is doing here. I have found myself asking myself that very question every day this past week. Today I decided to pursue some answers, which is why I came to the opera house. If you recall, I was speaking to the other managers regarding these cellars before you arrived."

He nodded, still focused on the house. I wondered if perhaps he just didn't want to look at me…

"They mentioned something to me earlier that I believe plays a key part in the mystery of this house. You expressed your disbelief quite adamantly, sir, but I hope that seeing this house with your own eyes has opened your mind to considering the possibility."

His eyes flicked to me suddenly. "The possibility of what, exactly?"

"The opera ghost is real," I answered firmly. "More real than you know."

His entire body tensed at my declaration. I could tell he wanted to argue with me, to deny up and down the existence of the ghost, and yet how could he? We were standing in an underground cavern beside an extraordinarily strange house that should not have existed in that location.

His attempt to argue came, as I knew it would, but much weaker than I had predicted. "Ghosts cannot exist…"

"And they do not," I agreed.

He stared at me, wordlessly.

"The opera ghost is alive," I said finally, "for he is not a ghost at all, but a man masquerading as a ghost. And I believe he must live here, in this house, in this place below ground where nobody ever ventures."

"And why do you know this." The question came as a statement, as of someone reciting a line from a play.

Why ask then? I wondered. Because it was expected? But why would he not want to ask in the first place? Was he simply not interested? Or did he just not care?

"I shan't describe the circumstances fully, but suffice to say I know him," I replied.

L'Esprit's stare turned curious. "That's it?"

"Pardon?"

"You dragged me down to this musty old cellar, you made me row you across some dismal lake in a rickety boat, and now you're saying the ghost is a real person but you won't elaborate?" L'Esprit shook his head in wonder, as he let out a warm, dark chuckle. "I must say, Doctor, I'm not sure I see what you needed me here for if you're not going to be forthcoming. Tell me, now, why am I really here? Was it to row the boat? Or did you simply desire to waste my time?"

"I wanted you to understand," I explained. "This is a man like no other. I have not seen him in many years, but I can attest that when I knew him – he was a genius. Now I have stumbled upon his house, but I cannot find him." I looked to L'Esprit. "This is where I need you. His house is below your opera house, so he can't have traveled very far from here. I would like your permission to examine the premises, to see if I can find out where he has gone."

"What will you do when you find him?"

"I do not particularly know," I confessed. "It's been many years since I've seen him. I'd like to say I would invite him in for tea, but considering these circumstances -" I gestured to the house, and the lake, and the cavern all around us "- I must be honest and consider the need for a mental institution. This is not the living situation of a normal-minded man."

He nodded, as if to agree with my logic, but the movement was jerky and unfluid. "Ah, so you wish to lock him up?"

"I do not wish so…" I said. "In fact, I wish the opposite. Like I said, I would like nothing more than to invite him for tea after all these years. But if he must be institutionalized, then he must. I will not make that decision lightly, though. I will study him intensely before making any determinations."

L'Esprit was quiet, considering my words. Finally he motioned towards the house. "Shall we enter?"

I led the way back into the parlor filled with furniture from a half century past. The trite familiarity washed over me anew, but I knew the nostalgia would not affect L'Esprit in a similar way so I set my mind upon ignoring the pulsating scent of Madeleine's memory – a memory that was so very poignant in this room around us.

It didn't escape my notice that L'Esprit had been the one to suggest entrance into the house. By all accounts, my business in bringing L'Esprit down here had ended once he saw the house with his own eyes. This house's very existence proved and disproved the existence of the opera ghost in one fell swoop. On the one hand, a house meant there was in fact a man living here, undesired and uninvited; on the other hand, a house also meant this man was alive, and not simply a wandering, incorporeal spirit.

L'Esprit had asked to see the house, but once we were inside he looked eternally bored with the place. He all but migrated to the corner and planted himself there, staring out at the room with disinterest. I, always a curious old mind, found myself drifting away to inspect other parts of the room up close I had not paid much attention to before, but after a few minutes I could not help but address him. "Aren't you going to have a look around?"

"It's a parlor," he shrugged. "I've seen parlors before."

"But it's the ghost's parlor," I insisted. "Aren't you even a little curious?"

