Monsieur Bernard ran me like a dog once I had the books. Every Monday was philosophy and French vocabulary, Wednesday was etiquette and grammar, and Friday was history and conjugation. Yet every single day, the midget would force me into the auditorium to practice scales, both with a piano and my voice. He was insistent that music should fill the house.

The only thing that kept me sane was Monsieur's little gifts. Looking through the vocal singing book revealed that the ghost was rather unhappy with the suggested techniques. Using Monsieur Bernard as a medium, he had given very strict lessons on breathing and posture as well as diction.

His other gift, the music, brought me many a late-night transcribing into a program on my laptop. My piano skills were limited at best, and I did not dare try to play the complex melody at the time. The software could handle the strange twists of the song, but it took nearly a month to fully transcribe as I had to translate the music from faded ink.

When I first looked through the lyrics, the language looked vaguely French. One morning, having been thoroughly bored by his lecture on grammar, I brought the music before him. "I just want to understand what the lyrics say." I told him, clasping my hands behind my back so he could not see how jittery my fingers were becoming.

He scanned over it, peering at it through hooded eyes, before huffing and slamming the parchment on the desk. "This is not funny, mademoiselle."

"I…I wasn't trying to be funny."

"Then why hand me a blank piece of paper?" He quickly launched into how such behavior was not tolerable in proper society before throwing the parchment into a waste basket. As soon as he was gone, I fished it out and set about straightening it as best I could. I kept quiet about it after that, working on it during the night when I would not be interrupted.

It was that day that Monsieur began playing tricks. For the most part, they were harmless things like stealing all the chalk, reorganizing papers, or replacing coffee with, how had Bernard described it, paint water?

However, Monsieur could also be very disruptive and aggressive. One Tuesday morning, having woken up with a strained voice from the day before, I begged Monsieur Bernard to be laxer on the training that day. He, however, was furious at the thought and ranted about how training every day would traditional to the house's origins. His face turned even redder when he went to play the scales I had to copy only to find that the piano was terribly out of tune. It took a piano tuner nearly an hour to fix the problem, in which time a mysterious cup of mint herbal tea appeared at the desk of the library.

A different day, I found it too hard to stay awake. I had been up very late the night before transcribing the music, and Monsieur Bernard would not stand for his pupil to fall asleep during one of his lectures on the importance of…Rome, I think it was? Maybe Greece? Either way, he punished me with more scales, which did nothing to help my yawning. It was in the middle of a C minor scale that I heard a loud crack and looked just in time to see a sand bag break against the piano bench right next to Monsieur Bernard. I could not help but glance up and look for other sandbags, of which there were none, while my tutor set into a panic. He quickly went home, allowing me to nap and continue working on the music.

The most unsettling trick Monsieur played was shutting off all the lights in the auditorium while Monsieur Bernard was walking about the stage. I had botched some scales, and he was mid rant when the lights were all cut off at once. I refused to scream, instead reaching for my phone and using its light as a way to cut through the darkness. How glad I was to do so, as Monsieur Bernard would have walked off the stage. He was two steps from injury.

After the blackout, Monsieur Bernard began coming by less and less. He soon only came Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, giving me Tuesdays and Thursdays to do other activities. By that, I mean work on that software. Dad convinced me to go to some nearby parks. He even talked about going to the zoo, but he fell through on that.

It was not until long past dark one spring night that I finished my project. I leaned back and looked over the notes that littered my computer screen. Now began the fun part, the language. I had dabbled in it a bit, and Monsieur Bernard had proven to be no help and so I held off on it until the very end. Armed with a rudimentary French skill and an online translator, I set about learning what the song had to say.

Once I was done, I pressed the play button. As the music began, I scanned over the words again. The piano softly sung out the introduction before guiding me into its mysterious nature.

"Nighttime sharpens,

Heightens each sensation

Darkness wakes,

And stirs imagination

Silently the senses

Abandon their defenses

Helpless to resist the notes I write

For I compose the music of the night."

Each note was guided by the music, building and flowing with one another.

"Slowly, gently

Night unfurls its splendor

Grasp it, sense it,

Tremulous and tender

Hearing is believing,

Music is deceiving,

Hard as lightning

Soft as candlelight

Dare you trust the music of the night?"

I could feel eyes on me. A part of me knew it had to be Monsieur, but the other prayed that Dad had come home early or that Monsieur Bernard had forgotten something and came to retrieve it.

"Close your eyes

For your eyes will only tell the truth

and the truth isn't what you want to see." I obeyed the song, letting myself fall into the darkness as the melody sang on.

"In the dark it is easy to pretend

That the truth is what it ought to be

Softly, deftly

Music shall caress you." A cold sensation covered my hand. I dared not open my eyes, like a spellbound slave to the music Monsieur had given me.

"Hear it, feel it

Secretly possess you." My voice died away, but there was still a voice singing. Its rich tenor rung beautifully with the false piano, blending in a way that I had never heard before. I felt myself being drawn closer to the figure. Not only did I not fight, I craved the touch.

