~ Erik ~
The night’s presentation has just concluded at the opera house as a keen-eared officer approaches the house owner.
“I wish to speak with the composer of this opera,” the officer demands. “By high order of First Consul Bonaparte.”
The owner frowns at the officer’s bluntness. “Yes, of course, officer. The maestro is still in the music pit. Come. I will escort you to him.”
Just as the owner turns, the officer places a heavy hand on the man’s shoulder. “You and I know full well that the conductor tonight hasn’t the depth of spirit to compose such a magnificent opera!”
The owner laughs nervously. “Monsieur Officer, I assure you. Our conductor -“
“Do you know the penalty for lying to an officer on official business? Do not hinder me or this opera house will be closed down, and you will spend the rest of your days as a servant in Louisiana. I am versed enough in the ways of music to recognize one composer’s style from another! And I say that this latest production bears the same compositional imprint as Don Juan Triumphant!” The officer narrows his gaze at the quivering owner. “Take me to see Maestro Erik. Take me to see the infamous ghost of this opera house.”
The house owner’s brow begins to sweat. “If…If he was not a ghost before the chandelier incident, he surely is now. His skeleton was found and buried some three years past.”
“Yet, he still composes for the opera house? Ha! Skeletons are easy to acquire. He obviously faked his own death.”
The owner grows pale and speaks low. “Or…he has truly become a phantom! A real phantom!”
“Utter fantasy!” declares the officer. “What fabulous rubbish! You, like the previous owners, are enslaved by a mere illusion! Tell me, how do you communicate with him?”
“I do not. He leaves his music where we can find it. Sometimes his voice can be heard making corrections during the rehearsals.”
“And the secret passage to his subterranean lair. Is it known to you?”
“It is known to everyone here, Officer. I have been down there many times where he once dwelt, ate, and slept. But now, nothing lives down there. The Phantom’s den is shrouded with dust and cobwebs. I tell you, he is truly a ghost now!”
The officer scoffs. “Ha! Erik is also the architect who designed and built this opera house, you sad fool! It is clear that he makes his den in some other secret place, some undiscovered location in the building’s framework. Still, I would see his previous abode. Take me to it at once.”
With prompt immediacy, the house owner leads the officer to the dressing room of the chorus girls. After making their way through the small crowd of surprised half-naked beauties, they come to what looks like a solid wall. The owner grasps a small candle holder and pulls it down, and the wall opens like a door! Through it they go, through tunnels, down steps, descending deeper and deeper for what seems like an hour. They come to an underground waterway. Upon it they paddle in a row boat into a magnificently large chamber.
“Behold, Officer, the den of the Phantom!”
The two men step out from the boat and light torches. The light reveals just what the owner had described. The chamber is a well-furnished living area complete with a large bed, upholstered chairs, a harpsichord, and even a pipe organ. All is covered in dust and webs. And although the light of their torches casts no man’s shadow but their own, the officer and the owner feel that they are not alone.
It begins as a cold gust of wind from some unseen source wails and serpentines throughout the chamber. The fires of their torches flicker and fade, contorting shadows into horrific shapes. Everywhere around them, candles light as if waking from a long slumber. The wind twists and turns into a conical dervish of dust and debris. And as the chamber fills with the warm haunting glow of candle light, the spinning bundle of wind shrinks and disperses, leaving nothing but the shape of a darkly clad and masked figure that stands before the two visitors. The ghostly volto mask covers the entirety of his face. Even the eyes are shrouded in shadow. He wears a grand cape of black velvet trimmed with threads of silver, leather gloves and boots that reach far up his limbs, and fine black clothes embroidered with thousands of tiny black beads.
The officer applauds as the house owner shrinks in fear. “Bravo! Bravo, Maestro Erik! Bravo!”
The Phantom’s porcelain visage turns full attention to the officer.
“Bravo! I have heard it said that you are a well-trained illusionist, Monsieur Erik! Was it some chemical reaction in the wind you caused to make the candles ignite? And how you seemed to appear from nothing—was that trick done with mirrors, shadows, or both? Ha! Ha! It is an honor to meet the famous ‘ghost’ of the opera house!”
The officer bows low, showing the utmost respect. The owner, shivering and not knowing what else to do, follows suit.
“Why do you disturb me, Officer?” the Phantom asks in a voice as dark and rich as the clothes he wears. “Do you come to arrest me for the deaths I caused these three years past? That chandelier I dropped on those wretched nobles’ heads did not do anything worse than a guillotine would do a year later! If that is why you come, then you come in vain! I am…already serving my punishment.”
The officer shakes his head. “Your past deeds do not concern my master so much as your future ones.”
“And your master is?”
“The First Consul Napoleon Bonaparte. He has need of your special talents.”
“And why should I be inclined to lend them?”
The officer’s smile melts as his face becomes stern and cold. “Because, Monsieur Erik, the First Consul alone knows what became of Madame de Chagny, formally known as Mademoiselle Christine Daae. She and her husband, the Viscount, had to flee Paris.”
“I know this,” the Phantom says grimly.
“Of course you know!” the officer scoffs. “Obsession such as yours does not die as easily as you pretended to die, eh? Yes, Erik, I am sure you knew that they fled, but that is all you know. But are they still alive? Did they get dragged to their deaths—to the guillotine? Only Napoleon is privy to the facts. So what say you, Phantom? Will you not come with me to hear what he has to say?”
The Phantom touches his chest and looks at the floor. “Christine,” he says with a sad sigh. “You are the reason I am still here!” He looks back at the officer. “Return to your master. I will follow. Christine… where she goes, I, too, must go. Even in death. Even in death. Now get out, the both of you. Get you gone and disturb my home no longer!”
The candles go out without aid of even the slightest breeze, and the Phantom disappears.
Chapter 4