Dear Journal,

I feel terrible. I truly do. Like scum. Erik has been happier today than I imagine he has ever been in his life. It is all because of me… therefore, it's all false happiness. I am a horrible human being.

He was so understanding yesterday. He spent much of the evening reassuring me that he did not blame me for the incident with Raoul and that he still loved me more than ever. It made me feel a thousand times worse about deceiving him.

Erik left the little house feeling twenty years younger and a lifetime happier. His angel was safety tucked away at him… his home… and would be waiting to greet him when he returned. It was a strange and wonderful feeling, knowing someone was waiting for him at home. It gave him a sense of purpose.

Right now, though, he was on a mission. He was going to the de Chagny estate to check on the arrogant pup that seemed to have intentions toward his Christine. He wasn't, however, going to kill him unless it was absolutely necessary. He decided he would rather not repeat the mistake he had made with Buquet. That… did not go over well with Christine. The last thing he wanted to do was destroy his blissfully happy relationship with her while still in its infancy. While he was encouraged by the fact that she did not seem to harbor any romantic interest in the boy, there was still a good chance that Christine would not forgive him for killing her childhood friend and he did not want to take that risk.

So, no, he was not going to kill the boy… not yet anyway. But he did need to make sure the viscomte understood that it was in everyone's best interest if he left Christine alone.

We still spend most of the day with music, singing for each other or together. But now, even when we are not absorbed in our music, he will try to catch my eye, like a dog trying to get attention from his master. I am unworthy of such devotion.

At the same time, I am almost repulsed by it. He performs magic tricks, tries to tell jokes… he devotes himself to trying to make me smile. And yet, when I catch him, in the corner of my eye, stealing glances at me, looking at me adoringly with those eyes that are dark, empty sockets in the day and glowing candles in the night, I cannot help but remember the horror that lies just under his mask.

Before he had ventured to far into the catacombs, he was brought out of his thoughtful state by the ringing of a bell. Someone was trespassing.

He made his way to the lake, thinking that this would be the most obvious entrance, and noticed a man--a blurry form in the darkness lit by a small lantern--rowing across the water in Erik's little rowboat. Erik grinned darkly. There was a trick he had been wanting to try ever since meeting a group of pirates in the South China Sea. At last… a victim for the siren. I have been waiting for this…

He snatched up a long reed that lay waiting for an opportunity such as this and walked silently into the water. When the water covered him to the top of his head, he placed the reed in his mouth and used it to breathe while he continued through the murky water, towards the little boat near the far shore.

He does still wear a mask, of that I am eternally grateful. When I removed his mask the last time and even went so far as to burn it, I mentally kicked myself, realizing my mistake and believing that I would have to endure the rest of my time here with that face uncovered. However, it apparently makes him more comfortable to wear a mask around me. I hope he never finds out how thankful I am of that.

The man known by many as simply, The Persian, rowed the little boat towards Erik's lair. He had been watching the events of the Opera house unfold for weeks now and knew that something needed to be done. He knew without a doubt that Erik was to blame. The chandelier, Buquet's murder, the Daae girl's disappearance--they all bore the phantom's signature.

The Persian decided that he must be the one to straighten out this mess. For one thing, he did not have an ounce of faith in the Parisian police. However, more importantly, he felt an obligation to check-up on Erik. Years ago he saved Erik's life. In return, Erik promised not to commit any more murders. However, he knew his friend had a habit of forgetting those things that he found inconvenient. Over the years, the Persian had spent many sleepless nights wondering how many more deaths were on his head because of his decision to rescue the masked genius.

Before now, Erik had only committed minor mischief around the Opera house. He caused just enough trouble to keep the superstitious managers under his thumb. Occasionally a curious dancer or drunken stage-hand would go missing, but there was no way the Persian could pin that on Erik for certain. However, this obsession with the chorus girl, Christine Daae, seemed to draw some of Erik's more sinister creativity out of the woodwork.

As he began to paddle through the water, his comfortable silence was disturbed by a breathy singing that seemed to echo all around him. At first, he could not distinguish where the sound originated. It sounded as though it came from the air itself. After listening a bit longer, he sensed that it was not coming from the air, but from the water. He could now recognize the soft sound as a voice and he wondered what type of trick Erik had rigged up here. However, desire to uncover the source was not what caused him to lean towards the water. Rather, the voice that he heard was so compelling and so soft that he felt pulled to listen to it closer. He leaned out of the boat, so close to the water that he nearly overturned the vessel.

Just then, two skeletal arms shot out and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him under the water's surface. Immediately, he realized his error and prayed it was not too late.

"Erik! It's the daroga!" he cried out in his last gulp of air before being tugged under the waves.

The bony fingers loosened their vice-like grip on the man and the two floated to the surface. Erik silently guided the Persian's coughing and sputtering form to the water's edge and gently laid him on the shore beside the boat. Then he stood, towering over the Persian, dripping with water, eyes shining like twin flames against the cavern's dark backdrop.

"That was very imprudent of you, daroga. You should know better than to enter Erik's house uninvited. That could be very hazardous to your health, you know." he said, matter-of-factly.

"No kidding. What was that?"

At this, Erik chuckled gleefully like a delighted child with a new toy. He held up the long reed that he had used to breathe and sing through. "Look, look, daroga. It is the silliest trick you ever saw. I learned it from Tonkin pirates years ago and have just now found a reason to test it out. Brilliant, eh?"