He sighed dispassionately. "Please, Doctor, let us not call the sad, pathetic man who lives in this dark basement a ghost. It is woefully inappropriate." I was getting the feeling that being woefully inappropriate in one's wording was the absolute worst crime one could commit in the proximity of Monsieur L'Esprit. "It is you who knew him, Doctor, it is you who knew him… I say, tell me his name and then we both shall know him."

"He is a very private man," I said, echoing the sentiments of my patient, Mademoiselle Christine, from days earlier. "I do not think he would like it if I told you without his knowing."

L'Esprit suddenly laughed, deeply. "Oh, that's too much!" He kept laughing.

"What?"

He wiped a small tear from his eyes. "Doctor Barye, I daresay – I think I might be able to tolerate you for that comment alone." Another tear fell, but seemingly disappeared in the folds beneath his unnervingly sunken eyes. "For respecting his privacy… Erik thanks you."

My breath caught. What sort of game was L'Esprit playing with me? "…How do you know his name?"

He sobered suddenly, as if realizing he said something he shouldn't have. His hand sprang out and grabbed a little folded card from the tripod table beside the front door. He strode to me in two easy steps and shoved the card in my face, the front of which was addressed in swirling, feminine letters as Dear Erik. "I made an assumption."

I reached for the card to read further, but he swept it out of my grasp and promptly replaced it back on the table by the door.

"Why did you ask for his name, then, when you clearly already saw the card?" I grumbled.

"How was I to know if that was outgoing or incoming mail? The ghost may have been intending to send a card to his dear friend Erik, after all."

The very idea of it all was humorous. L'Esprit seeing what was clearly a woman's frilly handwriting on scented stationary and thinking it could be Erik's was humorous. Erik having a table for mail besides his front door when he clearly could never receive mail was humorous. Erik writing letters to another person when he lived this upsettingly lonely existence down here was humorous.

"What did the card say?" I asked, interest piqued.

"Nothing of importance," L'Esprit replied quickly, and then, seeing me approach, added, "Just a short letter filled with sentimental little nothings. Better to not waste our time with it."

"Don't be so quick to dismiss it," I said, managing to reach past him to pluck the card off the table. "This could be an important insight!"

My eyes flicked across the card quickly, even as I could see L'Esprit twitching beside me. For whatever reason, he didn't want me to read the card, but I couldn't for the life of me think of a reason why. Though, reading it, I found L'Esprit was partially right. The letter was short, yet that was only because it was unfinished:

Dear Erik,

It is with a heavy heart that I must

A blank expanse of emptiness sat beneath those two short lines. I sighed – this was just another mystery about Erik for me to untangle. Who would write to Erik in the first place? Why would they send him an unfinished letter? How did it arrive here, seeing as there was no envelope in sight?

The first and last questions were readily answered. The who in this mystery was undoubtedly Mademoiselle Christine. She and her beau were the only other people besides myself who knew of this place; certainly this was her writing. And seeing as she knew how to get here, I presumed the how in this mystery was simply that she had hand-delivered the letter to Erik herself.

But as for the why – why the letter was incomplete – I found myself faltering to answer. Her words expressed regret for something she had to do, but she was unable to follow through and complete the thought. Why continue to send and deliver the letter regardless? Unless she never meant to send the letter… but surely then it would have found a home in the wastebasket in her own home?

My periphery noted L'Esprit's fingers as they crested over the top of the paper, and then suddenly snatched the card out of my hands. He placed it gingerly back on the table before sending me a nasty glare. "You're holding it too tight! And the oils from your fingers are ruining the paper!"

"What do you care if the paper gets a little wrinkled?" I asked incredulously, suddenly very interested in my hands as I flipped them over and over before me.

"I don't!" He snapped back. "But this Erik fellow might if he discovers a trace of you in his house!"

Ah! That was right! We were intruders in Erik's house. If this had been a normal house above ground, I never would have even considered entering. As it was, this house in its unnatural setting felt separated from the society above. The laws of Paris didn't apply to this underground domain. And yet I became fearful for arrest all the same. "Perhaps we should go…"

"Nonsense, Doctor," L'Esprit said, straightening himself out and speaking now in the same commanding tone as he had with the other two managers in the Corridor du Management. This drastic tonal shift, from temperamental to authoritative, did not escape my notice. "We are already here, we might as well find you something to ignite your research."

I peered around the parlor. I had inspected a fair amount of it, and beyond its nostalgic furnishings I found nothing too revealing about Erik's mind-state. "I would like to do so, as well, but honestly, L'Esprit, I do not even know what it is that I should be looking for."

