chapter 13

T he one thing I knew better than any—was music.

The harrowing aches that sounded from my cherished organ were the one thing that kept the awfulness of my mind together.

Like breathing, how the music came to me. No effort, though it drained me of every energy when I composed.

The moment I touched skin to ivory as a boy, God had gifted me in exchange for the injustice of my existence.

Nights upon days, weeks upon years, I had spent perfecting the one thing I could. Allowing me the freedom to escape within imagination brought on by my own practiced fingers.

A gifted freak which made Queens cry and Kings delight.

These gifts were supposed to have been my key to the world. It had granted me employment for a King, and in that position, new found talents in architecture. Which I utilized to aid in building that King his Palace of Illusions.

The end of the beginning.

Notes came flawlessly, as sweat gathered on my brow. Fingers ached while I beat the ivory as if they had wronged me somehow. Words I had but cannot relay onto paper with the same ease.

With all this, I was stuck.

I forced fantasies of Christine as I played, hoping she would be enough to push me beyond this. Remind me to which my purpose was. And that I may continue on with this opera that must be finished.

I replayed her lovely, soft face emoting every meaning of the staggering aria she had rehearsed, written solely for her voice.

Soft brown eyes and a smile that could melt ice on a cold day looked upon me with care.

No… Christine's eyes were blue.

My fingers slowed and the strikes against innocent keys softened as Christine faded away and that of another took her place.

With closed eyes I gave in and continued with the surprising light sound.

The dream from that night.

Where I ran around in darkness for eternity. Until I saw a light in the distance. I raced for it as if it was God's hand, finally, come to take me.

Only it was her. Staring into a mirror at the center of the void.

The girl seen in many dreams. Always from a distance.

Vanilla and something I could not place scented her bare shoulder. When I glanced up into the mirror, she stared back at me. Unafraid. Then the stranger was gone.

The memory was not enough. I needed more.

When I reached the light this time, I stepped into some place different. A light breeze flickered amongst the trees as I stared out over a lake. I could almost smell the nature.

The one I knew the name of now, Melody, stared at the calm waters. Black dress flowing in the breeze. Sun kissed her bare shoulders. Hair whipping softly about.

My fingers ran along wildflowers and hanging leaves as I walked towards her.

The second my foot left the tree line and planted onto the sand; she turned with opened arms, beckoning with a smile. The sun was made for her, sparkling in her eyes as she stared adoringly at me, begging to be kissed.

Something I could only imagine.

"Erique." She smiled with love …

I twirled her and watched her adoration for me grow.

"My Melody," I said, caressing her face.

Both music and fantasy stopped abruptly, and silence filled my hell, as the dream rolled down my rotting flesh.

Not my Melody. And never with love.

I could not even give her my name.

It was a cruel thing, what I had just done to myself. Imagined an embrace, a kiss in which I could never know the feeling of.

Clenched fists came down onto innocent keys, and a terrible sound echoed throughout the underworld around.

A trembling sigh fell from my lips while the Ghost egged me on to take for myself. To force what I want. Make her mine. Bring her here since I refused to quiet my thoughts of her. The girl. The woman who meant nothing.

The damned woman was ruining everything. Consuming my thoughts. Changing my determinations.

Worse yet, I was giving into it.

"You shouldn't talk to me. You shouldn't know me." Melody had made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with me.

No longer would I entertain her.

A ride beneath the stars should rid my mind of her.

Of it all.

***

The beautiful thing about midnight was the illusion of peace. Especially when the rain fell.

The theater was quiet, and anyone left behind was in their room or the salon, no one around to notice a missing horse.

My hands found the levers to the unknown entrance of the stables.

There was only ever one stableman on duty overnights and they were easily persuaded to look the other way when the Ghost called. This night was no different.

Hidden beneath the brim of my felt hat, I passed each stall, heading for that last one. Cesar, the Opera's favored stallion, was certain to be up for a moonlight ride.

Upon hearing a voice, I halted.

I inched closer; my wicked mind had to have been playing tricks on me. What on earth would she be doing out here this late?

"He composed heroic songs and began to write many a tale of enchantment and knightly adventure," she read out loud in a half decent English accent.

Every thought of banishing her from memory vanquished the moment her voice laced around my ears. Not just with any words, but the words of my gift.

I slipped into Cesar's stall, where the beautiful white and gray peppered Holsteiner greeted me with the nudge of his soft muzzle. I returned in kind a few strokes between his nostrils and released him.

Sweet Melody was nestled in a large stack of hay, wrapped in a blanket. Short, light colored hair laid on the side of her face. The thought of pushing it back behind her ear to see her face better crossed my mind again.

"He tried to make us act plays and to enter into masquerades, in which the characters were drawn from the heroes of Ronces…Ron..Roncess…" she stumbled.