The Persian coughed a little more. "Brilliant, indeed. That trick almost got me killed, Erik!"

"Bah! You should know better than to trespass down here. Stop being so dramatic."

"Erik, I am here about Mlle. Daae. I know you are keeping her here."

"So? What of it? I have every right to visit with her in my own house." Then, leaning in as if telling a great secret, he whispered, "She loves me, daroga! She loves me for myself!"

"That is not true. You carried her off and are keeping her locked up!"

Another man on another day would have been killed instantly for such a statement. However, Erik was still so deliriously happy and love-struck that he was determined not to let some inconsequential member of the human race ruin his good mood.

"Listen," he sighed, sitting on the edge of the boat, "What will it take for you to leave me alone?"

"I want you to let Christine Daae go free. It is your duty to let her go."

"Duty? Bah! It is my wish that she should go free. I will let her go and she will come back to me… because she loves me! Oh daroga, to be loved for myself… you cannot imagine the happiness it brings to me. This will all end in a wedding, you know. A beautiful… wonderful wedding… meant for royalty! I have already begun to write the Wedding Mass…"

When we are not together, he composes. Those are the only times he seems content to be apart from me. The music he composes… that is the most curious transformation of all. What I hear echoing down the hall is unlike the dark, burning madness of Don Juan Triumphant. It's still just as passionate but it's lighter… happier. I can sense the joy and love in his music and I know that it is I created it in him. When I hear his music I lock myself in my room and cry.

"Erik, you do not know what you are saying…" the Persian tried to interrupt, but Erik continued on as if he had said nothing at all.

"…Oh it will be a great Mass, indeed. Wait till you hear the Kyrie!" then, pounding a beat on the wooden planks of the boat with his heels, he began to sing "Kyrie!… Kyrie!… Kyrie Eleison! Oh daroga, wait till you hear it!"

"Stop this madness, Erik! Look here, I shall only believe you if you can prove to me that Christine Daae is here of her own free will."

He agreed to let me go to the ball without any protest at all. I had worried all night about how to phrase it so that he did not take offense. I didn't want him to think I was trying to get away… that would have ruined everything. But, it turned out to be a non-issue. He thought it was a splendid idea. Actually he said he was going to suggest it himself if I had not brought it up first.

"And that is all it will take for you to leave me alone?"

"Yes."

"Excellent. In that case, you should know that there is a masked ball tomorrow night. Christine shall be in attendance and you shall see for yourself that she will return to me willingly… because she loves me!" he practically sang out the last part.

"And now, daroga," he said, climbing fully into the boat, "I must go run an errand. I warn you not to trespass into my house again. As you know, it is very dangerous down here and I am not always home where I can rescue you. Well… I'm off, then…" then he pushed off the shore and rowed back from where he came from.

And so, tomorrow night I will go to the masked ball. I will find Raoul there and speak to him face to face and, though it breaks my heart, say goodbye to him once and for all. I hope that is how it will work out, anyway. I have enough to worry about right now without stressing about Raoul's safety.

Erik expertly scaled the side of the de Chagny mansion. He did not know exactly where the boy's room would be located, but he was fortunate enough to hear voices in heated discussion that gave him an idea of where to go. He peered in the window and saw the Comte and his brother arguing.

"Raoul, you need to let this go. The girl obviously does not want you. You are driving yourself crazy with this."

"You do not understand, brother. Something is not right here. Why won't she speak to me? I know that she will be at the masked ball tomorrow night. I will see her there and make her talk to me."

"You will do no such thing. You are not a little boy anymore. This is not the time for silly games and crushes. It is time to end this obsession, brother. That ship is leaving for the North Pole in three weeks and I expect you to be on it."

"I cannot let this go until I hear it from her own voice that she does not love me!" he insisted.

"This is not up for discussion!" the older man shouted before storming from the room, slamming the door behind him.

For a while longer, Erik watched the boy, waiting for him to sleep. He looked haggard enough that Erik wondered if he slept at all. But, sure enough, after a few minutes of pacing and one too many drinks, he collapsed onto his bed and turned out the lamp.

Under cover of darkness, the masked man slipped in through the window, making just enough sound to make the weary viscomte open his blood-shot eyes to the pitch-black room.

He raised himself on his elbows to see two eyes, like blazing coals appear at the foot of his bed.

Panicked, he fumbled around for some matches and lit the lamp. But it was too late.

The eyes were gone.

He rose from the bed, searching every corner of his room. Then, realizing how silly he must look peeking under his bed for monsters like a frightened child, he crawled back into bed and blew out the light again.

The eyes reappeared, now at the window.

"Is it you?" he shouted in the dark. "Is it you--ghost or madman who has taken my Christine?"

In blind fury, he pulled his revolver and shot at the eyes glaring from the balcony.

Some servants heard the gunshot and ran to Raoul's room, finding him waving a gun and screaming like a lunatic. As they held him down, Philippe came into the room.

"THAT IS ENOUGH, BROTHER!" he roared, effectively bringing Raoul to his senses.

"I saw him!" the boy cried. "He was there, and I shot him. Go look out the window!"

But there was no one there.

Erik is gone from the house now. I was hoping to stay awake until he returned, but I fear my need for sleep will win out on this one. I do wonder what errand he must run so late at night. It is unnerving to me that the man knows everything there is to know about me, and yet, is so elusive about his own life. However, I will not think of that now. The time for learning more about him is passed. I fear my guilt will not let me continue if I grow attached to him.

And now, to sleep.

Christine