Chapter Fifteen

You have driven me out from the face of the earth; and from Your face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a wanderer on the earth, and it shall come to pass, that anyone that finds me shall slay me. -Genesis 4:14

Wanted

Many years ago, as a small child, Erik often walked the streets alone. He was very young at the time, but he had explored every inch of the town he lived in, staying in the shadows and keeping his distance from everyone else. At times though, he slipped up. Occasionally people saw him, most of the time when he wore his mask. But the crude cloth mask was uncomfortable and rough against his face, and sometimes he took it off. And sometimes people saw him. Men, women, and children would catch a glimpse of him, and they would be afraid. Sometimes they would cover their mouths and back away, unable to speak. Sometimes they would scream, and sometimes they would shout insults at him. He'd learned long ago to avoid the other children-they were the worst of all. He hated coming in contact with other people, but he also hated staying in that dark, dirty apartment, alone or with his mother.

His favorite place to visit in that town was a big stone building that had a tower with the shape of a cross on the top, and huge windows of colored glass. Erik never went inside, because he knew there were people in there. At particular times, as he sat outside the building he could hear them singing, or playing music. They were beautiful songs, and he wished he could join the people inside and make music with them, and maybe show them some of the songs he liked to sing, too. But he was afraid of the people on the inside. Sometimes they would come out, and see him, and they would stare at him or drive him away.

A few years later on a cold, rainy day, thanks to a careless mistake by his master's son, who had left the door open for more than a split second, he'd escaped from his cage at the fair and run away. He was in an unfamiliar town and had no idea where he was running in the dark, but he ran until his bare feet bled. He threw the stupid sackcloth shroud his tormentors made him wear into the mud. People jumped aside as he passed by, their faces shocked and appalled by his, but he ran blindly through the rain, unaware of anything except his own pain and his desperation to get away from everything around him.

Along the way, something made Erik stop. He was standing before a large stone building, with a steeple and windows of colored glass, much like the one he had visited when he was smaller. Though the doors were closed, he could hear music and people singing on the inside. He stopped to listen, closing his eyes and letting the music wash over him like the rain and drown out all the hurt. Suddenly, he opened his eyes, and took a step forward. This would be the perfect place to live. He could hear the music, and hide from the gypsies. Surely people like them would never be able to find him in a place like this. By now the music had stopped, but he continued to walk slowly, cautiously toward the entrance. He was about to open the big doors when they opened themselves.

A flood of people rushed out, hurrying through the rain to get back to their carriages parked alongside the building. There were a few screams as people caught glimpses of him. Erik put one hand to his face to hide his hideousness from them, and kept trying to fight his way through the crowd, but everyone was bigger than he was, and they pushed him back further from the door. Then he bumped into someone his own size.

"Devil's child?" Big dark eyes looked at him in surprise mixed with disgust, and little olive-colored hands moved up and down, left and right, in the shape of a cross.

Emilian and his mother, escaped from the fair as well, gone to take refuge in this great building from the other crazy, stupid people with the circus.

"Emilian! You and your mother grab hold of him!" a harsh voice shouted. His master. Erik spun around. There were some of the gypsies pushing their way towards him. Emilian's hands grabbed his left wrist, and his mother seized his right, but to their surprise, Erik was stronger than both of them, and he jerked free of their grasp. It was too late. By then the others had reached him, and they dragged him off again. A crowd of people stood and watched in horror, but they just stared, not lifting a finger to help the deformed, terrified child. Erik stared back at the onlookers with cold, dead eyes as he was taken again to the fair. The gypsies mocked him as they always did while they made their way back.

"Did you really think you could escape from me, you little bastard?" His master snarled, slapping him across the disfigured half of his face.

"Ha! Did you really think you could walk into that church?" Another one laughed. "You, the spawn of Satan himself?"

"God would strike a little demon like you dead the moment you walked through the doors!"

The gypsies had never given Erik reason to believe anything they said, but they were right about one thing: a church was no place for a monster like him. He was so relieved to be at a distance from Alana's uncle and his church. In a little while, he found a place where he could board Raven for a reasonable price. After he left his horse and cart and paid the stable owner, who eyed him in his black cloak nervously but gladly took what Erik offered him, he realized that he was almost out of money, and didn't have enough to rent an apartment, or even buy food and drink. He panicked for a brief moment, but then he remembered…he still had millions of francs left underground, far below the Opera Populaire.

He was now faced with three extremely unpleasant options: return and stay with Alana and that clergyman's family, go back underground for the first time in months and collect the rest of his money, or live on the streets. He made his choice quickly. He didn't want to return to the Opera House by any means, not without Christine by his side. That was the place they belonged together. Without her, it would be just an empty ruin, full of haunting sorrow and despair that would torment him relentlessly. But it was better than the alternatives. He would go back to the Opera House alone just this once to collect what he needed, and someday, very soon he hoped, he would return there with Christine, and they would live the secret life of music and happiness they had dreamed of, just the two of them, the way it should be. But, he couldn't help but wonder, where would Alana fit in all of that?

