The reflection in the dark screen was no longer that of the mirror alone. There was suddenly a man in the mirror. A man who was quite casually stepping forth and out from within said mirror. Right be-smegging-hind me!
As I may have mentioned before, hindsight is a wonderful thing for it now allows me to describe what it was I saw in far greater detail than what sunk in back then at that moment in time. My mind was too busy saying 'FUCK!' over and over to do a catalogue and inventory of the sudden apparition.
This apparition was, in build, a man. Without a doubt. Strong, sturdy and about six foot two. Sweeping along the ground around his leather clad feet swirled the hem of a thick hooded travelling cloak of jet black cotton and silk. Beneath this he wore an impeccable dress suit, three piece, also in black. Rather nineteenth century in style. Although to be fair, apart from puffy sleeves and ruffles styles haven't changed all that much. His long fingers were encased in tight fitting white opera gloves.
My eyes had only gotten as far up as his neck in the second before that little nagging voice in the back of my mind stopped looping the word 'FUCK!' and started looping the word 'RUN!'. I twisted around and fell from my crouch onto my backside. Propelled by fear and fear alone, I scuttled backwards on my palms, digging my heels into the stone, trying to put as much distance between myself and the man before turning my back and bolting. Unfortunately, I only got as far as leaping to my feet before ungracefully staggering off balance right into the remains of the barricade, crashing headfirst into the side of a wooden wagon and knocking myself out cold. I never felt the second blow as I hit the stone floor.
It is quite interesting how, when a person slowly regains conciseness, the eyes are the last senses to be put back into use. It is almost as though even the most rational of minds is vainly attempting to hold on to the old denial philosophy of 'if I cannot see it, it isn't real'. My mind certainly was. As it dragged itself back from the inky darkness, the first sense my mind registered was pain. Didn't take a Holmes to figure out why. The cold and unrelenting hardness of the flagstones was making my back ache even more than my head. A head that seemed to be resting on something soft and warm… I groaned and swore and reluctantly cracked an eye open. What I saw made me almost wish I'd knocked myself out harder. The cause of my slight concussion had me cradled, almost like a child, with the base of my skull resting in the crook of his left arm but it was his face that had me worried. For what I could see of his face was mask. White porcelain that covered all but his eyes, mouth and chin. The skin around his eyes was as black as the darkness itself and had the texture of elephant hide. His eyes themselves were a peculiar shade of blue-green-gray. His hair whilst as wavy as the early summer tide seemed undecided as to whether it wanted to be ginger or brown or boring old auburn. I screwed my eyes up tighter, groaned and swore and really wished I hadn't had any bright ideas that day.
"Are you alright?" The apparition inquired. His voice was a deep tenor yet soft with an undertone of bass and gravel. The kind of voice that charms as it speaks and enthrals as it sings. His accent was… almost impossible to pin down. That kind of accent that, the more you try to categorise, the less sure you become. At first thought, he sounded British yet there were phrases that carried a distinct American twang and vice versa.
I made a non-committal noise somewhere between a 'yeah' and an 'uh-huh'. My battered brain was working overtime. I had either inadvertently come across the legendary Phantom of the Opera or some creepy psycho living out the fantasy that he was the legendary Phantom of the Opera. Either way: not good. Not good at all! Taking the hint from my groggy struggling to get away from his surprisingly comfortable arm and torso, the stranger removed it and attempted to help me stand by placing a supporting hand beneath my elbow. Seemed he took the 'I want to get off this floor' hint and not the 'I want to get away from you' hint.
"I must go now. I apologise for startling you. Are you sure you can manage?"
I stammered out a 'yeah' and just like that he turned, cape swishing, and strolled away. He had almost reached the end of the lighting when I called out that I didn't catch his name. His steps faltered but he didn't turn as he replied, 'Erik.' Then he vanished into his own shadow.
That was my cue to run. I backed out towards the exit as fast as I could gallop, slammed the lights off and sprang into the lift, half expecting the masked figure to appear everywhere I looked. I had yanked the up leaver and was halfway up the shaft before I noticed the single black rose on the floor at my feet. Despite the fear and adrenalin still pumping through me as I scooped it up I was amazed that I hadn't trampled the dainty little thing. The grill grate opened on the dressing room floor and I was out of that box like a greyhound after a rabbit.
I trampled the main staircase three steps at a time, tossed the borrowed flashlight, radio and keys on the front desk and bolted for the safety of the main doors. I had almost reached the relative safety of the threshold when…
"Did you find what you were looking for?" The Vicomte's overly cheerful voice struck me like an Olympic javelin to the back. Couldn't the fool see I just wanted to be gone from this place? I turned, being careful to hide the rose behind my back.
"Oh, you know, just some dusty props." I plastered my best 'everything is fine and dandy' face on and started back out the door.
"So you will be back tomorrow then?" He called but I was already down the steps and definitely not thinking about answering.