Content Advisory:
This Story contains Character Death(s), Depictions of Violence, Homicide, Mild-Sexual Content, References/Implied to Child Abuse - Domestic Violence - Torture, Language, Mental Instability, Depression - and might as well consider anything with Erik just a walking/talking Trigger Warning.
For sake of clarification, Erik and other Canon Characters are NOT the cause of any Child Abuse or Domestic Violence, and at present - No Torture. Erik is likely to cause some torture later, but this is not yet certain.
Final Note:
Comments are food. They help me stay motivated. I pour a lot of heart and soul into this story(and every story I write), so if you like it, please say something. Otherwise, I legitimately think it's absolute garbage. - and No, I'm not Joking.
End of the Ghost Story: Written by PhantomSith
Beta Read by PhantomoftheBroadgrass
Prologue
Chelle Countryside outside of Paris, 1907
Christine de Chagny clutched her son's hand tight in her own as they crept along the corridors of Chateau de Chagny. Smoke hung heavy in the air with the menacing, rippling, glow of reds and oranges as the estate bore an unnerving semblance to hell. But this was hell. The invaders of her home were the demons, with some mysterious devil pulling their chains. They were vile creatures whose modus operandi here was enough to leave anyone paralyzed with fear.
Raoul and most, if not all their staff, lay dead. Because of these men. These trespassers who would destroy everything to get whatever it was they sought. It was something even she could not comprehend. Not to its fullest extent. These men thought she would be easy to break, and that she would crumple under the heat of their eyes and the weight of their fists.
It might have broken down anyone in her position. The pampered wife of the Comte surely would not have any nerve to resist their abuses.
However, most wives did not have a history in the terrifying as she did. They were not haunted by the Phantoms in their past. They did not know the pain in her heart that she suffered when she looked into the eyes of her son. They did not know the strength it gave her, every single day.
It took all her nerve and guile to keep silent as she led Charles through the smoking mazes of their home. Dampened scarves covered their noses and mouths, slowing the progress of the toxic fumes into their lungs. They should try to duck beneath it, she knew. Yet, time was not their friend. Not right now.
As they neared Raoul's study, Christine glanced back to ensure they were alone while heavy footfalls and angry voices permeated through the halls in their shouting. Satisfied they were not immediately followed; Christine ushered her son inside. There, she locked the door behind them, for what little good a simple lock could offer against their captors.
"Maman," Charles whispered in hushed terror.
"I know, I know, my Angel," she spoke softly as she searched the boxes on the shelves until she found the one she wanted. "We are leaving, and let us hope they won't notice us the moment we go outside that window." From that box, she drew out the small leather pouch within.
Charles in turn, looked towards the single window and went to flip its locks.
Before he could open it, Christine was behind him with a hand on his shoulder. "Wait," she said softly, as she peered beyond the clouding panes. None of the demons, in the guise of men, were in sight. However, their horses were there, unfazed by the growing fire raging in the chateau. How many fires had they seen in their service to such cruel masters?
She tore off the bulk of her dress, namely the skirts that would only slow her. Decency be damned. Christine wore enough layers of undergarments that there was no real concern of showing too much.
"That one," she said, pointing to the nearest equine of dark coloring. "We run for that one, as fast as we can on a count of three, okay?"
Charles nodded, "Yes, Maman."
"One," Christine said as she placed her hand on the window frame. "Two," she slid it up and open. They both took a steadying breath, "Three."
Charles flew out first, dropping the meter to the ground, and sprinted towards their chosen escape. Christine was not far behind, running barefoot across the gravel. When they reached the horse, she gave Charles a small leg-up as he struggled to scurry up the saddle. The stirrup was too high for him. It even was too high for her to make proper use of, however, the surging energy pumping through her core allowed Christine to overcome the obstacle as she found herself atop the horse, her son before her.
Christine grasped the reins and her feet found the stirrups as she gave the horse a strong kick against its flanks which sent them flying, galloping towards the closest tree line.
It was only as they crossed into the cover of trees that shouts rang out behind them, and gunfire quaked the air like thunder.
Christine leaned forward, forcing Charles to lay along the horse's withers as they clutched its mane. She dared not look ahead. Rather, she trusted their mount to not careen them to their collective deaths as she urged the creature onward and, hopefully, beyond the grasp of those who would do them harm.
It did not matter where they went. That could be sorted out later. No, they just needed to be free of immediate threat.
Hunted
Charles did not know how long they rode or how far they traveled until they came to a stop in the heart of a forest. They were finally able to sit upright after gunshots had not thundered the air for some time now. Their pursuers seemed to have been lost, but that did little to quell the pounding in his chest and his frightened panting for air.