"Maybe we should inspect the other rooms in the house?" L'Esprit suggested. "There could be more secrets hidden in them than in this parlor." He led the way, holding the door open to the gothic hallway for me and allowing me to pass through first.

Once in the hall, with its candelabra-lined walls and dungeon-esque stone floor, I recalled my visit to this house with greater detail. The body in the coffin! How could I have forgotten? Was it still there? I needed to know. I strode the length of the scarlet runner and was about to pull the door open when I remembered my nerves. I was no blushing virgin when it came to cadavers, what with my thorough training in the medical college, but admittedly it had been a while since my retirement, and my career focus in psychiatry had kept me away from dealing with the dead for even longer. In fact, my last encounter with a dead body, before this week, was well over twenty years ago.

Despite this, I knew I had to face the dead body within sooner or later. It would be simply irreverent to leave it to rot down here, unburied and unhallowed, and my soul would be certainly damned for all eternity. For the sake of my soul, then, I had to see inside.

Nerves newly steeled, I grabbed the crystalline knob and pulled open the door just wide enough to see in. Within the chamber, I could see that the casket was slightly askew upon its dais, but otherwise - it was empty! I nearly rejoiced at the sight – I would not be required to dispose of a body! – but just as quickly nearly died from the thought. "Erik has been here!"

"I reckon he has," a voice in my ear hissed. "This is his house, after all."

I turned suddenly to find L'Esprit at my side, towering over me with his massive height. I let out a small shout of surprise, pounding my hand to my chest. "My God, sir, you almost gave me a heart attack!"

"What a ghastly sight!" L'Esprit said, ignoring my fit as he peered into the chamber with a sort of macabre delight. "A man who designs his bedchambers like this must be irretrievably sick in the head – don't you think so, Doctor?"

"Not necessarily," I said. "But I actually hadn't considered that."

"Whyever not? We've spoken of nothing but the man's mental health since we've arrived."

"Not that, but that this could be his bedchamber…" I mused aloud, as suddenly everything fell into place. I opened the door more so I could step in fully and look around with new eyes. It was so obvious now that I knew what this room was for! Suddenly everything made sense; the upright wardrobe in the corner of the room, partially hidden by a brocaded curtain – the dressing table covered in an assortment of masks, paints, and makeup brushes – even the casket, lined with a plush velvet lining a little too thick to not be custom-made… it was not a crypt or walk-in mausoleum, as I had assumed, but rather a rather gothic bedchamber for a man with a morbid sense of humor.

Suddenly it felt too private and I decided I had seen enough of that room. I reclosed the door and stood in the hall, contemplatively, touching a thoughtful finger to my lips. For a moment, only a moment, I stood there in wordless rumination, before proceeding to the first door on the left, L'Esprit hot on my heels.

It was the most ornate powder room I had ever laid eyes on. The sink's faucet was carved into a golden swan, with the knobs on either side shaped to be its feathered wings. The toilet was a sleek little thing – not like the bulky cottage toilets I'd seen plenty of during my years in the French countryside – with a long braided chain attached to a high porcelain tank. Without thinking I turned the sink's left knob and soon warm water rushed out, and with amazement it occurred to me that Erik must have found a way to install running water in his underground home.

I flipped the knob back to the off position and continued to look around more. The wall above the sink, where people usually keep a mirror or cabinet, was empty. I couldn't say I blamed the man for not keeping a mirror, looking as he did, and the absence of even a wall-cabinet was a little strange but not worth dwelling on.

There was, however, a free-standing cabinet beside the sink with a tall door that swung out. Within were several shelves, lined with linen and towels, all made of expensive fabrics. Rifling through the stacks of hand towels, I wondered for the first time where Erik might have acquired these items or the means for purchasing them. Did he have a job? Currently? Or in the past? Where did he get his money? Or did he steal it? Most of the mentally ill patients I had interviewed over the years had been criminals in their own rights. A criminal background now did not seem too far out of the realm of possibility for Erik… the only question was just how extensive it was.

On one of the shelves I found a small chest. Lifting it carefully, I placed it on the ledge of the sink's counter and undid the latch to allow the top to swing open. Inside the chest were numerous glass vials, a leather tourniquet, and a metal syringe. I picked up one vial to read the contents – morphine.

"An addict," L'Esprit said plainly from over my shoulder, nearly scaring me as badly as he did before and causing me to fumble with the vial. "Nothing but a deadbeat; the lowest vermin of society."

