I, Raoul De Chagny, prayed harder than I had ever prayed in my life, praying for God to end the long suffering of my wife Christine. Even as I crossed myself in front of her small shrine to the Holy Virgin, her screams rent the air around, followed by short, spastic fit of coughing.
In an instant I was at her side, clutching her fragile hand in mine, brushing sodden strands of hair from her face. Her blue eyes fluttered open, staring at me sightlessly.
"Erik?" Her shriek caused my ears to ache and a scowl to contort my face.
"He's not here, it's Raoul." My voice masks me as the soul of patience, hiding my disdain for her. I must be gentle with her; she knows not what she says.
"Oh, Raoul, you must help me."
"Yes, my dear."
"You must bring me my wedding dress." A frantic note creeps into the voice of the maligned creature, as my patience for this nightly ritual grows thin.
"It isn't hear Christine, we ridded ourselves of that trash years ago." My shout frightens her; she backs away from me on the bed, as tears roll down her cheek. She need not know her precious dress is in the same box she hid it in years ago.
"But what if Erik comes for me? He'll want to be wed right away, I'll need my dress. Raoul please, he is coming for me!"
"That damnable dress, that's all you care for. I should bury you in it. I should take you down to those caves you love so well and leave you there in your dress, waiting for beloved corpse. He's probably still there only now he truly is a corpse." I laughed like a true madman, as I rifle through my drawer and remove the faded paper from it and shove it in her face. "Erik is dead." In disgust, I leave her to the servants, her and her pathetic screams for a long dead bridegroom. For all I am concerned the corpse can take her to hell with him.