.
Welcome once again to my humble home.
Please, just call me Nadir. Mister Kahn seems too stuffy for us now.
Sit by the fire and make yourself comfortable; allow my manservant to relieve you of your coat.
Tea?
You look nervous. I have just the thing. Do you perchance want to partake of the hookya pipe once more?
You are welcome; it is indeed a pleasant repast.
What can I help you with?
I don't know if there is much I can add to our previous discussions.
At least our endeavors were fruitful. I see from the newspapers that our last efforts endowed you with a certain notoriety.
Congratulations.
I must say your renditions of those events are superb. So glad you decided to protect the innocent.
That splendid piece of work contained just enough literary license to camouflage the real facts.
Plus, one can not pinpoint the timing of the actual events. There is nothing to indicate a time frame either.
I am asked repeatedly by the good police sergeant: Was I aware of a particular magazine story?
And do I know if it is only a fictional fantasy? Was there any truth in the tale?
Excuse my sigh. The truth? Ha! Only you and I can be relied upon to tell the truth.
I'm willing to wager you have cursed the day you set out to ask me about the Opera Ghost.
Your inquiring visit was most fortuitous.
Drink up; your tea will get cold.
Since we last met, the film from the movie was, shall we say, misplaced. Thank Allah.
.
Who knows what would happen if anyone found out the portrayed events did indeed occur.
A little clean up here, a small bribe there...
You don't say!
Another portrayal of the Angel's story? Without a surviving script or movie, they will have to rely on your work. Good.
The hardest thing would be to explain how Ms Daae and the little Viscount were in the midst of reprising themselves during those critical segments.
Your theory may be correct. He is a genius, after all.
I assume the research made you extremely aware that any indiscretion would lead to the destruction of all involved?
Yes, yourself included. The Ghost will always know where we are. He continues to have ears that report back to him.
Indubitably nerve-wracking.
I handle it by keeping the hookya pipe close at hand.
I must say the addition of the grasshopper and the scorpion were ingenious hints, as to the Ghosts mental status.
Addressing the subject of your self-preservation: To be hidden as one dead is a leaf from Erik's own notebook.
You, sir, could be called the living dead. Urinary tract infection? Genius.
You plan for the new chapters to be discovered by accident?
True, you can't deliver them: you are supposed to be dead.
The finished manuscript will be found similarly to Pachelbel's Canon in D? Brava.
Lest I forget, Le Phantom of the Opera is a most fitting title.
It was benevolent of you to share in your proceeds, Darius, and I give thanks.
Ahh, the partaking of the pipe helps me relay those experiences to you in vivid detail.
Let's see, if memory serves me correctly: the time was definitely near the end of the month. Fall had finally descended upon our unsuspecting city.
Gone were the bright cerulean skies of summer. Autumn's blazing, multicolored leaves had faded into brown.
In fact, it was the damp, moldy, end of the season crossroads between fall and winter.
Ahem.
I digress...
The details you wish for began five stories below the Opera, in a hidden alcove where faint streams of undulating light pierces the oppressive darkness.
Now, my fine fellow, close your eyes. Breathe in deep. Let the smoke caress the top of your tongue.
Are you feeling it? Imagine you are there; let your mind drift deep into the bowels of the earth.
If you squint hard enough, by happenstance, you might, and I stress 'might'... spy a lone, caped specter wrapped in the shadows.
Let me know when the visions appear.
Congratulations, we have miraculously stumbled upon our prey, holed up in his lair and, of all things, performing the task of donning cufflinks.
Tall and gaunt, a totality of sharp angles and planes, this aberrant scrap of humanity scarce cast a shadow.
Don't fight it. Relax, breathe in, and fill your lungs. There is no need to rub your eyes. It's the psychedelic effect of the hookya pipe that enables your vision.
Ah, your senses have begun to sharpen, the hair to stand up on your neck, a sure sign of preternatural unrest.
A mist has started to rise from the lake beside us. The dank air wafts across our chilled skin. Feel your arms: goosebumps. The atmosphere is indeed laden with anticipation.
Hidden in this very spot, I had watched for weeks, hoping to memorize his movements. It was unusual for him not to sense my presence. To my relief, the creature continued with his diligent preparations.
What preparations?
I'll tell you. The Angel of Music was ironing out minute details for an upcoming opus.
He labored not on any mundane performance but the most important of his sad life.
Sigh, I could have sounded a warning, ensured others were cognizant of the Ghost's terrible intent.
Why didn't I?
Wait, before I go on, Let me refill the pipe.
I often battle with that answer. My dratted conscience-I couldn't.
It was so close, this Magnum opus. A culmination of a lifetime of dreams. Erik's last chance to be like any other man.