"Morphine can have many uses," I found myself saying in defense of Erik, though I had no knowledge of what he might need this sheer volume of vials for. I slotted the vial I had nearly dropped back into the chest and, seeing nothing else of interest within, closed the lid. "Heavens knows I have prescribed it to many a patient in my years."

"Doctor, be honest - do you really think this lowlife acquired a medical prescription for these vials?" The scorn in L'Esprit's voice was tangible. "If he couldn't be bothered to secure a leasing agreement for a legitimate housing property, what makes you think anything else he's acquired has been through honest means?"

"I am hesitant to make assumptions," I replied. "Especially in this case."

"Why?"

That single-syllable question was asked with such sincere curiosity that I had no choice but to turn and face the man. "I am simply too attached. But you are right, L'Esprit, of course. The truest and most obvious explanation for all of this is that this man is a dishonest, unscrupulous fiend of questionable moral integrity. At the end of all of this I may find him to be far beyond my help. And yet…" I trailed off.

"And yet?" He echoed.

I placed the chest of morphine back in the cabinet and closed the door. "I cannot help but wish for the slim possibility that I have not arrived too late, and that there may be some redemption left in this tale… for the both of us."

With those words, I slipped past L'Esprit and returned to the hallway. There were three other doors left to examine, out of the six that led out. Three doors I had already seen behind – one to the nostalgic parlor, one to the macabre bedchamber, and one to the gaudy powder room – and so I proceeded to the next door in the line.

With a turn of its bejeweled handle, the door gave way to reveal the most sophisticated laboratory I had ever laid eyes on. Long stretches of tables with sleek black countertops were lined in rows, each holding their own array of bizarre instruments with scientific uses I could only imagine. Tremendous bookshelves holding seemingly every volume of literature in the history of the civilized world lined the walls. I found myself swallowed by the sheer mass of books, with no wall space left uncovered.

How was it possible for this house to keep surprising me? I stepped forward, as if in a trance, feeling a surge of incredible desire to see more… to examine more…

Had Erik read all these books? I skimmed a shelf. The books were in no particular order, merely organized to the incalculable whim of a man whose genius I could no longer deny – for no man could keep this measure of books without a high level of intellect. They were clearly not for show… a shallow man only wishing to appear intelligent would never have such a thoroughly marked copy of French Patent Law in the Nineteenth Century crammed carelessly in between two trivial works of fiction by Baudelaire and Hugo. Books of poems inserted themselves among textbooks on philosophy, medical journals alternated positions with imported cookbooks from the Americas, and – oh, what was this…?

My eyes fell upon a shelf of unmarked books. Their spines were cracked, indicating great usage, if not frequent, but bore nothing to label their contents. Indeed, they were plain books against the backdrop of a million other far more intriguing titles, and yet they stood out to me as the one shelf of books that were all of a similar binding.

I reached for the first book on the shelf, figuring they were all of a set and that determining the contents of one would give me an understanding of the rest. I placed my fingers around its spine and was about to pull it off the shelf when a voice from the hall paralyzed my movements.

"Doctor, where have you gone? Are you in here, Doctor? What are you - oh…!"

I turned quickly to find L'Esprit gliding into the room. He made a show of looking around, only pretending to be interested in the vast library of books around us. My hand fell away from the book, suddenly feeling very much like a child with their hand caught in the proverbial cookie jar. It wasn't that I was scared to be caught snooping by L'Esprit – after all, we had been doing as much since we had docked upon this shore – but that with his reappearance alongside me I realized the enormity of the invasion of privacy that I was committing. This shelf, after all, was filled with a line of leatherbound books – books that were obviously journals and filled with the secrets thoughts and musings of Erik. Who was I to invade his privacy in this way? And worse, to allow L'Esprit to be involved in this unwelcomed intrusion as well?

L'Esprit stopped just beside me and peered down at the shelf I had been ready to defile. It was obvious that he had seen me with my hand upon the first book, but his eyes flickered to my empty hand briefly before returning to the shelf of journals. "Having a hard time deciding?"

"No, Monsieur, only second thoughts, I'm afraid," I answered candidly. "Perhaps this was all a mistake."

He stared at me, repeating, "A mistake."