As he looked around the labyrinth of trees, darkening with the fall of twilight as fiery as the flames that burned his home, nothing seemed familiar. The trees around them were old, ancient even, with gnarled branches taking on strange shapes and angles in their reach for choked sunlight. Not that there was any living foliage to soak in light, as winter had long since dried and withered the few leaves that remained bound to their trees. It would take a turn to spring and new growth to purge them from their skeletal branches.
"Maman, where are we?" he asked in a hushed whisper.
"I don't know, sweetie," Christine murmured as she raked her fingers through his dark hair and kissed the top of his head. "I don't know… But I think we're safe, for now."
Charles clung to her arm as it fell to wrap snugly around his waist again. It was the only comfort available to him.
Easing their horse onward, Christine directed them towards the tree line and a possible clearing in the trees ahead. "Perhaps there is a town nearby, or at least some dwelling where someone can help us."
They emerged from the forest into a rolling meadow, with a few scattered trees and no hint of civilization. Not a light or single man-made thing was in sight of their eyes, merely a herd of deer that pranced in noiseless flight, appearing above and vanishing below the hills until they disappeared in the forest.
The cause of their retreat became clear when a shadowy figure wrapped in a cloak and a brimmed fedora crested one of the hills. The mount was massive, with a flowing mane and a tail with hairy fetlocks. Both Christine and Charles were startled at the presence of the other, who stiffened a moment before moving to ride away.
"Wait! Monsieur, please! We need help!" Christine called.
The other figure's back was turned to them. The mount pawed impatiently at the ground, ready to run. When the figure looked back towards them, the horse abruptly reared up enough to pop its front hooves around to face them before the rider and equine approached in a brisk trot
Charles heard and felt his mother suck in a relieved sigh; until the other spoke. Then, her breath hitched.
"Christine…" spoke the other, his voice rich and warm, but collected.
"Erik," she choked out a response, full of relief, although Charles heard her tears as her hand flew up to her mouth.
The boy craned his neck to glance between them and shrunk back against Christine as he saw the black mask beneath the shadow of the fedora, with the glint of glowing yellow eyes.
Before another word pierced the air between them, gruff voices drifted from the forest. Christine stiffened, and Charles clutched their horse's mane tight in his fingers while trying not to whimper his fear in the presence of 'Erik.'
"Please, Erik. They killed Raoul. They've burned our home. They mean to kill us," Christine tried to summon the words to inform him of their situation.
"They are following you?" asked Erik as he looked to the forest where the voices came and grew in volume.
"Yes," she nodded.
"How many?"
"I'm not sure. There were at least eight when we escaped, but I think there were more."
Erik looked between them and the forest. "Go down the hill until you reach the creek. Get in the water and go upstream until you reach the old willow. I will meet you there."
Christine could barely offer a nod before Erik and his horse charged up the hill toward the forest and the voices. In turn, mother and son took off across the rolling hills which descended in a gentle slope to the creek that Erik mentioned. They broke right when they hit the water and traveled upstream, their horse sloshing through the water and making a terrible raucous.
For as much noise as splashing water made, it was not enough to drown out the sounds of terrified screams, or the rapport of gunfire thundering the air.
Would this Erik even make it to them?
~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~
They were the seven who gave pursuit. For a near twenty-seven kilometers of weaving through the forests and fields of the countryside skirting around Paris, they'd managed to track the Comtesse and the whelp into the growing night. It was mind-blowing how a pampered lady of class managed to evade them so long, and with some measure of skill. She should never have even made it out of the chateau. But to manage such an escape and not get immediately caught was enough to make Marcel want to end her life the moment they caught up to her.
They would find her and the kid, it was only a matter of time. She could not run forever.
When Marcel heard the sound of thundering hooves, multiple sets, he raised a fist to still the others. When they stopped, their horses chomped at their bits and hooves stomped at the hard ground. While there was no snow to be seen, the ground frozen in the cold that was readily strengthening its hold as the sun fell below the horizon.
The woman and child would surely freeze, or at least be slowed by the chill and lack of sufficient clothing. Especially the Comtesse, who had shed her dress.
Whispers caught his attention in their attempt for silence with the uncooperative beasts they rode.
"Shh darling," came the hushed whisper of the Comtesse de Chagny from somewhere ahead, but close. "They won't find us here."
Marcel smirked and motioned his men to move ahead to seek out their targets.
Seeing a riderless horse wandering through the forest, backlit by the fiery hues of reds to yellows in the sky through the dead trees of winter, turned Marcel's smirk into a dark smile. The animal, which lipped at the dead twigs of a bush now, seemed bigger than he recalled of Yves's stolen horse.
It was probably lighting playing tricks on him. Surely.