And I was his only friend. The voice of reason for too long, I Nadir, had fallen into a dangerous trap -feeling sorry for him.
You and I both are intensely aware that mania ever lurks beneath the surface of this man-monster called Erik.
Monster?
It would take longer than we have now for me to explain that appellation. Suffice it to say, I saw the Angel of Doom's inhumanity on full display during the rosy hours of Mazanderan.
Blame the unmitigated shatter of this man's soul on the little Sultana.
Underneath those impeccable clothes are long-standing wounds: broken bones, whip marks, and burns. Each character a map, vicious proof of a horrendous existence.
Mercifully, for Erik, the physical marks are calloused over by time.
.
The most profound wounds fester inside—a massive chain of pain- links that originate deep within Erik's twisted core.
Each link forged by humanity. Amazing what continuous blows to a battered heart can do.
These links are joined together and permanently shackled to a tattered soul.
He never learned to feel hope -placed his tortured soul for safekeeping in unsuspecting, delicate hands.
Aside from all the despicable things he has done, I believe the Angel of Music possesses a heart that, given a chance, could encompass the world.
I've seen it. Beating for a wee slip of a girl.
Merciful Allah, he moves! Quickly! A hand to the level of your eyes!
Heh, heh, sorry.
Do you need to go change?
Sit back down. Please allow me a moment to wipe my brow and collect myself.
Breathe deep with me-slowly; it was a false alarm.
Don't look at me like that!
In all fairness, you must never forget the Angel of Doom carries in his pocket a most unusual weapon: The Punjab lasso.
A terrible weapon.
It is composed of a thin string of catgut. Decapitation can be forestalled by a well-placed hand at the level of your eyes.
Here, here, don't monopolize the pipe, Darius.
Back to our conversation, glance around once more.
Fantastical, yet sad, a damp, underground lair comprises a prison of Erik's own making.
I'm not sure how long he dwelled here, five floors below the opera, decades maybe.
You, sir, are right. The description of the Angel of Doom's shrug can only be 'fatalistic.'
Quietly move with me into the shadows.
Watch him make a move, of which I am secretly jealous: A twirl of a silken black cape and a flip of his fedora, and he melts into the caverns.
This time forever.
Full of empathy, at that time, I woefully labored under the impression I could mediate any forthcoming damages.
All these years later, I am an old man now. Then in my prime- I still had to jog to keep the lithe figure in my sight that day.
I didn't even try to-delude myself into thinking the Angel of Music was unaware I followed.
The creature allowed me- my moment of quasi victory.
It had to be muscle memory that deftly carried him five stories higher. Not a stumble nor hesitation betrayed him.
Erik kept his dark, bewigged head down in thought.
As was his habit, long arms were behind his back as he floated along. His cape hem trailed like dark blood pouring over stone steps that faded into the darkness.
A dressing room and a mirrored door enabled Erik access to the old opera house -turned movie set.
Once inside, the trap door lover ran gloved hands together in satisfaction.
A great secret behind the walls are hidden tunnels; the Phantom of the Opera could transverse the entire building unnoticed.
I watched the Ghost survey his domain- once again transformed into a familiar, nostalgic mileu..an opera.
As he slipped from his hiding place, the man-like incarnation stiffened, the epitome of prey awaiting the hunter.
Was that the sound of the building settling, or something more nefarious? Feeling faint, I held my breath.
Nothing. An almost inaudible, relieved sigh left the Phantom's thin lips.
How things had changed; my eyes explored the stage, as did his. Hulking movie projectors were everywhere.
Once, I had listened to him lecture on those terrible, metal, gaudy pariahs for hours.
.
By their existence, their mass barred any semblance of yester-year's lovingly constructed sets.
Once, those fantastical backgrounds
were delicately wrought by long-forgotten production teams.
Each member of the said team was a master of the art. Sets in those days were an unmitigated joy to the senses.
I will never forget. At that precise moment-something bloody unusual occurred. The Phantom of the Opera allowed his feral, yellow eyes to drift together.
Arms akimbo, the skeletal figure began to weave to and fro, conducting an internal, macabre orchestra.
Graceful, dare I say sensual, lithe movements guided an invisible baton.
Above our heads, stage lights flickered, displaying multitudinous colors, and music strayed upon the air.
I say, my friend Gaston, my heart nearly exploded; the Ghost and I were the only ones there.
I was utterly mesmerized—no doubt, the same feeling that continually overcame Ms. Daae.
Reality thankfully intervened. Disturbed by the unusual night commotion, a bat fluttered, bound for new lodgings.
What horrors that moment must have resurrected in the Opera Ghost's psyche?