"Open up your mind let your fantasies unwind

In this darkness that you cannot fight

The darkness of the music of the night

Close your eyes, start a journey to a strange world

Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before

Close your eyes and let music set you free

Only then can you belong to me." The man held me fast against himself, a gloved hand (gloved I was sure, for the feeling of it was akin to leather) on my cheek while the other fastened his arm across my back. His voice was right in my ear, yet I could not feel his breath.

"Floating, falling

sweet intoxication

Touch me, trust me

Savor each sensation." I knew something was wrong about this, and my brain struggled against my heart's desire for the song. My body's need to be close to another. It did not matter that I had no idea who it was, because it was someone.

"Let the dream begin let your darker side give in

To the power of the music that I write

The power of the music of the night."

Finally finding the strength, which I did not know I had such low supply of, I opened my eyes to see the man beside me. The first thing I noticed was his eyes. They were like ember, which was both beautiful and impossible. His skin was pale, too pale to be healthy, with black hair to contrast it. All in all, he would have appeared as a gentleman if not for the white mask that covered almost his whole face, leaving only part of the mouth exposed. Still, there was some handsomeness to be found in the stranger.

My mind grew heavy as a distant bell began to toll. Past midnight, pressing on to two. I leaned my head against the man and closed my eyes. My feet left the floor as he swept me up into his arms and carried me. His steps left no audible sounds, but the bobbing of his body told me he was walking. No doors creaked as they open, no stairs groaned under the weight, and yet I found myself being placed gently onto the sinking surface of my bed.

"You alone can make my song take flight." A jolt ran down my spine as those cold fingers brushed hair from my face. "Help me make the music of the…" His voice trailed away. For a moment, I thought he was gone. Until a very soft and gentle night came like a cold breeze, prickling my skin with goosebumps. It was that final note that pushed me into the darkness of sleep.

My dreams were consumed with the white mask, not the man, following me about like it itself had life. When I awoke, I was surprised not to find it on the end of my bed. Gazing at me without any eyes.

But it was not there. Nor was it behind the many other crevices and doors that led me to the kitchen. The entire morning went by without Monsieur, just as it always did. That was unacceptable to me. Something had happened the night before, and I needed to know what.

If that music can make me so weak, I thought as I marched into the theater, then what's to stop someone else from using it?

"Monsieur, I need to talk to you." My voice echoed wildly off the walls, filled with a bravado that I could not seem to harness myself. With long strides, I walked up to the stage and hopped up onto the old wood. "It's about last night."

The pause seemed endless and stifling. I looked around, expecting him to reveal himself once more or to at least speak. Instead what I received was a note fluttering to the ground from somewhere on the cat walks. I wasted no time falling to my knees and grabbing it like it was the new Bible.

What about, Mademoiselle?

"Oh no," I felt on the verge of both laughing and crying, "you don't get to just write it out. I want to hear you speak. You were more than willing to last night." The message was crushed in my hands, ink staining my skin as it transferred itself over.

Something felt very wrong to me. Kneeling at the front of the stage, I could have sworn I had been in this exact position before. It was sudden, but the feeling of eyes on me escalated. I looked out at what I knew were empty chairs and saw specters from my memory sitting out there, whispering to one another and glaring at me.

I crawled back behind a set of curtains, where their eyes could not follow. His remained. My chest felt heavy, every breath too shallow to sustain my heart and brain. Her fleshy hand grasped my shoulder – stop it Aminta-Rose, she's not real! Get a hold of yourself! – and drew me backwards sharply. Even without the specific shoes on, I can feel the tiny heels pinching my toes and rubbing against the edges of my foot. Dots appeared in my vision as I heard the words she had whispered into my ear that night. If you don't quit being a fu-

"Mademoiselle."

The dots cleared away, the voices fled, the images returned to their hellish holes in my memories. His voice was dry, snapping as he said my name. Had he called out to me before now? I could not be sure.

"Are you alright?" They were softer now, like a father to a child who had been injured. I could almost imaging Dad kneeling beside me with his arms around me like a shield.

My knees nearly give out as I stand up, but I refuse to stay on the ground. I brush off imaginary dust. "Whatever happened last night was a fluke." I declared before walking out of that theater, head held high despite the embarrassed red that colored my cheeks.


A lot has happened this chapter. What does it all mean?

...Actually, I don't know. I was just writing and all this came out. We'll all be surprised on where Erik and Aminta-Rose take this.

What are your thoughts on Monsieur Bernard, Erik, and Aminta-Rose? Where do you think it is all going? Tell me what you think in the reviews!

To answer a question from kaitlin2515: Is Archer going to be a wannabe-Raoul? You'll see as the story progresses. I can tell you this, Erik does not like how much time Minta and Archer will be spending together.

To all my faithful readers and obedient servants, thank you for your patience. I hope to have more (hopefully higher quality) chapters out before April. We'll see.

I remain your obedient servant and friend,

E.V