From where he was, Erik was unsure of how to get to the Opera Populaire, but he knew he was close. They were in one of the wealthiest areas of Paris, so he began to look for an open place where he might be able to catch a glimpse of the towering theater. He moved quickly, the other people in the street moving out of the way as he strode past them. He came across a bridge passing over the Seine river, from which he could see the Paris skyline, and after a while he was able to make out the Opera House roof. Immediately he set off in that direction, quickening his stride even more.

It was a long walk, and the summer sun beat down hard on him, dressed all in black. He was so hot that he began to think that maybe going back underground wouldn't be so bad after all. As he forced himself to endure the heat, and drew nearer to his destination, he began to notice a strange, common occurrence; the closer he got, the more houses were abandoned and the more shops stood empty, out of business. Then he finally reached the Opera Populaire. He stopped and stared.

What was once glory, was now ruin.

Just looking at it sent a shiver down his spine in spite of the hot day. He was surprised to find the building appearing completely deserted. All the windows were broken, the shattered glass lying in jagged shards on the cracking stone steps. The outer surface of the building was black with soot. It was as if the fire had happened yesterday. After all these months, there had clearly been no attempt to rebuild the Opera House.

Why? he wondered. He didn't understand how such an incredible place could be allowed to just sit there, empty and in ruins. The whole city was looking a bit more rundown now than usual, but the Opera Populaire was the worst-looking building he had seen since he'd come. He was loath to enter, but he had no other choice. Erik moved forward, and bent down to walk through a gaping hole in the once-great front doors. He stepped inside and let his hood down, and as he entered a flock of startled birds shot up from scattered nests that lay everywhere and flew outside through the hole in the door.

Ash and debris were scattered all across the blackened floor. He made his way downstairs to where the dressing rooms were, the place that held the most secret passageways leading underground. Strangely, as he walked he began to hear voices talking. At first he thought it was just his imagination, but no, he really could hear people talking. Perhaps it was a crew there to clean up the debris and rebuild. In the late Ubaldo Piangi's dressing room across the hall, he spied a group of shabbily dressed men sitting on the sooty floor in a circle, playing cards. Erik quickly realized these were not workers, but just a bunch of petty thieves and vagabonds. Since the Opera House had been freed of its usual inhabitants, it must have become a place of refuge for the homeless of Paris.

At least it was finally rid of the rich, arrogant fools that had always been plentiful there, Erik thought to himself as he turned the corner toward what had once served as Christine's dressing room. He pushed open what was left of the door, and an entire family-a husband, wife, and three children, all dressed in tattered rags-looked up from what they were doing and jumped at the sight of him.

"My God!" the husband exclaimed. His two sons began to tremble and his little girl began to cry. "It's the master of this place," he whispered.

"Please, have mercy on us," the mother begged, clasping her hands together.

Ignoring them all, Erik walked past, took the lantern they had been huddling around, and went to the gold-framed mirror that still stood on the far side of the room. He tried not to look at the burnt furniture, charred beyond recognition, or at the broken vases that had once held masses of flowers for Christine, but he couldn't help but notice the remains of a single rose lying on the floor, now no more than a stem and a pile of shrunken, shriveled petals. Around the stem was tied a soft black ribbon.

Despite himself, he stopped. A cold stab of painful remembrance lanced through his heart. He bent down to pick up the dead flower, but at his touch it disintegrated into a pile of black dust. His life was like that flower, he thought. When Christine had left him, he had died on the inside and his life had fallen into confusion and nothingness.

"Maman, why is the ghost so sad?" One of the little boys asked.

"Ghosts often are," his mother replied, still looking at Erik wide-eyed and afraid.

So, Erik thought, the legend of the Phantom had not disappeared when he'd left the Opera House. He took the lantern up again and reached out to touch the mirror. He remembered vividly that night when he'd stood on the opposite side of the glass, watching in almost unbelieving, heart-pounding wonder as his angel had made her way across the room to join him on the other side. He found the right place and pulled.

There was a blast of cold, damp air as the glass moved to the side, revealing the secret door into the darkened tunnel. The family of vagabonds was staring at him in astonishment. At that moment, he had a sudden urge to give them the little money he had left in his pocket, and he tossed the coins across the dressing room to where they sat. Then, with a dramatic swish of his cape-he might as well give them a good show since they'd been fortunate enough to see the Phantom-he stepped through the doorway and then slid the mirror back into place. Alone again, in the familiar dark tunnel he could have walked blindfolded.

He made his way down, down, down the winding staircase into the underground labyrinth. Along the way the light from the lantern revealed a few scattered skeletons, ones that had not been there before. They must have been people who had hunted for him, but ultimately fallen prey to the darkness and danger of his old, secret world. Finally he made it to one of his storerooms, the largest of them, where he stored his millions.