Mayhap bygone, magnificent, tenor voices? Unfairly on full display, yet, unable to be compared to Erik's angelic tones?
Invisible, constant pressure added to an already fractured mind.
The crescendo vibrations from cymbals perhaps pounded his delicate eardrums. Were they reprising the atrocities of his youth?
Or worse still, did he hear violins that enflamed his baser senses.
Perchance, dreamy bird-like notes from a flute reminded him of accumulating desires.
I could not fight the overwhelming desire to close my eyes too.
I can not explain how, but I also became aware of music.
As the previous cacophony quietened; suddenly, it was there. In my head, sporadic notes teased my ear.
Those notes were likened to an offering, sent to the gods, rising from a perfect instrument, an ethereal coloratura.
Thank- you, My speech patterns have been called purple prose.
In awe, I watched as he lowered his hands, brows wet. Breathing hard, Erik's emaciated chest heaved.
.You did it! See, I told you it couldn't be helped. As if guided by an unseen hand, one's eyes are automatically drawn up from that poor chest to look upon his face.
It is human nature. Of course, you stare at where a face should have been.
I tell you now, the passage of time still has not quelled the bitter bile that automatically creeps into my throat...oh the face that isn't a face!
Be thankful you are aided by the pipe and have not experienced the reality. Horrific.
I have often entertained the same thought; she must have seen it. It was part of her allure.
A heartfelt sigh shook the man's body. I realized he truly missed the air starved post-performance singers, coupled with the perspiration slick limbs of the ballet.
Therein was life...living.
Perfection. Unmitigated precision was what the world wanted.
Ignorant fools. They don't want to remember the blood, sweat, and tears that went into their entertainment.
Fists clenched spasmodically at his side, and a toothy smile lifted his mask's draping folds.
It wasn't often one had a movie made about their pitiful existence.
Excuse my shudder. I knew it was imminent. Humanity would soon experience the terrible consequences of a lifetime of social rejections.
Erik's genius would command awe.
Yes, that was a chuckle deep within the empty orchestra pit. Scores for today's performance shuffled and transposed lay guiltily alongside the incorrect instruments.
The Ghost shook his head, A pitiful shame... But a necessary evil.
On the set, the shoddily constructed backgrounds and boring props had mysteriously vanished overnight.
They had been replaced by a grandeur never before seen at this pitiful venue.
I imagine his haughty laugh managed to tickle the cavern of his non-existent nose.
His mask lifted as he smiled. Fake props had been replaced; with more: shall we say, original items?
Sightless skulls replaced paper mache doppelgangers.
Authenticity was the order of the day.
Backstage, buckets of unmixed red pigment were now filled with sticky, metallic smelling liquid.
All Hallows Eve... It couldn't happen on a better day. Ripe with personal superstitions, a costumed audience would fill the provided seats, eager to witness the production's final touches.
Watch. Stealthily the Angel of Doom crept to the foyer.
Skeletal hands shredded paper, making quick work of a life-sized advertising poster.
Yes, the mask was wrong, but that particular error did not make the monster fume.
What was the penultimate blasphemy that ignited his tirade?
Erik's Christine had been regulated to the background.
.Yes, gasp, she was portrayed sitting by the little Viscount!
Frenzically he worked. I had no doubt; she would be showcased in angelic glory.
Stepping back, the Opera Ghost surveyed his handiwork.
Yellow, dark encircled eyes narrowed as sharp canines bared beneath the mask.
Listen close. Hear the wishes of how he could erase the boy all together?
See how he rubs the picture with his thumb as if he were a petulant child who sneakily tried to erase a misspelled word.
The jealous monster loosed a low growl. I guess the inch-high silhouette in the background would have to do.
Spider-like, hand over bony hand, the Phantom scaled the stage walls up to the rafters.
By now, you must have a little insight into Erik's mind.
Of course, he must ensure the lighting was at his specifications. He didn't trust it to continue, so after the stagehand's final check.
More containers filled with darkening liquid waited. The ropes tied forestage-taut and quivering, ready to turn over at the slightest pull.
The last scene was scheduled to be shot today. Thanks to him, it would be late afternoon, hopefully after dark, before the previous take would be finished.
Once again, five floors under the opera, the trap door lover traveled, seeking the dank Communard cells that shared his gloomy domain.
Checking inside one intact cell, a chained figure continued to be lie on the floor, unconscious from last evening's nightcap.
Deep-set eyes scanned the floor. Swept clean, two paper clips lay on the stone, sharing space with a worn make-up artist kit.
The items were placed well out of reach.
In my mind, I had to agree. Did that imbecile really think his botched, pitiful makeup attempts could compare to the reality that was Erik?
Without a backward glance, the Trap Door Lover left one of the industry's best makeup artists chained to the wall.