"The man who lives here – Erik – the opera ghost – Monsieur L'Esprit, if you knew him the way I did, you would understand what a terrible sin it would be to commit this invasion of privacy." I shook my head. "I can forgive myself for making conjectures and speculations based upon my own observations of this house, but to read his actual written word without permission… why, it would be akin to reading a lady's diary."

He studied my face. And then he snorted.

"Nonsense, Doctor. Let me pick something out for you."

He plucked a leatherbound journal from the dusty shelf and fanned through it briefly, before holding it out to me.

I gaped at him. "You can't be suggesting I take this with me!"

"I don't see why not," L'Esprit mused, forcing the book into my hand. "You said you wish to study the man who dwells down here. No doubt the things he has written in these journals would offer some of the answers you seek."

Against my better judgement, I adjusted my spectacles and peered down at the book in my hands. An intricate design was etched into the leather, and I recognized it as a rendition of the Reign of Terror. Front and center was a dully stamped guillotine, surrounded by twelve severed heads in a clockwise circle. The leather was too imprecise to make out the exact details of most of the heads, but the infamous tall pouf of the lady's head in the six o'clock position revealed her to be none other than the Queen Marie Antoinette herself.

Feeling uneasy, yet slowly filling with an unignorable desire to read the book cover to cover, I let a shallow protest fall from my lips, "Erik would notice!"

"Then why don't I do this?" he said, sliding the other books on the shelf just slightly so the empty space would not be readily apparent. He glanced back at me, seeking approval.

Indeed, I could hardly tell a book had been removed at all. Still I demurred. "What if he comes looking for it?"

He ran a gloved finger along the stretch of shelf before holding it up to me, showing off a stark contrast of light dust against dark kid leather. "Doubtful."

I wanted to protest further. The Erik I knew was a genius, even as a child, and surely would have noticed this sort of thing even then. But L'Esprit spoke with such confidence that I, against my better judgement, felt suitably reassured. I finally returned my attention to the book and flicked through the pages of the journal to preview its contents, before landing on one of the middle entries:

January 1, 1875 – My mind has touched the farthest horizons of mortal imagination and reaches ever outward to embrace infinity. There is no knowledge beyond my comprehension, no art or skill upon this entire planet that lies beyond the mastery of my hand. And yet, like Faust, I look in vain, I learn in vain…

The rest of the page was unreadable as it was terribly smeared, as if the writing had grown wet with some liquid dropped upon it, and a cursory glance through the rest of the journal showed many of the pages to be similarly ruined. Reading this would be a feat in and of itself, as it looked like many thoughts would be left unfinished in this way. But I couldn't help but feel a tremor of excitement – at last, I was privy to the inner workings of Erik's mind!

Already my mind was racing to psychoanalyze that short passage. How highly Erik thought of himself! Though I had dubbed him a child prodigy, I couldn't help but stare in awe at the exalting language he used. "No knowledge behind my comprehension," he wrote! I had only ever seen written accounts of geniuses, never had I met one. And typically those accounts were penned by others, in regards to the genius – never had I seen one self-profess in this way.

Perhaps Erik had a skewed perspective of his mind. Although I had no experiences with true geniuses, I had met a handful of delusional lunatics with God complexes, egomania, and megalomania. Perhaps Erik suffered similar delusions. After all, a child genius is not necessarily a genius outright – they only show promise beyond what is typical for their age. And Erik's vast collection of books only showed he was highly literate, most likely more so than the rest of our society. But being well-read and precocious did not immediately equate with unrivaled brilliance. There was no reason for me to think Erik was as much of a genius as his words in this passage made him out to be… beyond the breathtaking house he had built five cellars below the opera house that I now found myself standing in.

"I trust this should be sufficient reading material for the time being," L'Esprit said. A sudden darkness underscored his words and shook my attention away from the book, which I snapped closed and stashed away in the inner pocket of my overcoat.

"Quite sufficient," I agreed.

"Then, with that settled, we must return," L'Esprit said, guiding me out of the laboratory. We retraced our steps to the boat, pausing to inspect nothing more in the house as we went.

At last we were navigating the underground lake again, moving swifter than before and reaching the other side with little prompting from me at all. L'Esprit led the way back up to the Rue Scribe gate. He was quiet all the while, a fact which I was thankful for as it allowed me time to dwell on my excitement regarding Erik's journal.

Upon exiting the tunnel and stepping out of the Rue Scribe gate, I turned to thank L'Esprit for his accompaniment, but he spoke before I could.

