Erik betrayed none of his emotions in his eyes. No disbelief, nervousness, anger, concern – all the emotions he felt were locked up inside him with no window for people to look in and see. All the same, he invited the boy into his house.
"Hello, Monsieur! My friends and I were wondering if you'd be able to live a whole night in this house, but I guess we found our answer..."
I guess the whole town has found out about me, then. All thanks to this boy, Erik thought murderously. Steadying his rage, he proceeded to converse with the child.
"There is nothing wrong with this house. Now, could I inquire as to your name?"
"Erik Aucoin. What's your name?"
The masked man was slightly taken aback by the boy's blunt, straight-to-the-point questions and answers. He was also quite shocked at the boy's first name.
"I am Erik Boucher. It is a pleasure to meet you," Erik lied. Boucher; what a fitting name, he smirked inwardly.
"Wow! We have the same name! I was named after my grandmother's uncle. He was a priest in this town. Were you named after anyone?"
Hmph! Erik thought. He's probably related to Father Mansart.
Choosing his words carefully, he cautiously replied "My mother named me after the town priest, Father Mansart. I suppose you are related to him?"
"Oh, yes! I never got to meet him – he died so many years ago..."
Died? Yes, people die all the time... but Father Mansart? Erik desperately tried to calm his alerted state. He knew subconsciously that the man must have died – he was around the age of 50 at the time of his birth – but it had never occurred to him that he was dead. He was never going to see the man who helped him explore his talents, the man who taught him about music. The fact struck him hard, like a boulder thrown at him. Never again...
"Monsieur, how did you make it through the night? There's a demon that haunts this house, you know..."
"Mon dieu, are you foolish enough to think that a demon really haunts this house? I assure you; there is nothing wrong with this building!"
"Haven't you heard the story?"
"No, I suppose I have not! What is it that the people say about this place?" Erik questioned. Inwardly he smirked, knowing full well that whatever this made-up demon was, it certainly wouldn't be attacking him. Why, of course, would he attack himself?
The boy spoke the story;
"A long time ago, there was a woman who gave birth to a monster. They say he was the living dead – his face looked like a skull and his body was bone thin. His eyes glowed yellow – wow, just like yours, Monsieur! - and they say he was a demon. Some even say he was the devil himself! Nobody saw much of him – he made himself invisible. Sometimes, he even had the guts to go into the church and play the organ! The music haunted the town at night, and all the residents would be scared out of their skins.
One day, the village had had enough! They rioted against the house, and drove the monster away... or so they thought! Even now, we think that the monster lives on – the lady living in the house went mad and destroyed the monster's room. My friends and I wanted to burn the whole place down, but we never had a chance..."
Erik smirked during the story. Thankfully, the boy thought he was smirking at the "monster", and not the fact that the story was completely messed up. It was hilarious! Poor Marie, he thought with his smirk fading. She went crazy, locked up in this house. Associating with my mother and I certainly brought down her social status, I guess. She couldn't even walk outside, if she just stayed here. Like my mother, she was shunned. Like Madeleine.
The boy, now proud of himself for telling the story, asked, "What do you think, Monsieur? Do you think it's real?"
Deciding to tell the truth, Erik said, "Of course it's true, but some parts probably got messed up over the years."
"Didn't you live here when that thing did?"
There it was again – thing. Didn't you live here when that thing did? A completely innocent question. However, it took everything he had to not fly into a rage.
"Yes, but I don't remember much of it. I left when I was nine."
"Oh... well, if anything strange happens, tell me."
"Fine. Bonjour, Monsieur Aucoin."
He led the boy to the door. The boy turned around and said, "Monsieur, just one question before I go – why do you wear that mask?"
Erik's heart stopped. He stared at the boy, hardly believing what he had just inquired. The mask! I forgot about the mask! he thought angrily. Searching for a solution, he found one easily.
"I wear this mask because of an accident. My house burned down to the ground, and my face along with it. Good-bye, now, Monsieur."
And he closed the door.
Erik smirked as he stood, tall as ever in front of the door. Sure, he would get pity from the people of the town, but that was better than hatred. Always better.
Retreating back to the piano, he continued the piece he had been interrupted from. He closed his eyes, letting his long, skinny fingers play whatever keys they liked. It was not like his organ which he so longed to play, but it was good enough for him. The flowing melody coming from the large, black instrument erupted his insides with pleasure, calmness... happiness. Never before had he felt so wonderful. The song itself was full of all the feelings he felt now, the slow yet happy tune putting a smile on his masked face. His ugly face. But suddenly, he didn't feel as ugly. He felt just as handsome as any other man on the street, walking with his wife, arm in arm.
The piece stopped abruptly. Anger filled him, and he could no longer stand the gentle music. He played an aria from Don Juan Triumphant, and his anger subsided. No, he would not let his anger fill him to the blowing point, the point where he had to let it all out with music. He would not abuse music like that – his Don Juan Triumphant was an ugly piece, filled with anger, hatred, and sadness. He knew, on that day, that he was never going to play that horrid opera ever again.
The boy stood still outside the door as he heard the masked man go to the piano. The music was undescribable. More than beautiful... better than Mozart and Beethoven. He snook around to the parlor window and sat down underneath it. Did the Monsieur really write that piece? I've never heard it before... young Erik Aucoin thought. The music stopped abruptly. A few moments of silence followed...
The music assaulted the boy's ears. Such horrible, beautiful sounds emitted from that piano, and the man himself played it! To be able to switch suddenly between the two pieces was maddening...
The music again stopped. More silence proceeded... then more of the beautiful music that he had heard before. Relief flooded through him – the horrible music from before was gone from the world. The notes came out softly, in sharp contrast to the loud, wretched noise that irritated his ears. This man, the boy knew, was very different, the way he played on without the slightest sign of irritation from the previous sounds.
Erik felt the piece come to an end. He never chose to end pieces; his hands worked by themselves. He stood, and overcome with sudden exhaustion, staggered over to the couch. It was uncomfortable, yes; but the coffin had been, too. He would simply have to get used to it.
The dreamworld spiraled around him, clutching him and throwing him inside. Christine...oh, Christine! I love you so much! Why can't you see? His mind tortured him with memories of her. The girl who ruined his peace of mind. She had intruded on his solitude; destroyed his shield against the world.
But was it really her fault? She had never wanted any of this to happen. No, the guilt was left to the other person now. It was his fault.