"Roncesvalles, of the Round table of King Arthur, and the chivalrous train who shed their blood to redeem the holy sepulcher from the hands of the infidels," I finished.

I had not intended on speaking. Just to look upon her for a second while she read would have sufficed. For now.

Her head snapped up, eyes darting around.

"Forgive me," I said. "I did not mean to startle. I will leave you be." My feet did not waver, despite what my mouth promised.

The sound of rain beating atop the tin roof and the grounds around drowned out any silence between us.

She gnawed on her lip, deep in thought.

I wished she would not do that. It only made me wonder what a kiss would feel like. What it would taste like.

A little sigh escaped those lips. "Hi," she said.

" Enchanté, Melody."

Her eyes closed and a faint flutter in her breathing caught my ear. I was aware of the power in my voice when used. The effect it could have on whomever I spoke depended on what I wanted.

Except, with no intent, I used my own voice.

She picked at her nail beds and twisted her mouth to the side. "I know you're not a ghost," she said.

"Does it frighten you? Knowing that I am just a man in the walls?"

"I'm not sure yet," she said. "It should… but I… Are you following me?"

"We do keep finding each other, do we not?"

"Well, it's only an accident if you're not looking."

Her defenses were understandably high. I never thought I would ever be in such a position, reassuring another of their safety. This was uncharted territory.

"I have not followed you tonight," I said.

I found myself wanting to be truthful with her. She could have told anyone about our encounters. Yet, no one has hunted for the Ghost.

She scratched her knuckles like she was digging a hole. "That didn't make me feel better. Nor did it answer my question."

The little mouse was nervous. That would make two of us.

"I have looked in on you."

She swallowed hard. "I see." Her chest rose as she inhaled deeply and ran the back of her nails across her lips. "Why? Do you want to hurt me? Not that someone who did want to hurt me would tell me that."

The things I was capable of. The fact that I did not want to let her be. That I could not keep myself from her. The things I have imagined between us. Things I had not entertained, not even with Christine. She should be scared. I would ruin her.

How had the little mouse dug her claws into me?

"I was curious. Only that," I answered.

Her brows twisted in confusion. "How many times have you been in my room?" she asked.

"Once."

"For the book?" she asked.

"Yes."

It was true. I'd only entered once.

"How did you get in?" she asked.

"Locks are merely an inconvenience here."

"I see."

My tongue ran along the back of my teeth while my mind jumped around. If I was to feed into this curiosity of mine, I would need her to want to speak with me.

With trembling breath, I exhaled, "Erique."

"What?"

"You asked me for my name, and I failed to give it. I am Erique."

The tension in her shoulders dropped slightly and an air of alleviation slipped from her. She chuckled and ended with a sigh. The kind that was laced in irony. Something I had not anticipated.

"Is there something amusing about my name?" I asked. The edge in my voice a little more apparent than intended.

"Oh, no. Not at all. I like it."

"Then why do you snicker, Ms. Reilly?"

"I suppose… I didn't know what I was expecting?" she said looking baffled by her response.

"I could change it if you would like," I said. "How does Frankenstein sound? Or perhaps I could try something more exotic like Cheshire."

"Would that make me Alice?"

"Or the Mad Hatter."

"That would be close to how I feel anymore. But I think M. Leblanc wins the hat."

"Oh no, he is the Walrus for certain. Do not let him fool you."

"And M. Fournier, the White Rabbit."

"Very much on the nose, my dear."

My soul soothes with the soft giggles pulled from her. A foreign feeling that I would do anything to keep.

I should witness her smile as she opened Lewis Carroll's Alice's Adventures in Wonderland . That will be my next gift to her.

The imagery ignited a long forgotten sensation within my chest that traveled further to a much more disregarded place. Not even by my own hand, a part of me that had not seen life in many years sparked with a twitch and sudden want.

"Yes. I am Alice," she whispered to herself. Fingers fidgeting against each other.

I wished my own could touch them, maybe soothe whatever had her mind in chaos. Soothe each other.

Who do I kid but myself. She would recoil in disgust. My presence sets her on edge, and I would only make things worse by touching her.

"I called out for you yesterday," she said' trepidation in her voice. "But because I didn't know your name, it was kind of silly."

My heart needed reminding of its purpose when it ceased at her confession.

She called out for me ?

A surge of rage burned within. Not with her, but myself for having hid away, afraid of her rejection.

"‘ Hey you… are you there? ' Yeah. Kind of like that," she said, scrunching her face. "I wanted to thank you for this," she added, lifting my book. "And also, you shouldn't be eavesdropping, however, I'm grateful. You don't know what it means to me."

"You are more than welcome. It is my favorite story."