A large stone stood on one end of the room; Erik went up to it and pushed it with all his might, muscles straining as he slowly forced it to one side. He stopped to catch his breath and wipe off the beads of sweat that'd formed on his forehead, then knelt down.

There in front of him was a hole in the floor, and inside, a simple drab-looking brown suitcase. He pulled it out of the hole and opened it. With a click, the lid popped up, revealing millions upon millions of francs. Twenty thousand a month from the different theater owners, plus additional funds from various people he had blackmailed over the years, really added up. He ran his fingers over the paper bills, accumulated in masses over time. With this amount of money, he could buy anything, go anywhere, but he took no pride in his wealth. Money couldn't give him the only thing he really wanted: for his angel to love him as much as he loved her.

Erik closed the suitcase again and left the storehouse, making his way back up the staircase. It seemed he climbed alone in the darkness for an eternity, but then he came to a small door that would go unnoticed by all but those who knew it was there. He put down the lantern and his suitcase, and placed his hands on the damp rock wall, feeling for the right place. Then, something gave. He pushed, and the rock slid aside, revealing a doorway that led into a shady alleyway behind the Opera House. He took his things and walked into the alley, sliding the door closed behind him.

A quick glance upward showed that the sun was sinking lower in the sky. Sunset was approaching, which made him feel more at ease. He started off down the alley, thinking about where he would go and what he would do. It wouldn't be long until the lesson with Alana, so as he went on his way he began thinking of what he would say and what songs they would sing.

Like the rest of the area surrounding the Opera Populaire, the alley was deserted, still, and eerily quiet. Even the sound of Erik's footsteps, quieter than most, seemed almost unbearably loud and obtrusive. He felt tense, on edge, an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. He stopped walking and glanced around the alley, searching for something, anything, not knowing why. Erik turned around and saw nothing.

Then, from somewhere, he heard a very faint click. His head shot up, scanning the tall building adjoining the Opera House. He didn't know what this building was, but that was irrelevant; he could have sworn the click had come from above, perhaps from beyond the open window on the top floor. For a while, he just stood there, watching and waiting, but in time he began to think his paranoid mind was just playing tricks on him, as it often did. Erik shook his head at his own foolishness and resumed walking. He needed to find an apartment to rent soon, before sundown.

Then there was a deafening clap of thunder. Something shot through the air, whizzing past mere centimeters from the side of Erik's head. Not thunder. A gunshot. From some far-up window came a voice, cursing, and another earsplitting crack, another bullet narrowly missing him. Someone was shooting at him.

He broke into a mad dash, turning a corner and ducking into a different alley. He found a outdoor stairwell, leading underground into the basement of an apartment building, and hid there, where he would be out of sight from anyone who might be pursuing him.

Erik closed his eyes and tried to calm his racing heart. He set down the suitcase and sank wearily onto the hard ground. It was now that he realized he hadn't slept since that first night in Rouen. He hadn't had anything to eat or drink that entire day either; the day was still blazing hot and his throat ached with thirst. Forcing himself to fight off the exhaustion and unconsciousness that threatened to overtake him, he made himself open his tired eyes.

His left hand was brushing up against something on the ground…what was it? He looked down, and saw that it was a piece of paper lying facedown on the pavement.

When he turned it over and took in the words, the images, his heart stopped.

Scrawled in night-black ink, a horrifying demonic figure, colorless but with eyes that seemed to burn with all the fires of hell. Alongside it, a less detailed pencil drawing of a more refined-looking man in evening dress, wearing a white half-mask. Then the huge text boldly proclaiming:

WANTED: DEAD OR ALIVE

FOR THE CRIMES OF BLACKMAIL, THEFT, DESTRUCTION OF PUBLIC PROPERTY, ARSON, KIDNAPPING, MANSLAUGHTER, AND MURDER!

REWARD: 100,000 FRANCS

FOR THE CAPTURE OF THE "OPERA GHOST", "THE PHANTOM,"

THE MONSTER STRAIGHT FROM HELL!

It's me.

Erik was stunned. People were out looking for him, trying to capture or kill him…he'd just been shot at by someone after the reward money they'd get if they killed him.

Everything had gone all cold. He'd known that mobs had chased after him the night of the accident, but he'd somehow thought that the people of Paris would have forgotten him by now. He'd been a fool to believe that…what had happened that night was not something so easily forgotten. He was a wanted man. If captured, he knew he would be sent to the gallows without question. He was guilty. He deserved to die for what he had done.

But that didn't mean he wanted to die.

He took his suitcase and got to his feet, still clutching the battered wanted poster in his hand. The sun was sinking even lower; time had run out. He would never find a good place to rent now, so he would have to find somewhere to hide during the night. He hurried off down side streets, searching for some place he could stay until later that evening, but finding nothing.

A man with a wooden leg hobbled down the side street a little ways off. He may recognize me. Erik dashed around the corner before the man had a chance to spot him. He peered back down the alley and watched the one-legged man limp out of sight. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Then there was a hand on his shoulder.