"Doctor, I have been meaning to ask…"

That was not something I was expecting! "Yes?"

A stubborn pause sat between us, before L'Esprit managed, "Are you accepting new patients?" He spat the question out, and looked entirely disgusted with himself afterwards.

Well, was I? My patient, Mademoiselle Christine, had rekindled my interest in clinic work. And I had been growing so bored with retirement… "I suppose it would depend on the patient." I thought about it some more. "Why do you ask?"

He sighed heavily, placing a hand to his temple. "My work weighs heavily on my mind, and my health is being… affected," he said simply. "An associate of mine suggested it might do me well to speak about some matters from my past with a therapist such as yourself."

That didn't sound so bad! L'Esprit seemed like the typical overworked businessman. No doubt he would be a simple case, who I could use to refresh my clinical skills as I pursued Erik's much more interesting case. "In that case, Monsieur L'Esprit – I can certainly take you on as a patient."

I supplied him with my flat's address and encouraged him to send me notice about when he would like to have his first session. Then, with a curt nod, he departed from me to return to the opera house. I watched him glide up the ramp to the side portico entrance, his steps as graceful as a ghost. Then, once he disappeared within the building, I turned back to the street and began the short walk to my home on the Boulevard Haussman.

Thus ended my second journey to the center of the earth – that underground domain which hid Erik and his many misfortunes from the rest of the world. Soon I would understand Erik. Soon all my questions would be answered. And soon… soon I would be forced to seek him out and confront him, face to face.

Andre

I might not have noticed L'Esprit's return if our door had not been left partially open. His dark form flashed across the doorway for just a moment, but thankfully I had chosen that exact same moment to rest my eyes from the monotonous, pointless budgetary work he had assigned to us while he was gone.

"L'Esprit!" I called springing from my seat and chasing him down the hall. He stopped before his office door, hesitating briefly before turning to face me. Something was clearly weighing heavily on his mind, as he looked very far away. Was it the ghost? Had they found evidence that it was real all along? I urged him, "How did it go down there?"

He cocked his head, still not seeming completely attentive. "Whatever are you talking about?"

"Well…" I couldn't very well ask outright if he had found evidence of the ghost, I realized. L'Esprit had been far too outspoken against its existence; if it turned out to be real after all this time, he would certainly be irritable in his embarrassment. I reflected on what the doctor had been alluding to prior to their descent… he had mentioned a squatter. Perhaps I could ask with that as the pretense? "Was the doctor right? Was there anything to find in that fifth cellar? You were gone for an awfully long time."

L'Esprit shook his head in a contemplative daze. "It's nothing but a simple cellar, Andre." A rotten half-smile creased his thin lips. "You would do well to remember that… no matter what you hear." With that, he went into his office and slammed the door in my face.

Dismayed at the lack of news, I returned to my shared office with Firmin, and relayed the conversation in the briefest manner possible.

"…and then he slammed the door!" I finished.

Firmin hummed. "Well, I don't know what we were expecting to hear." He seemed to be in quite good humor in light of L'Esprit's refusal to share what he had seen. I reflected that Firmin had seemed to be in a better and better mood each day since L'Esprit had arrived and stomped out the opera ghost rumors… unsurprisingly, I supposed, as he had never been comfortable with believing in the specter. He was apparently too eager to forget the whole ghastly debacle, the nonbeliever that he was, but I…

"There is still something I can't quite put my finger on," I mused. "Something quite odd about our conversation earlier…"

"Odd indeed!" Firmin chuckled. "L'Esprit is just an odd fellow, that's all. I do pity the poor doctor, anyway. I hope L'Esprit didn't scare him too badly with that foul personality of his!"

"That was it, wasn't it? L'Esprit said something rather strange earlier, didn't he?" I persisted. "About the fifth cellar?"

Firmin furrowed his eyebrows, thinking back. "I don't believe I recall, if he did."

I rewound the hours back in my head, mentally ticking back through the clock as I tried to envision our conversation with the doctor earlier. What had we spoken about? The doctor arrived, mentioned some nonsense about the opera ghost, and then L'Esprit had arrived and so casually said…

"He said he makes sure maintenance gets done on the fifth cellar annually," I said slowly. "Specifically on the cistern."

"And it does." Firmin shrugged. "Your point?"

I frowned worriedly, staring out at the open door leading out of our office. The hallway had never seemed so dark before… "L'Esprit only started here this week!"