"I can tell," she said, glancing at the worn cover once again. "Thank you for trusting it with me. I'll return it when I'm done. Promise."

"It is yours," I said.

"No. That's ok I…"

"It would mean a great deal that you would have it."

"Thank you."

The warmth from a small bit of joy that she would accept my gift truly, brought a warm smile to me. A true innocent smile. Another thing forgotten.

"Have you read Frankenstein before?" I asked.

"Yes. It's one of my favorites as well, but it's been a while."

"How does it make you feel? When you read it."

"Sad. I feel sorry for him."

"Victor?"

"No. The creature. Created out of sheer hubris. Then discarded almost immediately and hunted for not being what Victor had planned. Expected. Every hand that touched him was cruel. All he learned was that he was bad. A monster. You're either made a monster, or you're Victor..."

She sympathized with a monster, yet her words bit. Did she think herself a monster? Something to do with the blood on her the night we first met?

"...Mary Shelley was so good at the story telling in this. You can almost read her own hurt. Her own views of how she saw life. Birth even. How it wasn't a thing of beauty, but awful for everyone involved. I could have never written anything this profound. It's so good."

My brows lifted and new intrigue wiggled its way in. "Are you a writer?"

"No. Yes. I was. I tried my hand at screenplay writing and stories. But it just never went anywhere. Sometimes you just have to accept that you're just not good at something you love. No matter how much you wanted it."

She chuckled, but the hurt in her voice voided the attempted masking.

"What kind of stories were they? Dark like our favorite books?" I asked.

"Yes, actually. There's something about them that I've always liked. Maybe it's because there's more truth to them or they're outlandishly outrageous that no one would believe it'd happen. Whereas light hearted, love stories for example, are full of shit and give false hope to people who desperately want it."

Lightened hair danced in her face as she shook her head about. "Anyway," she said, pushing the hair back behind her ear. "Enough of that. The subject gets me riled up. Sorry."

Writing or Love?

The passion she had for the written word was beautiful. With such fire, how could she not be good at it?

"Why are you in the stables reading to horses, Alice? I can tell you that Cesar nor Norah, enjoy dark stories—unlike you and I. It gives them awful nightmares," I said.

Her eyes lifted, slowly passing from one point to another. It was hard to concentrate on anything other than the glow from the lantern in her eyes. It sparkled, emulating the light in which my recent fantasies yearned for.

The warm glow caressed the skin of her face. I could stare at her for hours in the glow of fire. If she would let me.

Or not.

"It's peaceful out here. When I can't sleep it helps. Also, this is one of the few places outside that masks the odor of the city," she said.

Many of the city's inhabitants still lived in the old ways, emptying chamber pots and buckets into the streets, though indoor plumbing had been around for a time. That, paired with years of untreated water and sewage yards.

Even my home below the opera had indoor plumbing.

"It is something one gets used to I suppose," I replied.

"You're either very lucky or not. Where I'm from, it smells like Satan's anus all day. The Aroma of Tacoma. You would think that I would be used to a smell by now. No. Not at all. In fact I'm angry. Home smelled awful. New York City smelled awful. And now this place. I couldn't have ended up anywhere that smelled even remotely better? Among all the other shitty things that have happened, it had to be somewhere with the constant stench of an outhouse on fire."

I fought back the amusement climbing within my chest.

God, her passion was unrivaled. So alive as she spouted. Hands flailing about, animating her frustrations. I almost felt bad enjoying it.

She was not a little mouse, but a life force that only needed pushing.

"Then I take it you do not like it here then, in my Opera?"

"Your Opera? Last I checked, M. Fournier and Leblanc owned this place?"

"Those two idiots know nothing of Opera," I snapped. "And they do not own it. It belongs to Paris."

"Hm. That's interesting."

"Now. Answer me, Melody," I demanded in a low tone.

"Answer what?"

"Do you not like it here?"

A part of me hoped she would say yes. It would make things easier with our relationship. Maybe she would come with me willingly when the time came. No illusions, only a yes.

"Uh, that is the question, isn't it?" she sighed and scratched her head. "Under other circumstances, I would have loved this. Being here."

"What circumstances were those?"

Her sudden playful tone slipped to melancholy. "I don't want to talk about it if that's alright," she said. "I want to talk. Just not about that. It's complicated."

I needed to know about her. What made her tick. She would tell me in time. I would draw it out of her one way or another. But the fact that she said with her own words, she wanted to talk with me.

This angel was dangerously close to never being rid of this demon.

"Would you care to learn to sing properly?" I asked, surprised by my own offer.

I was already teaching another. Yes, I could take on more, but as much as she draws me to her, it would take a miracle to form a voice worthy of stage.

Yet, I would not retract.

If time with her is what was needed to prove this only mere curiosity, then so be it. I knew in my mind that Christine was my chosen. My future. Even when there were doubts.