A note sealed with a skull was the only indication he was there. Five cryptic words: 'place them up to your nose.'
We need to hurry; the Phantom has just passed into the stables. He regularly stops to offer his long time companion, Cesear, an apple.
Look regret, I actually see regret in the position of Erik's body, and is that a whispered apology?
We now know it was for the horse's impending abandonment.
The man tilts his head. In the narrow brick alleyway, a black sedan idled to a stop, right on time.
Returning within the building's walls, the increasingly exciting specter spied upon the grand ballroom.
Arm braced against the wall; he listened to the cast; the clamor, of course for The Angel of Music, quickly morphed into one voice. Christine Daae...
. You said we have talking movies now. Sigh, It was a shame technology hadn't advanced enough at that time to add sound.
You are aware, of course, Erik had figured it out years ago.
Why offer the knowledge to an ungrateful world?
At the little viscount's laugh, Erik drew his cloak around his frame and shivered
as if nails had been dragged down a chalkboard.
Hidden in the shadows, the Ghost ticked off his remaining jobs on long thin fingers.
Shoulders lifting in a sigh, a voice by my ear, thanked the "misguided Persian" for trying to be a friend. His only friend. This man he called Daroga.
I could still hear his mutters, 'Hopefully, the old booby would stay far away from the Boy today. It would be bad Karma if the old fart met the same wet end.'
Everyone's attention was soon drawn to the orchestra pit.
Erik smirked and suppressed a cackle. The music had been discovered.
He actually loosed a gleeful skip when the wardrobe department announced missing wardrobe pieces.
Watch. He had to press his fist to his thin lips: to suppress a giggle. A pungent odor arising from the buckets had wafted to the audience.
The ensuing vomit was cleaned up and rattled a queasy crew soothed tempers.
Murmurs broke the air when the stage lights sporadically flickered.
Finally, the producer shouted, lights! Cameras! Action!
The Opera Ghost slid onto the organ bench.
Taking a deep breath, the monster began to coach eerie, discordant, dark tones from the ancient instrument.
The macabre music hid the frustrated orchestra conductor's quiet curses as he frantically searched his pages.
The producer leaned over and whispered to the cameraman; he wasn't aware the actor could actually play music.
As imagined, you could have heard a pin drop in the audience.
Think about the butterflies that tumbled in Erik's stomach.
On cue, Christine began to creep behind him.
Look as his eyes close in reverence. His body all but shouted, Glory!
He took a deep breath; it was obvious he could smell her perfume.
As if they had a mind of their own, his fingers began to pound harder against the keys.
With his eyes closed, Erik didn't notice Christine's reaction.
Her eyes were as big as saucers; she, too, had recognized a familiar scent. The soprano paled, perhaps beginning to put together the pieces.
I wonder if he could hear her soft slippers whisper across the stone.
Brave girl, she continued in character.
The cameras followed the shadow of her arm as it slowly crept across Erik's body.
The Ghost trembled as small; cool fingers brushed across his face to grasp the mask.
In a flurry, she tore the offending object off. Recognizing the familiar stench of death, a shrill gasp left her trembling lips.
Erik turned and faced the audience, sneering.
Screams erupted from the women. Many fainted amid shouts of "smelling salts"!
A minute tug from the monster and the erstwhile hidden buckets of blood bathed the hapless men and women.
The lights went out
I would hazard a guess that it took About a half-hour to repair the lights.
The frantic crew was treated to more chaos. Christine, the actor Lon Chaney, and the Viscount de Chaney were missing.
I can account for Raoul de Chaney for a while. He followed me as I trailed the hapless mademoiselle Daae and her captor.
You know the rest.
Two men fought for their lives that night five stories below ground.
Rescuers found me clinging to the edges of a watery pit.
As the search continued for poor Christine, the titular actor who played the role of the Phantom was found.
After reading Erik's note, obviously, in the throes of shock, the actor huddled in a corner.
The case watched as he began to obsess over two paper clips lying on the floor.
The shell-shocked man left mumbling as the medics gently led him away.
To my regret, the little Vicomte was never seen again.
So the actress Mary Philbin is to portray Christine Daae. Hmm, I guess it is fair that Lon Chaney will play the Phantom in the sequel.
They have yet to find an actor to play Raoul. It seems there are superstitions attached to the role.
There is nothing else I can add, dear author; your writing stands as is. Somewhere, I hope the man without a face is happy living with his beloved songbird.
Oh, by-the-way, at first, the rattled producer was unaware his leading lady had disappeared forever.
If one leaned in close, what a surprise it would be to find the man muttered over and over like a mantra:
That face!
He has outdone himself this time!
Indeed he has.