"But Maman," whined the child, "What about the Ghost? They say this forest is haunted."
As they moved ahead, they saw a form hunched over in a dense cluster of dense trees. While the chilled breeze flowed through the forest, the form trembled from the cool.
"There's no such thing darling. Ghosts don't exist." Her voice came from the trembling form.
Got you…
Not wanting to alert the Comtesse to their presence just yet, Marcel slid off his mount, and the riderless horse nickered and trotted towards the clearing. No matter. Fetching a stolen horse was not his priority.
Marcel tried to keep quiet amongst the deadfall of leaves and twigs snapping and crackling beneath his feet. But as he neared the hunched form, still trembling, a frown pulled the corners of his mouth down.
"Ghosts aren't real, darling," she continued, even as Marcel's hand fell to the black cloak that he pulled off a lifeless bush. "They're just figments of our imagination," the voice of the Comtesse was now behind them, morphing into something else. Something that made every hair on his body stand on end as he slowly walked back towards the others, including Gaston, Henri, and Louis.
Gaston was the furthest from away, and he swayed in his saddle as though he were about to faint, "Ston?" Marcel called him by his nickname.
"There is no such thing as ghosts," the voice said, emanating from somewhere near Gaston. "Ghosts only come out when fear takes root," the voice transformed into that of a dark, masculine tone that sent a shiver through him.
With a snap from somewhere above, the glassy-eyed Gaston fell from his horse, dead, the ivory handle of Gaston's dagger sticking out of his back.
"What the h—" before Marcel could finish, Henri gave a cry.
Henri grasped at his neck as a rope lifted him from his saddle to the branches of the tree closest to him.
"Hold on!" shouted Louis as he went to Henri and tried to lift him above the pull of the rope around his neck. His efforts were in vain. Henri was pulled higher as a long black form slid down onto the horse behind Louis. In a blur, Louis's horse was cantering away and two men hung from either side of the same rope. Their mutual struggles only tightened the slipknots around their throats.
Marcel watched, stunned as the shadow melted into darkness, even as the other three men scrambled to save their hanging comrades. The cloak slipped from his fingers as he darted back to his horse and swung up onto the saddle.
Henri and Louis's frantic legs swung uselessly as they clawed at the rope above them, trying to pull themselves up. Oliviér went towards them, knife in hand to cut them free, until the shadow appeared beside him. The horrified scream that tore from Oliviér's throat was haunting as he slashed at the figure.
Emil drew his revolver, trying to take aim at the forest wraith.
That creature of the night evaded Oliviér's slashes and caught the hand welding that knife. With a startling twist of the wrist and arm, Oliviér was pulled from the horse that trotted away— wanting no part of whatever was happening.
His free hand hovering over the firing hammer, ready for the quick cock between rounds, Emil began firing off three rounds.
It was too late for Oliviér however, as the Wraith commandeered the knife and plunged it into his heart. It was Oliviér who took the bullets from Emil when the Wraith positioned his body between them. If the stab wound did not kill him outright, the bullets finished him.
When the knife was pulled from Oliviér's chest, his body fell to the ground. As Marcel, Emil, and Pepin gazed upon their tormentor, the trees all around them began laughing in a sick, twisted way.
As frightening as the laughter echoing around them was, bouncing between the trees and inside their very ears, it was nothing compared to the horrid sight before them. Death's head. It possessed dark sockets in the place of eyes, yellow embers burning within. Where the skin was tight and thin over the high protruding cheekbones, it seemed to melt down over hallowed cheeks. The fading light cast across a small thin nose cast shadows in such a manner that it was as though there was an open cavity in its place. Even the thin flesh on that Wraith's forehead was twisted into withering grooves of decay. The mouth was almost normal by comparison, with the lips contorting in a vile grin, and the flesh of the upper lip was stretched more to the right of his face.
It was vile. A thing of nightmares. But rather than kill it, they sat there frozen in horror, too stunned to move, with the trees still laughing at them.
Whether the thing before them was a man or a phantom mattered little. It had just taken out four of their party, in less than ninety seconds.
When Emil dared to raise his revolver to the creature again, it proved to be his undoing as Oliviér's knife flew through the air until it was embedded into Emil's jugular. He slumped off to the side and fell, choking on his own blood and loss of air.
Five in under two minutes.
Whether in terror or good sense, Pepin and Marcel turned their horses and raced towards the clearing.
A sharp whistle pierced the air in their flight, the riderless horse trotting past them and towards the summons.
Behind them, the Phantom replaced his mask and cloak, then swung up onto the back of his Friesian in a fluid movement and pursued the remaining two men.
The misfortune came as Marcel and Pepin caught a glimpse of a woman and child riding upstream a half second before they went into another distant tree line.