"What?" she asked, just as surprised.

"Would you like lessons? Learn to sing properly and not damage that throat of yours any further?"

Her sweet face lit up, no remnants of whatever bothered her remained. "You want to teach me to sing?"

When I thought the jolt of life in my cock was a foreign feeling, this was other worldly. To bring true joy to another fascinated me. Even if my offer was not selfless in reason, I found her reaction pleasant.

"That is what lessons consist of, yes," I answered.

Divots decorated her full cheeks. The giant grin on her face begged to have a thumb run across it. I imagine they were soft, just as her cheeks looked.

I waited in anticipation for whatever came next.

A moment passed and as if reminded of something, her joy faded.

My jaw clenched and I swallowed. "Why do you hesitate? Would you not like that?"

"I would love that! Please, don't think that I don't."

"Then why decline such an offer?"

"I don't want to waste your time. And I don't want to disappoint you," she said.

Such sweet words.

"If you follow instruction and take it seriously, there can be no disappointment."

"It's not that. Well, it is that too," she stammered. "I just don't know how long I'll be here for. I'm trying to get home."

Why did the thought of her leaving upset me?

"To the place that smells like the devil's anus?"

Cesar bumped into me, startled by the laughter that erupted from the haystack.

What sweet intoxication laughter was.

"I know. I know," she said, trying to rein herself in. The tears in the corners of her eyes were a spectacular site to behold. "It's not perfect, but it's home. I guess." Then she sighed. "I have to get back."

Did she have a lover? I swore she spoke of none with Christine. A child perhaps? Who could need her so badly that she would have to leave?

"There is someone that awaits you? A husband?"

"No. No," she's quick to say. "My mom. She's uh… really sick. And I'm the only one that helps her."

"She has no other to care for her?"

"My sister has her own family. So, it's kind of up to me. To be honest though, I've been gone so long now, I don't even know what I'd be going back to. Whether she's even alive or not."

My heart beat with relief at confirmation of her marital status, but hurt for the utter pain in her face.

I could send her home. I had the means. It would take but a day to acquire such a ticket.

"Have you not called on her?" I asked.

"It's complicated," she said, gripping the blanket and tugging it tighter around her.

"I am starting to dislike that word."

"Me too."

It stirred something unpleasant within to see her in such a state. I only wanted to see her smile again. For me.

"Allow me to teach you until then?" I said. "Perhaps it could bring you joy amongst all that ails your mind."

"You would do that? Knowing that one day I could just be gone?"

She would stay here with me for eternity if I had my way.

"No one is promised tomorrow, dear."

This angel's face lit up again. "Alright. Yes. I'd love to."

"Then it is done."

I had broken my own promise again. I did not wish to banish any thoughts of her. Instead, I had made sure she would never leave them.

She settled back into a state of ease. Picking up the book and looking it over again. Bottom lip between her teeth.

I wished she wouldn't do that.

"Do you want to read with me?" she asked.

Startled by her invitation, my eyes snapped up to hers. "Would you like that?" I hoped she had not noticed the break in my voice.

A hesitant smile graced her face. "You can come sit with me. We can share the book."

As I am, I was not unsightly. The false face covered all the shame I held. My wardrobe chosen specifically with my frame in mind. Done up, I did not think me terrible. Still, it could make her uneasy enough to run away.

I could not fathom the rejection in her eyes at sight of me.

Why would I do that when I had just won?

"I know it by heart. We can alternate chapters if you would like."

"Yeah. That's perfect," she said.

Disappointment hid behind a smile. My rejection had stung her.

How odd.

We read out loud for a short while, until her eyes were too heavy to keep open and she had succumbed to sleep, gripping at my book like it was something precious.

With caution, I turned down the lamp over her head. My eyes roamed over her sleeping face. Sweetness radiated even while she slept. I wanted a taste. Just a little taste.

I removed the glove on my hand and pocketed it, bringing my bare skin to her cheek. Hovering just above it. The pulse in her neck and breathing said she was in deep rest. Slow and soft.

Just a little more and we would be skin on skin. I would know what it felt like to touch a warm body.

The length of my knuckle ran gently over her flesh, to the corner of her lips, just under her jaw and down her neck.

Her breathing changed. Chest rising with heavy breath. A small moan escaped, which nearly buckled me over.

I had taken too much, and pulled my hand away, staring just a moment longer.

Never have I looked forward to a meeting so much in my life than the one I had with her tomorrow evening.

I had damned myself with my curiosity.

‘Are you certain you wish to go through with this? You said yourself, she was a lost cause for the stage. That was the only way to bring you everything you wanted. Christine has that and more,' the Ghost said.

"Christine does not know my name," I answered.